My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 138

Chapter 138 He Drops His Car Keys

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My mother walked out of the kitchen. She held a clear glass filled with cold tap water. She crossed the room and pressed the cold glass

into my trembling hands.

“Drink,” she ordered. “You are wearing a trench into the floorboards.”

I took a small sip. The water felt like ice sliding down my tight throat. “I feel sick. What if I trip? What if Harper Vance makes a scene in

front of the photographers?

“Let her make a scene,” my mother said. She took the glass from my hands and set it on the small coffee table. “Her cruel words do not pay your tuition. Her designer shoes do not dictate your future. You are a Petrova. We do not cower in the corners.”

“Tonight is not a performance,” I whispered. I confessed the deepest fear I harbored all week. “The fake contract is gone, Mom. We tore the rules up. Every look tonight carries genuine weight. Every touch means something real. The transition terrifies me. We carry too much

broken baggage.”

“Then you carry it together,” she replied. She reached out and smoothed a stray lock of dark hair behind my ear. “Do not let the fear of the unknown ruin the beauty of the present. He chose to claim you. Choose to stand beside him.”

The clock in the kitchen struck seven.

A low, vibrating rumble echoed from the street outside.

I stopped pacing. I froze in the center of the living room rug.

The sound did not belong to a sleek, quiet luxury sedan. It was the heavy, punishing roar of a diesel engine.

He brought the Ford truck.

A surge of profound relief washed over my tight chest. He did not rent a stretch limousine. He did not hire a professional driver in a black suit. He brought his battered, dark blue sanctuary. He grounded the night in our shared, gritty reality. He did not pretend to be a polished

elite.

The engine cut off. The sudden silence rang in my ears.

A heavy metal truck door slammed shut.

My heart hammered a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. My palms started to sweat. I wiped the moisture on the side of the heavy

silk skirt. I took a deep breath, pulling the cool air deep into my lungs to steady my racing pulse.

Heavy footsteps struck the concrete walkway leading to the house. They moved with a steady, deliberate pace. The footsteps reached the

wooden stairs of our front porch. The old boards groaned in protest beneath his solid weight.

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Chapter 138 He Drops His Car Keys

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He did not wait in the truck cab. He did not honk the horn to signal his arrival. He walked to the front door like a proper date.

A sharp, solid knock rattled the wooden frame.

“I will get it, my mother called. She turned toward the hallway.

“No,” I said. My voice wavered on the single syllable. I held my hand up to stop her. “I have it.”

My mother stopped at the edge of the living room rug. She looked at my stiff posture.

“Breathe, Raisa,” she told me. “He is just a boy.”

I shook my head. “He is a storm, Mom.”

“Then you must be the anchor.”

75

I smoothed the front of my silk bodice. I rolled my shoulders back, mirroring the formidable posture Ryder used to intimidate his enemies

in the B-wing. I walked toward the front door. The silk whispered against the floorboards, a soft, expensive sound in the quiet house.

I reached the entrance. I wrapped my fingers around the cold brass knob. I turned the metal and pulled the heavy door inward.

The cool evening wind rushed into the house, bringing the scent of impending rain.

Ryder Steinmann stood on my front porch.

Ryder wore a custom, tailored black tuxedo. The dark, rich fabric stretched across his broad shoulders with flawless, sharp precision. A

crisp white dress shirt lay underneath the jacket. He discarded the traditional bow tie. The top two buttons of the white shirt sat open,

exposing the strong, tanned lines of his collarbone. The formal attire stripped away the chaotic, unapproachable delinquent facade. It

revealed the lethal, staggering beauty of the billionaire heir.

His dark hair sat pushed back from his forehead, though a few unruly strands managed to escape and fall over his brow. The fading yellow

bruise on his jaw was completely gone, leaving his pale skin clear and sharp.

He held his car keys in his right hand. The metal pieces dangled from his calloused, scarred fingers.

He looked up.

His hazel eyes met mine. The golden flecks ignited in the dim porch light.

The air between us charged with raw, undeniable electricity.

Ryder stopped breathing. His massive chest froze mid-inhale.

His gaze swept over my face. He took in my swept-back hair and the subtle makeup my mother applied. His eyes tracked lower, moving

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