CHAPTER 113: LOVE COSTS A THING OR TWO

Being Craig Lesnar’s girlfriend ?

It sounded foreign to Merlina, she hadn’t thought that far, everything she could see when she thought about them was how impossible they were.

How messy it all was. How wrong. How none of it should’ve ever happened. And yet, it had. How she wished she had more control over her feelings, wished she could hold herself back.

Wished she could resist him better.

Now he was sitting across from her, asking if she would be his. Officially.

She hadn’t realized how quickly things had changed. All she could do was think of everything that had led them here.

The arguments. The curses. The kisses. The ghosting. The heated moments in dark corners.

All the people who got hurt along the way.

God. She hadn’t even had a proper conversation with Louis. Hadn’t given him the explanation he’d asked for.

Her eyes snapped down to her napkin, fingers suddenly twitchy as she tried folding it into a neater square. She didn’t dare look up.

Did he really say girlfriend ?

Her heart kicked in her chest, nerves flaring like sparklers in her throat. In a panicked flurry to do something, anything that could give her a moment to think, she reached for her water glass and knocked it over by accident.

The sharp clink of glass tipping echoed through the hush of the restaurant, followed by the unmistakable splash of water spilling like a small ocean across the table.

"Oh...shit!" she blurted, scrambling upright, napkin in hand, trying to dab at the spreading mess with a panicked sort of focus.

Craig blinked.

Then slowly, like he was savoring it, a low, warm laugh slipped out of his mouth. It was the kind of laugh that said he knew exactly what his question was doing to her... and he was enjoying every second of her squirming.

"Seriously?" she muttered, cheeks burning as she fought off a flustered smile. "Why am I like this?"

"You’re nervous," Craig said with quiet amusement, still watching her.

She didn’t answer. Mostly because it was true.

Still crouched halfway out of her seat, she dabbed furiously at the table, trying to act like she hadn’t just short-circuited over one simple question.

Then, gently, Craig’s hand covered hers.

"Merlina."

She stilled.

His palm was warm. His touch firm, grounding.

"They’ll handle it."

She followed his gaze to the waiter approaching in crisp black and white, already carrying fresh napkins and offering a polite nod.

Craig gave a small signal, effortless, like he’d been in control of the situation the whole time, and the waiter began cleaning the mess without any judgment.

Merlina eased back into her seat, flustered and breathless, her napkin a soggy, crumpled ball in her lap.

Craig leaned in slightly, voice low enough that only she could hear. "You okay?"

Her eyes met his, long enough for him to see the hesitation flicker there. But before she could form a reply, another waiter approached with their meal. Plates lowered, steam rising, silverware set.

She smiled quickly, "Let’s just eat," she said, her voice light. She picked up her fork like it was a shield.

Craig leaned back, studying her for a moment. Then he smiled too, gently, though there was something more in his eyes. Amusement. And maybe... understanding.

He let it go.

For now.

Despite the lingering pulse of nerves under her skin, dinner turned out to be wonderful. They laughed, shared bites, and slipped into easy conversations, talking about music, trading favorites, and realizing they both loved the same French artist, Indila.

The night air was crisp as they walked back to the Hotel. Paris shimmered all around them in warm golds and deep blues. The Seine flowed calmly next to the road, reflecting the lights of the city.

Merlina hugged her coat tighter, walking slowly beside him, taking the view in. "I can’t believe I’m going to be saying goodbye to this," she said, half to herself.

Craig glanced at her, then looked ahead at the river. "We can stay a few more days if you want."

She smiled, touched by the offer. "Tempting," she said. "But we need to get back to school."

He nodded.

Then, casually, like he’d just remembered something, "You didn’t answer my question. Earlier."

She stopped walking, then turned to him. Her heart started again, that same tripwire beat from before.

He looked at her, steady and unflinching. "For what it’s worth," he said gently, "I was being serious."

Merlina swallowed hard, searching his face for a trace of teasing, but there was none. Just sincerity and maybe a trace of hope.

The kind that made her chest ache.

She bit her bottom lip, a shaky laugh escaping as her gaze dropped to the rippling waters of the Seine beside them. "You make it sound so easy."

Craig’s brow lifted, a small smile playing on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You make it sound so difficult."

And he wasn’t wrong.

She searched for the right words, fumbling for something that might explain her dodging the question but nothing came.

"Craig, I’m scared. You know that, right?"

The truth slipped out before she could stop it. Raw and quiet, hanging between them.

His answer came without pause, steady and sure. "So am I."

There was no bravado in his voice. No posturing. Just truth, soft and solid.

She glanced at him and for the first time, she saw it. That underneath all his steadiness, his confidence, he was scared too.

Maybe not for the same reasons. Maybe not in the same way. But the fear was there, in the tension in his jaw, the way he watched her like he was already bracing for the worst.

Still, it didn’t make it easier.

Her fear wasn’t just about the judgement, or the media. It was about him. About what came with being his. Craig Lesnar. The name everyone knew. The guy who could ruin her with a single look, who already had her, a hundred times over.

She was scared their love would be loud.

And so would the heartbreak.

"Say yes," Craig said softly, his gentle voice cutting through the chaos of her thoughts.

"I want to," she whispered. "God, I want to."

Craig chuckled softly, offering her a warm smile before glancing away, as if lost in his own thoughts.

