[Rae’s POV]
* Present *
The woman in red won't leave my brain.
I've been staring at my ceiling for approximately three hours, replaying the way she touched Miles's arm like she owned the real estate. The way he laughed—actually laughed—at whatever strategic flirtation she deployed. The way his eyes kept drifting to the terrace where I stood with Dorian, cataloging my sins in real time.
My phone says it's 6:47 AM. My body says it's been awake since 4, running instant replays of the gala like some masochistic sports analyst.
Here's the slow-motion footage of Senator Morrison's daughter leaning into Miles's space. Here's the close-up of his smile—the charming one he uses for clients, not the real one reserved for terrible reality TV and my worst decisions.
I have no right to jealousy. The thought loops on repeat, a mantra I'm too stubborn to believe. I was on the terrace with Dorian, wasn't I? Laughing at his observations about mutual destruction masquerading as partnership.
I left Miles's bed without a word because apparently my emotional range includes "flight" and "more flight."
I'm the one who can't commit to anything. Not to Dorian's merger proposal, not to whatever terrifying thing exists between Miles and me, not even to a consistent coffee order because variety feels safer than preference.
My phone buzzes. Beatrice's name glows like a summons from corporate purgatory.
"Aurelia." Her voice is champagne and calculated warmth. "I wanted to commend you on last night. The board was quite impressed with your poise."
"Was that before or after they finished their third round of canapés?" I sit up, attempting to sound like someone who slept. "Poise is easier when everyone's distracted by stuffed mushrooms."
"Before, actually. Several members mentioned your composure during the networking hour. Dorian spoke quite highly of your intelligence—said your conversation on the terrace was the most genuine exchange he's had in months."
The approval should feel like victory. Instead it tastes like ash, coating my tongue with the residue of performances I'm too tired to maintain. Dorian's praise should matter.
The board's impression should matter. Instead, all I can see is Miles watching us through the glass, his expression carefully blank while a woman in red staked her claim.
"That's... good," I manage. "Progress."
"Indeed. The vote is approaching, darling. Momentum matters." A pause that feels strategic. "I trust you'll maintain this trajectory?"
"Trajectory maintained," I confirm, because what else is there to say? Actually, Grandmother, I'm spiraling about my fake boyfriend who I slept with while fake-dating him, and now I can't stop thinking about him flirting with someone who probably does hot yoga and has a normal relationship with commitment.
We end the call with the appropriate pleasantries. I drag myself to Florisight.
The warehouse greets me with fluorescent judgment and the lingering scent of yesterday's arrangements.
Miles is already here—of course he's already here—hunched over inventory with the focus of someone performing an exorcism on their own emotions. He doesn't look up when I enter, and I pretend that doesn't feel like a small death.
We work in loaded silence. The Morrison wedding went beautifully, according to the bride's tearful voicemail. The Hendersons' anniversary arrangement earned us a referral. Business is thriving while everything else crumbles around us like architecture that forgot how to stand.
I sort ribbon. He counts stems. The fifteen feet between us might as well be the Mariana Trench—dark, pressurized, full of things that survive by never seeing light.
An hour passes. Then two. My chest feels like someone's running a cheese grater across my ribcage, slow and methodical. Every time I glance at him, he's aggressively not looking at me.
"Are we going to talk about what happened?" The words escape before wisdom can intercept them.
Miles's hands still on a bundle of eucalyptus. His expression shutters—windows slamming closed, blinds drawn, "closed for emotional business" sign firmly posted.
When he speaks, his voice has that careful neutrality I've come to recognize as his defense mechanism. "There's nothing to talk about. We were drunk. We made a mistake. We should probably pretend it never happened so we can keep functioning professionally."
The words are exactly what I expected. They're also devastating, each one landing like a precisely aimed dart. Drunk. Mistake. Pretend. The holy trinity of emotional avoidance, gift-wrapped in reasonable pragmatism.
"Right," I hear myself say. "Makes sense. Alcohol and poor judgment. Classic combination."
"It happens." He's looking at the eucalyptus like it holds the secrets of the universe. "Doesn't have to mean anything."
But it did mean something, I want to scream. It meant everything, and that's exactly why I keep running.
Instead: "We should probably establish clearer boundaries going forward. Prevent future... incidents."
"That's probably smart." Miles nods, still not meeting my eyes. His voice has something in it—resignation? Relief? Something I can't name but makes me want to throw eucalyptus at his head. "Clearer boundaries. Professional distance. We can make it work."
I want to argue. I want to demand he look at me, really look, and admit that "drunk mistake" is the biggest lie either of us has told—and we're currently running an elaborate fake relationship, so the bar for lies is impressively high.
I want to ask about the woman in red. Whether he enjoyed her attention. Whether he's already moving on from whatever we almost became.
But I don't know how to finish any of those sentences, so I don't start them.
"Good," I say instead. "Boundaries. Professional. We can do that."
"We've done it before."
"Years of successful boundary maintenance." The laugh that escapes me sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Except for, you know. The parts where we spectacularly failed."
Miles's jaw tightens, but he doesn't respond. The eucalyptus gets sorted with aggressive precision.
We return to our separate stations, our separate silences. The distance between us feels infinite—not fifteen feet but fifteen years of almost and never quite and what if we'd been braver.
I sort ribbon by color because it's something I can control. Cream, ivory, champagne—three shades Miles once insisted were completely different, and now I can't unknow the distinction. Each spool feels like evidence of how thoroughly he's woven himself into every corner of my life.
I don't want boundaries, my brain whispers traitorously. I want—
But the sentence dies before completion, because wanting Miles means admitting that every pact we made was already broken. That the careful architecture of our friendship collapsed the moment I kissed him on that golf course, and everything since has been standing in rubble pretending the building's still intact.
The Morrison flowers ship out at noon. The Henderson referral calls at two. Business continues because business doesn't care about emotional devastation.
And Miles and I maintain our professional distance—fifteen feet of concrete, fluorescent lights, and the persistent echo of "drunk mistake" hanging between us like a verdict neither of us knows how to appeal.