The CEO's Spirit Rental

Chapter 5: The First Date Fiasco

The blue light of the laptop screen finally flickered off, signaling the end of the two-hour video marathon. Arman leaned back in the mahogany chair, his spine popping in three different places. He felt like he’d just finished a marathon in a suit made of lead.

"That was… surprisingly not a disaster," Arman exhaled, looking down at the white fluff-ball in his lap.

Kendrick-the-cat didn’t look impressed. He stood up, stretched his tiny paws until his claws pricked Arman’s expensive trousers, and hopped onto the desk.

"You stuttered during the clause regarding the Singaporean port rights," the cat’s voice echoed in Arman’s mind. "And you called the CEO of Astra-Global 'dude' twice. If I weren't currently restricted by my lack of opposable thumbs, I would have strangled you."

"Hey, we got the deal! Two hundred million, right? That’s what matters," Arman whispered back.

"The deal is signed, but the performance has just begun," Kendrick said, pacing across the keyboard. "We have the Starlight Children’s Hospital Gala in three hours. It’s the biggest social event of the quarter. Every rival I have will be there, looking for a drop of blood in the water. You can’t go in there looking like a confused puppy."

"A gala? Can't we just say I have the flu? Or a sudden allergy to fancy people?"

"If Kendrick Lim misses his own charity’s gala, the stock drops five points by Monday morning. You’re going. And you’re taking Dara."

Arman groaned, rubbing his face. "Dara is the problem! She already knows something is up. She’s looking at me like I’m a bug she wants to dissect."

"Then give her a reason to look at you differently. Now, stand up. We’re going to practice your walk."

"My walk? I’ve been walking for twenty-four years, Kendrick."

"You’ve been shuffling for twenty-four years," the cat hissed. "A billionaire doesn't walk to get somewhere. A billionaire walks because the floor belongs to him. Chest out, chin level, eyes focused on the middle distance as if everyone in front of you is a minor inconvenience. Try it."

Arman stood up and took a few tentative steps across the study.

"Awful. You look like you’re trying to sneak into a movie theater," Kendrick critiqued. "Again. More arrogance. Think about the two million dollars I’m paying you."

"Two million," Arman muttered, straightening his back. He took a long, sweeping stride. "Two million. I own the floor. I own the air. I own the… whatever that vase is."

"Better. Now, when you talk to Dara tonight, keep it brief. Don’t try to be funny. My humor is dry, cutting, and usually results in someone crying in the bathroom. If you’re nice to her, she’ll know you’re an imposter."

"I can be a jerk," Arman said, checking himself in the mirror. "I’m very good at being a jerk to people who deserve it."

"Dara doesn't deserve it, but that’s irrelevant. She’s a tool for your image. Treat her like an asset, not a person."

*

Three hours later, the matte-black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the entrance of the Grand Hyatt. The red carpet was a gauntlet of flashing lights and reporters. Arman felt his stomach do a slow, nauseous roll.

The door opened, and the cool evening air hit him. He stepped out, offering his hand to Dara.

When she emerged from the car, Arman forgot how to breathe for a second. She wasn't in her usual charcoal power suit. She wore a floor-length gown in deep emerald silk that caught the light with every movement. Her dark hair was swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck.

"Is there something wrong with my dress, sir?" Dara asked, her voice cool but her eyes searching his.

"No," Arman said, his voice a bit higher than he intended. He cleared his throat and dropped it back into the Kendrick-growl. "It’s… adequate. It matches the brand."

Dara’s expression didn't change, but her grip on his arm tightened slightly. "Adequate. High praise indeed. Shall we get this over with?"

"Lead the way," Arman said.

As they entered the ballroom, the wall of sound and scent hit them—expensive perfume, aged scotch, and the frantic hum of high-society gossip. Within seconds, a man in a tuxedo that looked like it was made of sharkskin intercepted them.

"Kendrick! I heard the merger went through," the man said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Bold move, using a street-food delivery boy as a distraction. Very… eccentric."

Arman felt Kendrick’s voice in the back of his head: That’s Thomas Vane. He hates you. Tell him his tie looks like a cry for help.

Arman looked at Vane, then at Dara, who was standing stiffly at his side. He saw the way Vane’s eyes dismissively swept over her as if she were a piece of luggage.

"It wasn't a distraction, Thomas," Arman said, ignoring the cat’s advice. "It was a celebration of local culture. Something you wouldn't understand, considering you haven't stepped foot out of a gated community since 1998."

Vane blinked, his smile faltering. "I… beg your pardon?"

