Four days of Miles's silent treatment, and Beatrice decides now's the perfect time for mandatory museum bonding with my merger candidate.
Her text arrives at dawn: "Museum. Two PM. Dorian will be there. Non-negotiable."
So I arrive at the botanical wing prepared to endure two hours of Dorian explaining why his family's art collection is superior to oxygen. Last time we met, he spent twenty minutes analyzing golf course grass quality like it was the Sistine Chapel.
He's studying a Victorian orchid print when I approach, and I brace myself for a lecture on botanical superiority.
"Aurelia." He doesn't look up immediately—making people wait is Power Move 101. When he finally graces me with eye contact, there's something different. Less polish, more exhaustion. "You look like you'd rather be getting a root canal."
"Only if the dentist promises not to discuss merger benefits." I move closer reluctantly. "Hello to you too, by the way."
"Right. Manners." He turns back with a self-deprecating half-smile I've never seen. "Mother would be appalled. Though she's been appalled since I learned how to speak, so that’s old news already."
The admission catches me off-guard. Dorian doesn't do vulnerability—he does quarterly projections. That’s unusual.
"This artist," he continues, "managed to make something that reproduces asexually look positively scandalous. Victorian repression truly was an art form."
A laugh escapes. "That's one interpretation."
"Or maybe Lord Pemberton was just really lonely." He moves to the next painting—roses that look personally offended. "This was definitely after his wife left. Every thorn seems aimed at someone specific."
"His wife left him for a tulip merchant," I add. "Obviously. The composition screams abandonment issues."
"The asymmetry alone could fund a therapist's yacht." He's studying it like it holds stock tips. "My parents had one like this in their morning room. They think it represents triumph over adversity. I think it represents marrying for tax benefits."
Another unexpected admission. I study him sideways—still annoyingly symmetrical, but the veneer's cracking.
We drift through galleries, and somewhere between terrible paintings three and four, we find an unexpected rhythm. He provides ridiculous backstories with art history gravitas; I counter with absurd flower symbolism.
It's almost... fun?
An elderly docent in a vest screaming "volunteer enthusiasm" zeroes in like a heat-seeking missile of education. "Young couple! Would you like to hear about our Victorian collection?"
Before I can correct her, Dorian steps closer, his hand finding the small of my back. "Actually, we were just discussing how this reminds us of our anniversary."
My brain short-circuits. His fingers press slightly—play along—and I understand. He's giving us an out from the tour.
The warmth of his hand through my blazer makes thinking complicated. This is the same ass who compared Miles to a small business loan.
I should step away. Instead: "Six months next week, right darling?"
"Seven, but who's counting?" His thumb moves slightly, and my skin has opinions about it. "She owns a floral business. We met when I insulted her window display."
"You said my arrangements looked 'aggressively cheerful.'"
"In my defense, no one needs that many sunflowers. It's like being assaulted by optimism."
The docent recalculates. "How wonderful! Young love and flowers—like a fairytale!"
"Exactly like a fairytale," Dorian agrees. "Complete with family drama, impossible expectations, and shocking lack of actual magic."
The docent's smile falters. She retreats muttering about other visitors.
"That was mean," I say, fighting a smile.
"That was efficient." He hasn't moved his hand. "Her vest had fifteen cat pins. She'll recover by telling her book club how rude young people are."
We migrate to the café, where Dorian orders "single-origin beans from a specific Colombian hillside" with "microfoam at sixty-two degrees." Pretentious but achievable.
"Just a cortado?" Dorian raises an eyebrow when I order normally. "No specialized temperature requirements?"
"I save impossible demands for family dinners."
We settled at a corner table. The coffee's actually good, which feels like betrayal.
"So," Dorian says, stirring with surgical focus, "that golf course kiss was quite the statement piece."
My shoulders tense. "If you're about to joke about Miles—"
"I was going to say it was impressive. The commitment, the timing, the way you made my mother clutch her pearls so hard one cracked when I relayed what happened. Performance art."
"Miles isn't a performance."
"No, but we are." He meets my eyes directly. "This whole thing—you and me being show ponies, your grandmother's tests, my family's merger dreams. We're all performing, aren't we?"
The honesty is disarming. "When did you become self-aware?"
"Between my third board meeting this week and Mother suggesting a DNA test to confirm I'm really hers." His laugh is hollow. "Apparently falling for you on schedule was my one job."
"Falling for me was never happening."
"Oh, I don't know." His smile turns wry. "You throw flowers at people. Kiss men on golf courses to make points. Build businesses from spite and petals. You're actually interesting, which in my world is rarer than ethical diamonds."
The compliment lands weird—too sincere for sparring, too casual for implications. My cheeks are warm. "My father thinks interesting is a liability," I deflect.
"Mine thinks it's a phase." His expression darkens. "Twenty-nine and he still introduces me as 'future CEO' like I'm a warranty extension."
"At least you're a future something. I'm just the daughter who won't cooperate."
"The daughter who built something from nothing while everyone tried stopping her." Matter-of-fact, like data, not validation. "That takes more courage than inheriting thrones."
We trade family horror stories. His mother hired a relationship consultant for "optimal engagement timing." My father used my piano recital for networking. His parents met through literal merger. Mine turned love into a spectator sport where everyone lost.
"God, we're pathetic," I laugh despite myself.
"Thoroughly damaged goods." He raises his cup. "To emotional unavailability and trust funds—the Valmont-Hale legacy."
"To being a disappointments with good teeth."
We clink cups. It's ridiculous but also the first real conversation with someone who gets inherited expectations.
"Four family dinners this week," Dorian says. "Including consultants discussing our 'compatibility metrics.'"
"Beatrice has her orchid society observing our 'connection' like we're a nature documentary."
"David Attenborough voice: 'Here we see reluctant heirs in unnatural habitat, performing mating rituals neither wants.'" I snort coffee. It's undignified and burns, but Dorian just hands napkins while continuing: "Notice careful distance while families circle like well-dressed vultures."
"Waiting for merger benefits."
"Or death trying."
We're laughing now—real, ugly laughing that draws stares. Rebellion in the smallest way.
"I should go," I finally say, not moving.
"Another thrilling obligation?"
"Something like that."
We leave together but separate immediately—actors who accidentally enjoyed rehearsal.
Walking away, I realize something unsettling: Dorian might actually be human. Worse, someone I could like if we weren't chess pieces.
The museum fades but his hand's warmth lingers like a question I don't want answering. Miles is still silent-treating me, I'm fake-dating my best friend while real-dating nobody.
And now my grandmother's merger candidate has actual feelings and decent humor.
The universe needs to stop complicating my complications.