[Miles’ POV]
I wake to cold sheets and colder confirmation.
The indent where Rae slept is already room temperature—she left hours ago. Probably before dawn, while I dreamed about a reality where she actually stayed.
My bedroom looks like a crime scene—furniture askew, clothes scattered. The scratch marks on my back sting when I roll over, proof that last night happened and wasn't some wine-induced fever dream.
She left. Of course she left.
I knew she would. Some pathetic part of me hoped anyway, because apparently I enjoy emotional self-destruction as a hobby. She got what she wanted—scratched whatever itch I represented—and now it's back to regularly scheduled programming.
The Morrison wedding prep calls me to Florisight before dawn. I throw myself into work with manic focus, sorting ribbon by color, then by width, then by some arbitrary system I invent to keep my hands busy.
Three hundred stems need processing. Good. Manual labor doesn't require examining why my chest feels like it's going through an industrial shredder.
Rae arrives at eight-fifteen, looking like she slept about as well as I did—dark circles, hair in a hasty bun, coffee clutched like a lifeline. She freezes when she sees me, something flickering across her face before she locks it down.
"Morning," she says, too bright, too professional. "You're early."
"Morrison wedding won't prep itself." I don't look up from the roses I'm dethorning. "The bride wants three hundred stems of white roses, which apparently symbolizes purity. Ironic, given she's been sleeping with the best man for six months."
The joke lands flat. Rae moves to her station across the warehouse, maintaining fifteen feet of distance like I'm radioactive.
We orbit each other for two hours—planets afraid of collision. She's overly professional, commenting on stem lengths with the enthusiasm of someone reading a tax manual. I respond in clipped efficiency, each word measured to reveal nothing.
The Morrison centerpieces take shape. Roses and baby's breath arranged into something beautiful for someone else's happy ending. My fingers remember the work while my brain replays last night on loop.
"Don't stop."
I dethorn another rose.
Her nails down my back. Her voice breaking on my name.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
"We need the ivory ribbon for the Morrison bouquets," Rae says, still not looking at me. "Top shelf."
"I know where the ribbon is." The words come out sharper than intended. "I organized this entire system, remember?"
She flinches but doesn't respond.
We both reach for the same spool at the same moment. Our hands touch—electricity and memory—and we jerk back like we've been burned. The ribbon tumbles to the floor, unspooling in an ivory river between us.
"This inventory system is chaos," Rae snaps, snatching up the ribbon. "Who organizes by shade gradient instead of alphabetically?"
"Someone who understands that cream, ivory, and champagne are three different colors that brides lose their minds over." My voice rises despite myself. "But sure, let's reorganize everything because you can't find ribbon you've never had to find before because I always handle it."
"Oh, so now I don't contribute enough? Is that what this is about?"
"This isn't about contribution metrics, Rae." The real anger bleeds through. "This is about you leaving without a word."
She goes still, ribbon clutched in white-knuckled fingers. "You were asleep. I didn't want to—"
"Wake me? Have a conversation? Acknowledge that something happened?" I laugh, and it tastes like battery acid. "Right. Much easier to just disappear and pretend it was all a dream."
"I was giving you an easy out!" Her voice cracks. "You obviously regretted it. I could tell. So I left before you had to do the awkward morning-after speech about how it was a mistake and we should forget it happened."
"I regretted it?" The words hit like a physical blow. "Are you serious right now? You're the one who couldn't get out of my bed fast enough. You're the one who's been treating me like a biohazard all morning. You're the one who—"
I stop, breathing hard, hands shaking. "You know what? Forget it. We have three hundred roses to process and a wedding to save."
"Don't do that." She steps closer, color rising in her cheeks. "Don't shut down and hide behind work. We need to talk about this."
"Why? So you can tell me it was just an act again?" The bitterness spills out before I can stop it. "Or maybe you're eager to get back to your museum dates with Dorian. I'm sure he's much better at the morning-after conversation. Probably has a script prepared by his family's PR team."
The name lands between us like a grenade.
Rae's phone buzzes. Then again. Then a third time, cutting through our standoff.
She glances at the screen, expression shifting. "It's Beatrice. There's a charity gala tomorrow night. Mandatory attendance." A pause. "Both of us. And Dorian. Formal attire required."
Of course. The universe has excellent timing and terrible humor.
"Fine." I turn back to the roses, each word bloodless. "We'll maintain the performance. Smile for the cameras. Convince your grandmother we're desperately in love. It's what I'm here for, right? The fake boyfriend who's so good at pretending that everyone believes it?"
"Miles..."
"We have a job to do and an inheritance to secure. Personal feelings are irrelevant to the mission parameters." I'm quoting her grandmother now, channeling corporate-speak.
"I'll find appropriate formal attire. I'll play my role. And tomorrow, you can dance with Dorian while I make small talk with shareholders about fiscal responsibility."
The fight doesn't resolve. It just runs out of oxygen, suffocating under everything we're not saying. Rae stands there, ribbon forgotten, looking at me like I've become someone she doesn't recognize.
Maybe I have.
"So we're doing this," she says finally. "The gala. The fake relationship. All of it."
"We're doing this." The agreement feels like signing my own death certificate. "Too much is at stake to stop now. Your inheritance, Florisight's future, your grandmother's approval. We committed to a performance, and I don't quit mid-show."
She nods once, mechanical. "Tomorrow, then. I'll text you the details."
"Tomorrow."
She returns to her station. I return to my roses. The distance between us feels infinite—fifteen feet of concrete that might as well be the Pacific Ocean.
The Morrison flowers take shape beautifully, because that's what we do—create something gorgeous for other people's love stories while our own lies bleeding on the floor. Each arrangement is perfect, professional, devoid of the chaos churning beneath our surfaces.
We work until the centerpieces are finished, speaking only when necessary. When she finally leaves, the warehouse feels too quiet, too empty, too full of everything we almost said.
I stand among three hundred white roses—purity, innocence, new beginnings—and wonder how long I can keep pretending that performing love for Rae doesn't feel exactly like the real thing dying by inches.
Tomorrow we'll put on formal attire and fake smiles.
Tomorrow we'll convince strangers that we're something we're not.
Tomorrow, I'll watch her with Dorian and pretend my chest isn't collapsing.
The ribbon she dropped is still on the floor, ivory satin coiled like a question mark. I pick it up, wind it carefully back onto the spool, and file it exactly where it belongs.
Some things, at least, I can still control.