There was no pressure, no pleading. Just a soft silence that held everything in it. The risk. The hope. The possibility of something more.

In that moment, everything fell quiet, like the universe had pressed pause just for them.

She looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. "Okay... yes. But don’t expect me to be perfect. I’m barely holding it together."

Craig was still quiet, but she could feel his eyes on her, steady, soft and unwavering. When she finally looked up, a small smile played at the corner of his lips, warm and real.

"I don’t want perfect," he said gently. "I just want you."

Her steps slowed until it stopped entirely, her eyes meeting his with a vulnerability, that look that always undid him.

He stilled, then his gaze fell to her lips, like he was already tasting the moment before it even happened.

He sucked in a breath, overwhelmed, as he reached out and cradled her face with both hands.

Just then, her fingers lightly curled around his wrist. "Wait... not before I say this."

Craig’s brows drew together, not letting go, his hands still cupping her cheeks like she was a moment he wanted to live in forever.

"I’m sorry," she whispered. "For judging you. For judging your brother. Your family. For believing every version of you that wasn’t yours to begin with."

Her voice wavered with emotion, eyes glossy in the soft Parisian light.

"And I’m sorry it took one awful day of online hate for me to understand just how much rumors can hurt someone."

Craig nodded slowly through her words, like each one landed right where it needed to.

His thumbs brushed the edge of her jaw, his smile growing with something both tender and impatient, as if he’d been waiting a lifetime just for her to finish.

When she finally stopped, a soft laugh escaped her, watery but bright.

And then she leaned in.

Her lips met his, like two stories finally aligning, gentle, inevitable and full of meaning. It settled just right, like it was supposed to be. And their hearts already knew what love felt like, even if their voices hadn’t said it yet.

When they pulled apart, their cheeks were flushed, eyes shining.

"One more thing," Craig murmured, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out his phone and held it up between them, eyes searching hers with a boyish smile. "I want to remember this."

Behind them, the Eiffel Tower shimmered like a promise, golden lights dancing over the river below. Merlina laughed softly, a blush rising to her cheeks as she leaned in, close enough to feel the warmth of him in the winter air.

Craig tilted his head toward hers until their cheeks touched, the sides of their faces pressing gently together, skin to skin. Her breath caught at the quiet intimacy of it, the way he seemed to want to feel every part of this memory.

And for once, the city of love didn’t feel like a cliché.

It felt like them.

But then, high above the clouds, far from the warmth of the Parisian streets, thirty thousand feet above the bustle of everyday life, a different world existed.

A world ruled by men like Charles Lesnar.

Everything inside the jet was refined, muted colors, soft leather, and just enough gold to remind you who paid for it.

Cream leather seats. Polished mahogany panels. A gold-embossed plaque near the cockpit read: ’CCL Group. Charles Constantine Lesnar – CEO.’

The man himself sat reclined, legs crossed at the knee, dressed in a tailored charcoal Tom Ford suit. His loafers gleamed under the cabin’s ambient lighting. A glass of single malt scotch rested in his hand, untouched.

The only movement in the stillness of the plane came from his fingers. A slow swipe across the sleek screen of his Titanium smartphone.

A video played.

Craig Lesnar standing before a row of flashing cameras at Belford, speaking to the press with the ease of someone born into media control. Confident. Clean-cut. Composed.

But to Charles Lesnar, the words spilling from his son’s mouth were little more than dust. Well rehearsed, irrelevant and meant for smaller people.

Swipe.

Eclipse Club. The grainy quality of a hidden phone camera caught the precise moment Merlina Sanchez slapped Conor Lesnar across the face.

It was disrespectful. No sound came from Charles, but the subtle lift of his brow said more than words ever could.

Swipe.

Craig again. This time, inside the girls dorm building. He looked tense. Waiting. The door cracked open. Merlina appeared. He said something, inaudible, then she stepped aside, Craig entered and locked the door behind him.

It was intimate, reckless and uncomfortable to watch.

Swipe.

Another video. Inside a car. Craig’s profile bathed in dashboard light, gazing at Merlina like nothing else existed. Their faces lit in soft glow. He was smiling at her. A kind of joy he had never once seen in either of his sons.

Charles blinked, slowly.

Just then, a new message flashed on the screen, from Drew.

Attached: One photo. High-resolution. Time-stamped. Five minutes ago.

He tapped it open.

The Eiffel Tower glittered in the background like a thousand tiny explosions. Paris at its most cliché hour. Craig and Merlina Sanchez, holding hands, fingers locked, smiling like the world didn’t exist.

Like they didn’t care who was watching.

Charles’s thumb paused midair.

He stared at the screen for a long moment, then finally let out a slow breath. Not the kind that calmed you, it was the kind that held anger in.

That kept it quiet.

Controlled.

Then, he set the phone on the table beside him, aligning it precisely with the seam in the polished wood grain. One of his finger tapped severally on the armrest. Sharp and deliberate.

No words were needed.

The executive aide, seated two rows back, stepped forward at the silent cue, posture straight, voice low.

"Sir ?"

Charles Lesnar didn’t grant him the dignity of eye contact. His voice dropped like a decree, "Get a message to the Dean. I want Merlina Sanchez out of Belford. Effective immediately."