[Rory’s POV]
My phone has developed a personality disorder.
Two notifications arrive simultaneously while I'm brushing my teeth—toothpaste foam dribbling down my chin like some kind of rabid squirrel situation. Julian's text glows on screen: dinner tomorrow, my place, we can cook something together, if you’d like, or I can repeat my signature risotto.
Before I can even process, an email from Grayson's assistant appears. The Hartwell Foundation Gala. Tomorrow evening. Black tie. A car will collect me at seven.
I stare at both messages, minty foam slowly solidifying on my face.
Same night. Different men. One impossibly stretched Viola.
I try rescheduling Julian first—claiming a prior commitment, suggesting the following week. His response is immediate and persistent.
"I've been thinking about you constantly. Tomorrow works best for my schedule. Please."
The "please" does something inconvenient to my chest. But Grayson's gala was confirmed weeks ago, and canceling on a CEO feels like career suicide wrapped in social disaster.
I text Julian that I'm devastated but truly can't make tomorrow. He responds with disappointment I can feel through the screen.
The guilt tastes worse than hardened toothpaste.
Work the next morning is a masterclass in exhaustion. I'm running on four hours of sleep and enough caffeine to restart a stopped heart.
My fingers fumble on the keyboard. Numbers blur together. The quarterly analysis I've been perfecting for weeks now contains a formula suggesting we owe negative three million dollars to someone named "ERROR."
"Rory?" Lena appears at my cubicle, concern creasing her forehead. "You look like death warmed over and then refrigerated again."
"Flattering." I minimize the spreadsheet before she sees the chaos. "Just tired."
"Tired like normal human tired, or tired like juggling-three-men-while-maintaining-secret-identity tired?" Her voice drops to conspiracy levels.
"Option B. Definitely option B."
She squeezes my shoulder. "Lunch. We're talking strategy."
But lunch never happens. An urgent meeting pulls Lena away, and I spend my break staring at the break room ceiling, contemplating whether faking my own death would solve anything.
Leo finds me there, slumped in a plastic chair like a deflated balloon.
"Hey." His voice is gentle, careful. He knows what I'm carrying now—the weight of Viola, the impossible juggling act. "Rough day?"
"Rough existence." I manage a weak smile. "How do people with normal lives do it? Just exist without constant impending doom?"
"I've heard rumors they sleep and maintain healthy boundaries." He settles into the chair beside me. "Wild concept."
"Completely foreign."
He doesn't push for details. Just sits with me in companionable silence, his presence steady and warm.
"There's a gala tonight," I admit quietly. "I have to be her again. For hours."
"You'll manage. You always do." His brown eyes crinkle with something like faith. "And tomorrow, the dinosaur café still stands. If you need normal afterward."
"Normal sounds like paradise."
The Hartwell Foundation Gala takes place at the Meridian Grand—all marble columns and old money pretension. Grayson's driver deposits me at the entrance ten minutes early, and I'm lingering near the steps, adjusting my clutch and pretending I belong in a gold dress that costs more than my monthly rent.
That's when I see him.
Julian. Walking up the sidewalk. Navy suit, purposeful stride, hazel eyes scanning the crowd.
My heart detonates.
I duck through the entrance so fast my heels nearly betray me on the marble. The doorman startles as I blow past him like a blonde tornado in designer fabric.
Inside, I press myself against a pillar, breathing hard. Of course Julian's here. Corporate networking event. Senior management. Why wouldn't he be?
Because the universe hates me. That's why.
"Viola?" Grayson materializes beside me, one eyebrow raised at my pillar-hugging. "Interesting entrance strategy."
"Saw someone I'd rather avoid." I force composure into my voice. "Old acquaintance. Tedious."
"Ah." He doesn't push, just offers his arm. "Then let me rescue you with champagne and stimulating conversation about tax-deductible philanthropy."
"My hero."
He guides me deeper into the ballroom, away from the entrance. Crystal chandeliers drip light onto crowds of impossibly elegant people. My platinum wig feels secure, but my pulse won't settle.
"You look stunning," Grayson observes. "But hunted. Long week?"
"You could say that." I accept the champagne he procures. "Between work and everything else."
"Everything else being multiple men competing for your attention?" His smile holds knowing amusement.
"You have no idea." The honesty slips out before I can stop it. "Sometimes I wonder if any of this is worth the chaos I've created."
"And what conclusion have you reached?"
I consider the question, swirling champagne I'm too nervous to drink. "That I spent so long being invisible that being seen—even chaotically—feels like oxygen after drowning."
Something shifts in his expression. The predatory calculation softens into something almost tender.
"I understand that more than you'd expect." He moves closer. "Building an empire means sacrificing connection. You forget what genuine human contact feels like until it's gone."
"And now?"
"Now I'm standing with a woman who challenges me, and I'm realizing I've been starving for years." He takes my champagne, sets it aside. "Dance with me."
It's not a question. I let him lead me onto the floor, his hand spanning my waist, pulling me close enough to feel his heartbeat through expensive fabric.
"I looked into your situation," he murmurs against my hair. "The man who's been bothering you."
My blood chills. "What did you find?"
"Enough to act. He's on administrative leave pending investigation." Grayson's jaw tightens. "I've arranged security monitoring. Men like him don't accept rejection gracefully."
"How did you know all this?"
"Resources. Motivation." His thumb traces circles on my hip. "And genuine concern for someone who's starting to matter."
The admission catches me off guard. We sway together, and I sink into the moment—his cologne, his warmth, the strange safety of his arms.
"You're different than I expected," I admit. "Less terrifying. More human."
"Don't tell anyone. Reputation to maintain." But his smile reaches those gray eyes.
We spend hours together. He introduces me to donors, philanthropists, people who casually mention their "small vineyard in Tuscany." Between introductions, we steal moments on the terrace.
"You nearly bankrupted yourself over cheese?" I can't stop laughing at his first venture disaster story.
"Artisanal cheese," he corrects with mock dignity. "The market wasn't ready."
"For expensive cheese."
"Revolutionary expensive cheese. I was twenty-three and immortal." His grin is infectious. "What's your excuse for questionable decisions?"
"I'm thirty-two and apparently collecting complicated men like Pokémon."
"Gotta catch 'em all?"
"Please never say that again."
He laughs, and warmth blooms in my chest. This relaxed, self-deprecating Grayson feels like a secret he's sharing only with me.
By eleven, exhaustion weighs heavy. The wig feels like lead.
"You're fading," he observes. "Let me take you home."
"You'd leave your own gala?"
"My driver handles transport. I should stay and press more flesh." He grimaces. "Metaphorically."
"Probably frowned upon in philanthropy circles."
"Deeply." He cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Go home. Rest. Text me when you're safe."
The car ride blurs past in streetlights and quiet reflection.
Grayson surprised me tonight. Beneath the power plays lives someone who understands loneliness. Someone who jokes about cheese and dances like he means it.
I check on Milo—still sleeping, still peaceful—and sink onto my couch.
My phone buzzes. Grayson: "Home safe?"
I text back confirmation, warmth settling in my chest.
Three men. Three complications. But tonight, one peeled back his armor and showed me something real.