[Rae’s POV]
Beatrice's "casual family weekend" invitation arrives with the subtlety of a subpoena. The cream-colored cardstock practically radiates mandatory attendance, complete with a hand-calligraphed itinerary that makes my eye twitch.
The estate looms like a monument to generational expectations as Miles and I pull up in his Honda Civic. He's wearing the suit we panic-bought last month—navy, reasonably fitted, acceptable for a man about to be fed to social wolves.
"Ready to perform happy couple in a house full of people who want us to fail?" I ask, killing the engine.
"I've been practicing my adoring gaze in the mirror." His voice is flat, carefully neutral. "Apparently I look constipated. Very romantic."
We haven't discussed Dorian. We haven't discussed anything real since the warehouse, since boundaries and professional distance became our new vocabulary. The silence between us feels like walking on ice that's already cracking.
Inside, the parlor is a masterclass in strategic staging. Laurent holds court near the fireplace, whiskey in hand, charm deployed at maximum wattage for the two board members hanging on his every word. Beatrice presides from her usual throne—an antique wingback that probably witnessed the signing of declarations.
And Dorian. Of course Dorian is already here, looking irritatingly composed in cashmere.
Our eyes meet across the room. Two nights ago, I was in his bed. Now I'm walking in with Miles, performing a relationship that feels more complicated than the fake one we started with. Dorian's expression reveals nothing—he's had twenty-nine years of practice at that.
"Aurelia, darling." Beatrice rises with the grace of someone who's never experienced an awkward moment in her life. "And Miles. How lovely that you could join us."
The emphasis on "could" suggests declining was never actually an option.
Dinner is an elaborate production of civilization masquerading as a meal.
Beatrice's seating chart is a work of diabolical genius—Miles positioned between two board members who immediately begin interrogating him about his "background" and "long-term plans," while I'm placed next to Dorian, our knees close enough under the table that I can feel the warmth of his leg.
"Comfortable?" Dorian murmurs, passing me the bread basket.
"Thrilled. Nothing says relaxing weekend like strategic seating arrangements."
Across the table, Miles is fielding questions about his family's "circumstances" with quiet dignity. One of the board members—Henderson, the one who collects antique clocks and grudges—asks about his five-year plan with the intensity of someone conducting a job interview for the position of my husband.
Miles responds with something about growth trajectories and partnership synergies, and somehow makes it sound genuine instead of rehearsed. Henderson actually laughs at something he says, and I feel a surge of pride so sharp it nearly cuts.
Then the guilt crashes in, cold and immediate. Two nights ago. Dorian's bedroom. The ceiling I stared at while admitting I didn't know what I wanted.
I'm longing for someone else while still carrying another man's touch on my skin. The hypocrisy tastes like the overpriced wine I'm drinking too fast.
"You're staring at him," Dorian observes quietly. "Rather intensely."
"I'm monitoring the interrogation. Making sure they don't waterboard him with soup."
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
After dinner, I escape toward the east wing, desperate for air that doesn't smell like performance and old money. Laurent intercepts me in the hallway, appearing from shadows like a particularly well-dressed specter.
"Aurelia." His voice carries that careful modulation he uses when delivering bad news wrapped in paternal concern. "A word."
"Father. I was just—"
"Your attention seems divided lately." He falls into step beside me, hands clasped behind his back. "At dinner, you spent more time watching your supposed boyfriend than engaging with Dorian. The board noticed."
"The board notices everything. It's their primary hobby."
"This isn't a joke." His jaw tightens. "You need to focus on what actually matters for the company's future."
"And what would that be? Dorian?"
Laurent's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Stability. Legacy. Building something that lasts beyond fleeting feelings." He pauses at the hallway's end. "Feelings fade, Aurelia. Strategic partnerships don't."
He disappears before I can respond, leaving me alone with advice that sounds suspiciously like a threat.
Saturday morning brings Beatrice's activity assignments, delivered via handwritten notes slipped under doors like passive-aggressive room service. Mine reads: "Riding lesson with Dorian. 10 AM. The stables."
Miles gets conscripted into a golf foursome with board members—another round of interrogation disguised as recreation. We barely have time to exchange glances before we're herded toward our respective obligations.
The stables smell like hay and old leather. Dorian is already there, adjusting a horse's bridle with practiced hands. He's traded his cashmere for riding clothes—fitted jacket, boots that probably cost more than my first car.
"You ride?" I ask.
"Since I was six. Mother thought it would build character. Mostly it built thigh muscles and resentment." He leads a bay mare toward me. "This is Ophelia. She's gentle. Unlike her namesake, she's not prone to dramatic endings."
We ride out along the estate's back trails in companionable silence. The morning is crisp, the kind of autumn weather that looks good in photographs and makes my nose run unattractively. Once we're far enough from the house that the stone walls disappear behind trees, Dorian finally speaks.
"This whole weekend is insane." His voice carries genuine exhaustion beneath the usual polish. "We're all performing roles in Beatrice's elaborate production. You, me, Miles, even your father—everyone hitting their marks like trained actors who never got to read the full script."
The observation lands with uncomfortable accuracy. "That's surprisingly self-aware for someone who was born into the performance."
"Twenty-nine years of practice. At some point, you start noticing the stage machinery." He guides his horse around a fallen branch. "Can I ask you something?"
"Depends on whether I'll like the question."
"Do you ever think about just telling the truth? About the arrangement with Miles, about whatever is actually happening between you two—all of it. Just... ending the performance."
My horse stops, responding to tension I didn't realize I was communicating through the reins. "The truth would cost me everything I've worked for. The inheritance, Florisight's future, any credibility I've built with the board."
"Maybe." Dorian pulls up beside me. "Or maybe it would cost less than you think."
I stare at him—this man I've been sleeping with, this merger candidate I'm supposed to want, who's now suggesting I blow up the entire charade.
"You're telling me to choose Miles."
"I'm telling you that watching you pretend is exhausting. For both of us." His smile carries something that might be affection. "Whatever you decide, at least make it a real choice. Not just the path of least resistance."
We ride back to the stables in silence, his words settling into my chest like stones.
Maybe it would cost less than you think.
Or maybe it would cost everything.
The problem is, I'm no longer sure which outcome terrifies me more.