Heather lay draped across Rhys's chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his skin as their heartbeats slowly settled into sync. The warmth of their bodies tangled together, the scent of sweat and shared desire lingering in the air. She tilted her head up, studying his face—the lazy smile on his lips, the contentment softening his usually sharp features.
A thought nudged at her, persistent and unignorable.
What if…?
She exhaled, her breath fluttering against his collarbone. "Rhys," she murmured.
"Hmm?" His fingers trailed up her spine, sending a shiver through her.
"What if I get pregnant?"
His hand stilled. Then, after a beat, he chuckled, the sound rumbling beneath her. "Well, then I guess we'll have a little surprise on the way."
She pushed up onto her elbows, narrowing her eyes. "That's it? That's your response?"
Rhys grinned, unrepentant. "What? You want me to panic? Run for the hills?" His hands slid to her hips, holding her in place as if she might bolt. "Because I won't. If it happens, it happens. I'll take responsibility."
"You say that like it's nothing," she huffed, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
"I say it because I mean it." His voice dropped, teasing fading into sincerity. "Imagine it—a tiny you, running around here. Messy hair, that stubborn little frown you make when you're thinking too hard."
She swatted his chest. "You're not taking this seriously."
"I am." He caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Dead serious."
Heather sighed, her fingers curling against his lips. "But you're you. Rhys Connor, idol, heartthrob, whatever. If news got out that you knocked up some nobody—"
"Hey." His grip tightened. "You're not 'some nobody.' You're mine." The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through her, even as she fought the worry gnawing at her ribs.
"And what happens when your fans find out? When the media tears into us?"
Rhys exhaled, shifting to cup her face. His thumb brushed her cheek, his gaze fierce. "I want you. Forever. Even if the world has something against it."
Her breath hitched.
"So marry me," he continued, voice rough with conviction. "Tomorrow. Next week. I don't care when—just say yes."
She stared at him, her pulse racing. "You can't just—propose like this. Naked. After sex."
"Why not?" He smirked, but his eyes were burning. "Best time to be honest."
She groaned, dropping her forehead against his shoulder. "You're impossible."
"And you love it." He tugged her back down, pressing a kiss to her temple. "So? What do you think?"
"About marriage or hypothetical babies?"
"Both."
She hummed, nestling against him. "Well… if it's a girl, I like the name Avery."
Rhys smiled. "Avery Connor. Sounds like a star."
"And if it's a boy?"
"Aiden." His fingers laced with hers. "Strong name. Fits for a kid who'll probably inherit your temper."
She pinched his side, laughing when he yelped. "My temper? You're the one who threw a fit over losing at Mario Kart last week."
"That was sabotage, and you know it."
Heather grinned, pressing a kiss to his chest. For the first time, the idea didn't feel so terrifying. Maybe, just maybe, they'd be okay.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
The bell above the door chimed as Heather stepped into the Black Star Café, the rich scent of espresso wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. Behind the counter, her Aunt Marjorie was stacking fresh pastries into the glass display case. She glanced up—then froze, her sharp eyes darting past Heather to the sleek pearly white Bentley idling at the curb.
"Oh good," Marjorie deadpanned. "You've finally taken up bank robbery."
Heather rolled her eyes, tying her apron around her waist. "Very funny."
"I'm not joking." Marjorie wiped her hands on a dish towel, nodding toward the car. "Either you've got a secret criminal side gig, or your idol boyfriend has officially lost his mind."
"It was a gift," Heather muttered.
"A gift." Marjorie's brows shot up. "Darling, people gift flowers, chocolates, maybe a nice scarf. Not a car worth more than my entire life savings."
Heather sighed. "You know Rhys. Subtlety isn't exactly his strong suit."
Marjorie leaned against the counter, "So what's the real issue? Embarrassed to roll up to a coffee shop in a luxury car?"
"No," Heather lied.
"Liar."
Heather groaned. "Okay, fine. It feels… excessive. I don't need a Bentley to sling lattes."
Marjorie snorted. "Darling, if a man like Rhys Connor wants to spoil you, let him. Lord knows he can afford it." She tilted her head. "Unless this isn't really about the car?"
Heather hesitated.
Marjorie's gaze softened. "You're scared."
"I'm practical," Heather corrected, but the protest sounded weak even to her own ears.
Marjorie reached across the counter, flicking Heather's forehead lightly. "You're scared," she repeated. "Scared that if you let yourself enjoy this—the car, the money, him—you'll wake up one day and it'll all be gone."
