[Leo’s POV]
The origami frog sits in my palm like a tiny green promise.
I've been working on it for three days—folding and refolding until the legs look right, until the paper catches the light just so. It's not my best work. The left eye is slightly crooked and one of the back feet has a crease I couldn't smooth out no matter how hard I tried.
But Rory has that cat calendar. And cats eat frogs. So maybe she'll think it's funny. Or maybe she'll think I'm weird. Both outcomes feel equally possible.
I grab the coffee I bought her—vanilla latte, extra foam, because I noticed that's what she orders when she thinks nobody's watching—and make my way through the office maze toward her cubicle.
My heart does something stupid when I spot her at her desk, chocolate brown locks escaping the bun, oversized cardigan sitting on her frame like a warm, safe hug. She's squinting at a spreadsheet like it personally offended her, and I think she might be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Which is pathetic. I know it's pathetic. The delivery guy falling for the data analyst—it sounds like a bad romantic comedy that goes straight to streaming.
"Hey." I set the coffee on her desk, then place the frog beside it. "Brought you a friend for your cat. Figured he might want a snack."
Rory looks up, and her smile makes my chest ache. "Leo. You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." The words come out too fast, too eager. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting.
"So, um. I was thinking. There's this zoo about thirty minutes outside the city. They have a whole dinosaur exhibit—not real dinosaurs, obviously, that would be terrifying—but like, animatronic ones. Life-sized."
Her expression shifts. Something flickers behind those hazel eyes that I can't quite read.
"I thought maybe you and Milo might want to go sometime. With me." My ears are definitely burning. "If you wanted. No pressure. I just remembered you said he loves dinosaurs, and I figured—"
"Leo." Her voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "That's really sweet of you."
There's a 'but' coming. I can feel it like a storm on the horizon.
"But it's still too soon." She wraps her hands around the coffee cup like she needs something to hold onto. "We barely know each other, and I'm really careful about who I introduce to Milo. He gets attached easily, and if things don't work out..."
She trails off, but I understand. Of course I understand. She's protecting her son. That's what good mothers do.
"No, yeah, totally." I nod too many times. "That makes complete sense. I wasn't trying to rush anything. I just thought—but you're right. We should take things slow."
"I'm sorry." She actually looks like she means it. "You've been so kind to me, and I don't want you to think I'm not interested. I just need to be careful."
"You don't have to apologize." I manage something that might pass for a smile. "Rain check on the dinosaurs?"
"Rain check," she agrees softly.
I walk away with my shoulders a little lower than when I arrived, replaying every word, wondering if I pushed too hard. The frog sits on her desk next to the coffee, and I try to convince myself that's enough for now. It has to be enough.
The afternoon crawls by in a haze of packages and signatures. I'm finishing up a delivery on the third floor when I see her again—Rory, heading toward the elevator bank.
She's not alone.
Julian Hale walks beside her, all tailored suit and dark hair and the kind of confidence that comes from never wondering if you're good enough. He's saying something that makes her laugh—that real laugh, the one that makes her shoulders shake.
They step into the elevator together. The doors close.
Something sharp twists in my chest. Jealousy, ugly and unwelcome.
I tell myself it doesn't mean anything. People share elevators all the time. Colleagues talk. That's normal workplace behavior.
But the way she smiled at him. The way she tilted her head, listening. She's never looked at me quite like that.
I finish my route on autopilot, trying not to think about hazel eyes and borrowed laughter and the sinking feeling that I'm competing in a game where I don't know the rules.
That evening, I'm sprawled on my couch with leftover pizza and zero motivation. My phone's in my hand, thumb scrolling mindlessly through social media because apparently I hate myself.
The algorithm serves up the usual garbage—sponsored posts, political arguments, someone's vacation photos. Then a suggested account catches my eye.
@ViolaAfterDark.
The profile picture shows a woman with platinum blonde hair and striking green eyes, lips curved in a mysterious smile. She's gorgeous in that untouchable way—the kind of beautiful that belongs on magazine covers, not phone screens.
I scroll through her photos because I'm human and she's stunning. Glamorous shots in revealing dresses. Smoky eyes and crimson lips. Confidence radiating from every angle.
Then I see her hands.
Something familiar tugs at my brain. I zoom in on a photo where she's holding a champagne flute, and my breath catches.
That ring. The delicate silver band with the tiny flower design.
I've seen that ring before. Every single day. On Rory's finger. The grandmother's ring she never takes off.
My heart starts pounding as I scroll faster, looking closer. The hands in these photos—elegant, posed, perfectly manicured—but there's a small scar on the thumb. A thin white line near the knuckle.
Rory has that exact same scar. She mentioned once that she cut herself on a kitchen knife when Milo was a baby.
I sit up straighter, pizza forgotten, and start comparing. The tilt of the head when she's listening. The way her shoulders angle in certain poses. The specific gesture she makes with her fingers when she's thinking.
The posting times. I check the timestamps on photo after photo. Evening. Night. Never during work hours. Always uploaded after Rory would be home from the office.
My mind races, connecting dots I didn't know existed.
The corporate event. LuxeGlow Beauty. The charity auction that everyone's been whispering about. Viola appeared at the company's event. In that building.
I think about Rory's exhaustion lately. The dark circles under her eyes. The way she's been jumpy, distracted, like someone juggling too many secrets.
I think about the whispers I've heard—the analytics team leader and CEO and that douche from sales all competing for some mystery model's attention.
The phone nearly slips from my fingers.
Rory is Viola.
The invisible woman in the oversized cardigans. The single mom who makes grilled cheese dinosaurs and checks closets for velociraptors. The woman I've been falling for, one origami creation at a time.
She's been transforming herself into someone else. Someone confident and glamorous and seen. Someone the whole office is obsessing over while the real her sits ten feet away, completely overlooked.
I stare at the screen for a long time, heart hammering against my ribs.
I should be angry about the deception. Maybe I should feel foolish for not seeing it sooner.
Instead, all I feel is a fierce, aching tenderness.
She created Viola because the world made her feel invisible. Because men like Nathan and Julian and Grayson looked right through Rory Kane without ever bothering to actually see her.
But I see her. I've always seen her.
The question is: what do I do now?