[Dorian’s POV]
Saturday afternoon at the estate, and I've developed a concerning new hobby: watching Rae through windows like a well-dressed stalker with abandonment issues.
After our ride, she disappeared into the house. I told myself I'd find the bar, locate the Macallan, and practice not caring. Instead, I'm standing in the garden, staring through the library's floor-to-ceiling windows like a golden retriever who's been told to stay.
She's on the leather sofa with Miles. They're laughing.
Not the polished laugh she deploys at galas, not the careful amusement she offers me when I'm being particularly charming. This is different—head thrown back, shoulders shaking, the kind of unguarded joy that transforms her entire face into something luminous.
Miles says something I can't hear through the glass. Rae responds by shoving his shoulder, still laughing, and he catches her hand briefly before letting go. The gesture is so natural, so unconscious, that my chest does something complicated.
It's not quite jealousy. Jealousy implies I believed I had a chance.
This is more like watching the final scene of a movie where the leads finally get together, and realizing I've been auditioning for a role that was cast before I walked into the room. The merger candidate who serves the plot but never gets the girl.
She looks at him like he's the answer to a question she didn't know she was asking.
I could walk away. Pretend I didn't witness this particular confirmation of my romantic irrelevance. But hiding feels pathetic, and I've spent twenty-nine years being many things—pretentious, emotionally unavailable, disappointing to my parents in creative ways—but pathetic isn't on the list.
The library door creaks when I open it. Both of them freeze mid-laugh, caught in some shared moment I've thoroughly interrupted. Rae's expression shifts through several stages of guilt before settling on careful neutrality that somehow makes everything worse.
"Dorian." She straightens on the sofa, putting another inch of distance between herself and Miles. "We were just—"
"Having fun. I noticed." I keep my voice light because the alternative is admitting that watching her laugh with someone else feels like swallowing glass. "The board's gathering for cocktails. Apparently we're all expected to perform our respective roles with enthusiasm and appropriate formal wear."
Miles stands, adjusting his jacket. He has the decency to look uncomfortable, which I appreciate even as I resent him for existing.
"Cocktails sound great," he says, in the tone of someone who would rather be literally anywhere else. "Nothing like small talk with people who've been assessing my net worth all weekend."
"Think of it as character building. Or slow torture. The line blurs after the third martini."
We walk to the parlor together—the three of us, a triangle of romantic dysfunction navigating hallways that probably witnessed better love stories. I notice how Rae positions herself exactly between us, maintaining equal distance like she's calculating geometry rather than navigating feelings.
She's trying so hard to be fair. To not choose. I'd find it admirable if it weren't slowly driving everyone involved insane.
The cocktail hour passes in a blur of strategic conversations and expensive canapés. I dodge three separate inquiries about "wedding timelines" with the diplomatic skill of someone raised for exactly this purpose.
Mother corners me near the champagne fountain, wearing her "closing deals" face. "Dorian. A word."
"Several, if you're feeling generous."
"Don't be clever. It's unbecoming." She guides me toward a window alcove. "The Valmont girl. Where do we stand?"
"Standing. Occasionally sitting. Sometimes walking when the occasion calls for movement."
"Dorian."
"The deal isn't closed, Mother. These things take time."
"Cultivation." She says the word like it's personally offended her. "Your father closed the Henderson merger in six weeks. Your grandfather secured the Pacific Northwest expansion before his thirtieth birthday.”
Her look is definitely disapproving, but I can’t bring myself to care. “And you're asking for more time to cultivate a relationship with a woman who can't decide between you and a man who works in a flower warehouse."
Something snaps. Maybe it's the accumulation of a weekend spent watching Rae look at someone else. Maybe it's twenty-nine years of being reduced to transaction metrics.
"Rae isn't a deal. She isn't an acquisition or a portfolio addition or another line item in our family's strategic growth plan." My voice stays low but the edges are sharp. "She's a person with complicated feelings and the right to make her own choices. Maybe I'm tired of treating people like assets to be acquired."
Mother stares at me like I've announced I'm joining a commune. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Possibly. It's been a confusing weekend."
She opens her mouth to respond, but I'm already walking away.
The terrace offers cold air and temporary peace. I stand at the railing, watching the manicured grounds disappear into evening shadows.
The door opens behind me. Rae steps out, champagne glass in hand, looking as wrung out as I feel.
"Escaping?" she asks.
"Recovering. My mother just received the devastating news that I might have developed a personality. She's processing."
Rae moves to stand beside me. We stare at the darkening garden in silence.
"Are you okay?" I ask. "Is this weekend as exhausting for you as it is for me?"
"That depends. On a scale of one to ten, how exhausting do you find performing romantic interest while watching someone you're sleeping with laugh with someone else through library windows?"
I wince. "You saw that."
"I saw you standing in the garden like a very attractive security camera. Not your most subtle moment." She takes a sip of champagne. "I'm sorry. You deserve better than being caught in whatever mess I've created."
"Probably. But here we are." I turn to face her. "Can I ask you something? And I want an actual answer, not the diplomatic version."
"Dangerous request. But go ahead."
"What do you actually want, Rae? Not what Beatrice wants, not what the board expects. If you could choose anything—anyone—without consequences, without inheritance hanging in the balance. What would you choose?"
She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is smaller than I've ever heard it. "I don't know how to want things without feeling like I'm betraying someone. If I want Miles, I'm betraying you, betraying the arrangement, betraying my grandmother's faith in my ability to make practical decisions.”
She takes a deep breath. “If I want you, I'm betraying whatever Miles and I have become, betraying the history we share. If I want neither of you, I'm betraying myself by choosing safety over connection."
"Maybe that's the problem." I say it gently, without accusation. "You're so worried about betraying everyone else that you're betraying yourself. Choosing not to choose is still a choice, Rae. It's just a choice that hurts everyone equally instead of hurting one person more."
She looks at me then—really looks. There's something raw in her expression, something cracked open. "When did you get so insightful?"
"Expensive therapy. Some of it was bound to stick eventually. But you heard that already, maybe it’s time to try?"
She laughs, but it catches in her throat. "Dorian, I—"
"Don't." I stop her before she can apologize again. "Don't feel guilty for being happy with him. That's the last thing I want." I reach out, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Gentle, final. "Just make an actual choice. Not for me, not for them—for you. Whatever that looks like."
The dinner bell chimes from inside, summoning us back to performance.
But something has shifted. Something honest has finally been said.
And maybe that's enough.