[Rory’s POV]
The email arrives at 2:47 PM, right when I'm elbow-deep in quarterly projections.
Viola,
I enjoyed our dinner, despite the unconventional company. I'd like to see you again—privately this time. My apartment, Saturday evening. I'll cook.
Julian
He'll cook. Julian Hale wants to cook dinner for Viola in his actual apartment. Alone. Without two other men competing for airspace.
I speed-walk to the bathroom and lock myself in the handicap stall because crisis mode requires legroom. Lena picks up on the second ring.
"He wants to cook for me," I hiss, pacing. "In his apartment. Just the two of us. No buffer zone. No plausible deniability when he figures out I'm his coworker in a Party City wig."
"So? You've handled three men at once. One should be a cakewalk."
"A cakewalk where I'm alone with a man who keeps saying I seem familiar? He looks at me like I'm a crossword puzzle. Like he's three letters away from solving everything."
"You're being dramatic. I'll babysit Milo. Go. Flirt. Worst case, text 'dinosaur' and I call with a fake emergency."
"What if I slip up? Mention spreadsheets or Milo or—"
"Then you pivot." Her voice softens. "Rory, you spent five years invisible. Someone finally sees you—even through contacts and hairspray. Don't you want to know what that feels like?"
So I agree. And through the haze of my anxiety, Saturday arrives with the slow inevitability of a visible train wreck.
Julian's building has an actual doorman. The elevator opens directly into his penthouse—because apparently that's a thing—and Julian stands in the entrance wearing dark jeans and a charcoal henley. His feet are bare, and something about that casual intimacy makes my stomach flip.
"Viola." His smile reaches those hazel eyes. "I half-expected a cancellation."
"And miss seeing if you actually know how to use a stove?" I step inside, heels clicking against floors that cost more than my car.
His apartment is sleek—leather couch like dark chocolate, pendant lights over a kitchen island bigger than my entire cooking space. But there's warmth too. A worn paperback on the side table. Vinyl records near a turntable. A framed photo of Julian younger, arm around an older woman.
"Your mother?" I nod toward the photo.
"Grandmother. She taught me to cook. Said any man who couldn't feed himself was only half a person."
He pulls wine from a built-in rack. "Pinot noir? The risotto needs twenty minutes."
I settle onto a barstool, watching him move with surprising ease—stirring risotto with patient attention, adding broth in slow ladles. This isn't performance cooking. He actually does this.
"You seem different here," I observe, accepting the glass he slides across marble. "Less corporate."
"The suit is armor. Wear it long enough, you forget there's someone underneath."
The words land somewhere tender. I know exactly what he means.
"We all have our costumes," I murmur.
He glances up, something flickering in those hazel eyes. "Some more literal than others."
My heart stops. But he's already turned back to the risotto.
The meal is incredible—creamy arborio with wild mushrooms and truffle oil. We eat at his dining table, city lights twinkling beyond the windows.
"Okay, controversial opinion," Julian says, swirling his wine. "Cats are absolutely plotting world domination. Every single one."
"That's not controversial, that's just fact. Have you seen how they stare at nothing? They're receiving transmissions."
"From the mothership." He nods gravely. "I knew it."
"My neighbor's cat once knocked a glass off a table while maintaining direct eye contact. That's not chaos. That's a statement."
Julian laughs—really laughs, not the polished chuckle from office meetings. "What about dogs?"
"Too stupid to conspire. Lovable, but genuinely operating with one shared brain cell across the entire species."
"Harsh but fair. Alright, your turn. Controversial opinion."
"Pineapple belongs on pizza."
He physically recoils. "I'm going to need you to leave my home."
"It's sweet! It's tangy! It balances the salt!"
"It's an abomination against Italian culture and everything sacred."
"You asked for controversial." I grin. "I delivered."
"You delivered war crimes." But he's smiling.
We argue about pizza for ten minutes, then somehow transition into movies we're embarrassed to love.
"I've seen The Mummy fourteen times," I admit. "Brendan Fraser awakened something in me at a formative age."
"Only fourteen? Amateur." Julian leans back. "I openly wept during Marley & Me. In a theater. Surrounded by strangers."
"That's not embarrassing, that movie is emotional terrorism."
"I was twenty-eight. A grown man. Sobbing into popcorn."
"Did you at least have napkins?"
"I used my sleeve like an animal."
I nearly choke on my wine. This version of Julian—relaxed, self-deprecating, willing to admit sleeve-crying—is dangerously attractive.
“Yeah, and Amy—” he stops himself abruptly. His expression shifts—into something younger and more painful, more accepting. "I was married once," he says quietly. "Four years. Ended badly."
"What happened?"
"I happened." He sets down his fork. "So focused on climbing—the next promotion, the next achievement—I forgot to be present. She said it was like being married to a ghost." A bitter laugh. "She wasn't wrong."
The vulnerability catches me off guard.
"Sometimes the climb becomes the only thing you know," I say softly, words slipping out unfiltered. "You forget there's supposed to be a destination."
Julian's eyes meet mine. "That's surprisingly insightful."
"I have my moments."
"You really do." He leans forward. "There's something about you, Viola. Something familiar. When you stop performing, you remind me of someone."
My heart hammers. The risotto turns to cement.
"Maybe I have one of those faces," I deflect.
"No." His hand covers mine, warm and deliberate. "You have a very specific face. These moments when the mask slips—I almost see..."
He trails off, puzzle pieces clicking behind his eyes.
Panic and desire war in my chest. The smart move is leaving. Instead, I lean across and kiss him.
It starts as deflection—short-circuiting his questions. But strategy dissolves into something hungry the moment our lips meet. His hand slides into my hair—please let the pins hold—pulling me closer, chair scraping as he stands without breaking contact.
We stumble toward the living room. The leather couch is cool against my back, but Julian's weight above me is warm, his mouth trailing from my lips to my jaw to that spot below my ear that makes my spine arch.
"Wait." He pulls back, breathing ragged. "Is this okay?"
"Yes." I drag him back down. "Stop asking questions."
His laugh vibrates against my throat. "Bossy."
"You have no idea."
We don't go further than heated kisses and wandering hands—his palms mapping my waist, my ribs, the curve of my hip. But when we finally surface, flushed and gasping, everything between us has changed.
Julian traces my jaw. "I want to see you again. Not charity auctions. Just this. Real conversation. Whatever this is."
Guilt crashes over me.
He doesn't know who he's really with. He thinks he's falling for Viola—confident, glamorous—when the reality is mousy Rory with spreadsheets and closet-monster checks.
"I'd like that," I hear myself say. He sees me to the doorman, waits for the Uber with me.
The drive home takes thirty minutes and feels like hours. My lips are swollen. My wig askew.
I genuinely enjoyed being with him. Not performing—being. The sleeve-crying confessions and pizza wars and the way he looked at me like I was worth seeing.
But he doesn't know he was with me. He's falling for a woman who doesn't exist.
I stare at my reflection while the streets fly by. Green contacts. Platinum hair. A mask I've worn so long I'm losing track of which face is mine.
Julian wants to see Viola again.
Rory has no idea how to feel about that.