Heather's throat tightened.
Before she could respond, the café door swung open, the first wave of morning customers flooding in. Marjorie gave her a knowing look before turning to greet them, leaving Heather to stew in her thoughts.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out to see a text from Rhys:
Rehearsal's hell. Miss you. Drive safe.
She exhaled, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.
You're such a nag. And yes, I did use the car. Happy?
His reply came instantly:
…You took the car?
She could hear the smug satisfaction in his reply.
Don't let it go to your head.
Too late.
Marjorie watched her with knowing amusement. "Let me guess—His Royal Highness checking in?"
Heather smiled at her aunt's teasing as she tucked her phone away. But the warmth in her chest stayed.
Maybe—maybe— she could get used to this.
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
The Bentley became impossible to ignore by the fifth day. It sat like a gleaming, opulent jewel in Heather's otherwise modest life, a stark and undeniable symbol of a world she didn't quiet inhabit.
Heather had tried parking it discreetly behind the cafe, hoping its presence would fade into the mundane backdrop of delivery vans and employee scooters. But the car seemed to absorb and then reflect the very sunlight, possessed an undeniable magnetism.
Its sleek silhouette, even partially obscured by overflowing recycle bins, might as well have been a flashing neon sign screaming "Someone important (or at least someone with very deep pockets) owns me!"
The whispers had started subtly. Curious glances from passersby lingered a moment too long. Pointed fingers accompanied hushed conversations among the morning regulars. Then cam the surreptitious phone cameras, their lenses glinting from across the street.
Heather tried to ignore it all, attributing it to the natural curiosity a luxury vehicle might attract in their unassuming neighborhood. She told herself it would blow over, that the novelty would wear off.
But by Friday afternoon, the digital dam had burst. A grainy, slightly out-of-focus photo of her stepping out of the river's seat, her face partially obscured by her messy bun and a pair of oversized sunglasses, was already trending online.
The accompanying headline, splashed across gossip blogs and social media feeds in a frenzy of speculation, sent a chill down her spine:
Local Cafe Worker Spotted Driving Multi-Millionaire Idol Rhys Connor's Luxury Bentley - Is This Love or Just a Lavish Gift?
Social media is ablaze today after a photo surfaced of a young woman exiting a stunning white Bentley Bentayga in what appears to be a quiet residential area. Eagle-eyed netizens were quick to identify the vehicle as belonging to none other than Lux's leader Rhys Connor.
The woman in question, later identified through blurry background details as possibly working at a local cafe called "Black Star Cafe," has sent the internet into a frenzy. Who is this mystery woman who has apparently captured the attention (and the car keys!) of one of the world's most eligible bachelors?
Comments are already flooding in, ranging from speculation about a secret romance to accusations of opportunism.
One user wrote, "Gold digger alert! No way she bought that car herself."
Another speculated, "Maybe she's his new business partner? Though a Bentley seems like a rather extravagant signing bonus."
Others focused on the perceived disparity between Connor's high-profile status and the seemingly ordinary life of the woman in the photo. "She looks so normal! What does he see in her?" questioned one commenter.
Rhys Connor has remained notoriously tight-lipped about his personal relationships, making this unexpected development all the more intriguing. Has he finally found someone to share his life (and his impressive car collection) with? Or is this simply a case of a generous, albeit extravagant, gesture towards an acquaintance? Only time will tell as the internet continues its relentless pursuit of answers.
Marjorie, her usually cheerful face etched with concern, slid a steaming latte across the counter. The clink of the ceramic mug against the saucer seemed unusually loud in the suddenly charged atmosphere of the cafe.
"Oh , honey..." She said softly, her voice laced with a mixture of pity and dibelief.
Heather's stomach dropped. The latte, usually a source of comfort, felt heavy and unwelcome. With trembling fingers, she swiped through the comments on her phone, the words flashing before her eyes like accusatory neon signs:
Who is she??
Gold digger alert.
Lucky bitch.
She probably doesn't even know how to drive that thing.
Each comment felt like a tiny, sharp jab. With a frustrated sigh, she slammed her phone face-down on the counter, the sudden thud echoing in the quiet cafe.
"This is exactly why I didn't want the car..." She muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, the weight of unwanted attention already beginning to suffocate her.
The gift, intended as a grand gesture, had inadvertently painted a target on her back, thrusting her into a spotlight she never craved and exposing her to the harsh, often cruel, glare of public scrutiny.