"And your tie," Arman added, leaning in. "It’s a bit much, isn't it? You look like you’re trying to audition for a magic show."

Dara let out a tiny, muffled snort. Arman felt a surge of triumph.

"Come on, Dara," Arman said, placing a hand on the small of her back. "Let’s find some champagne that doesn't taste like bitterness and tax evasion."

As they moved away, Dara whispered, "You realize you just insulted the man who sits on our audit committee, right?"

"He was being rude to you," Arman said simply.

Dara stopped mid-step, forcing him to turn toward her. "He wasn't being rude to me, Kendrick. He was being rude to you. He doesn't even see me."

"Well, he should. You’re the only reason this company hasn't burned to the ground while I was out… meditating."

Dara’s eyes narrowed, searching his face. "Who are you today? Because the Kendrick Lim I’ve worked for for five years wouldn't know the name of his audit head’s tie, let alone defend my honor."

"Maybe I’m just tired of being the villain, Dara," Arman said, dropping the 'predator' act for a moment. He reached out and snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing her one. "Maybe I realized that having all the money in the world is pretty boring if you spend all your time making people feel small."

"You’re scaring me," Dara said, though she took a sip of the drink. "Is this a stroke? Do I need to call the neurologist again?"

"No stroke. Just… a change in perspective. Drink your expensive bubbles and try to enjoy yourself. That’s an order."

"Yes, sir," she murmured, but for the first time, there was a ghost of a smile on her lips.

The night wore on in a blur of handshakes and fake smiles. Arman played the part of the billionaire, but he kept drifting from the script. He made sure Dara had a chair when her heels started to ache. He brought her a plate of appetizers when he noticed she hadn't eaten. He even listened—actually listened—when she talked about the logistics of the charity’s new wing.

Eventually, the orchestra shifted into a slow, sweeping waltz.

"Absolutely not," Kendrick’s voice hissed in Arman’s mind. "We don't dance. We stand in the corner and look brooding. It’s the Lim brand."

Arman ignored the cat. He turned to Dara and held out his hand. "Dance with me."

Dara looked at his hand as if it were a strange piece of alien technology. "You hate dancing. You said it was a 'frivolous waste of kinetic energy.'"

"I’ve got energy to burn," Arman said. "Come on. Just one song."

Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his. He led her onto the floor, pulling her close. He wasn't a great dancer, but he was a coder—he understood patterns and rhythms. He followed the beat, moving her through the crowd of spinning couples.

The world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of them under the crystal chandeliers.

"You’re different," Dara whispered, her head resting near his shoulder. "Ever since this morning. The way you talk, the way you look at me… even the way you smell."

"I told you, it’s the laundry detergent," Arman joked.

"It’s not just that," she said, pulling back to look him in the eye. "You’re… kinder. It’s like the person I’ve been serving all these years finally moved out and let someone else take over the house."

Arman felt a pang of guilt. "Would it be so bad? If the new guy stayed for a while?"

Dara didn't answer for a long time. The music swelled, and the lights dimmed slightly for the end of the set. She moved closer again, her breath warm against his neck.

"I used to go home every night and plan my resignation," she admitted softly. "I had the letter saved on my laptop for three years. I just never had the heart to hit send because I was afraid the company would collapse without me."

"It probably would," Arman said.

"But today… for the first time in a long time, I didn't think about that letter once. I actually liked being at work. I liked the pancakes. I liked the way you told Vane to shove it."

She stopped dancing as the music faded, but she didn't let go of his hands. The crowd around them began to clap, but Arman didn't hear them. He was too busy looking at the way the light reflected in Dara’s eyes.

"Kendrick?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"I think I like the new version of you better."

She stepped in closer, her hand sliding up from his arm to his shoulder. She leaned in, her lips inches from his ear, as if she were about to whisper a secret that could shatter the entire world they were standing in.

Arman felt his heart hammering against his ribs, the jade ring on his finger beginning to pulse with a low, warning heat.

"Don't do it," Kendrick-the-cat’s voice groaned in his head. "She’s going to figure it out."

But as Dara’s face tilted up toward his, Arman didn't care about the cat, the merger, or the two million dollars. He only cared about the woman in the emerald dress.

Dara leaned in even further, her nose brushing his. "But there's one thing I have to know," she breathed.

"Anything," Arman whispered.

"Where did you really get those pancakes?"

Before he could answer, Dara’s gaze dropped to his lips, and the distance between them vanished until they were just a heartbeat away from a disaster.