[Rory’s POV]
The ladies' room of my office has never looked more like salvation.
I slip through the door, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape the confines of this crimson dress. The applause still echoes in my ears, camera flashes burned into my retinas like tiny explosions of judgment.
How come nobody ever mentioned that the event would be in my office building? For my company? Why did I even agree to this?
Out there, I'm Viola—confident, desirable, the woman every man in that room was undressing with their eyes. In here, I'm having a minor cardiac event, hoping that nobody will find out who I am.
The bathroom is mercifully empty. I lock myself in the farthest stall, press my back against the cool door, and force myself to breathe.
One more breath. Then I step out to face the mirror.
Wig: secure. Lipstick: perfect crimson. Contacts: emerald green, hiding the familiar hazel that would give everything away. I look like Viola. I look like someone who belongs at parties like this.
The door swings open and my head snaps up—and every molecule of oxygen evacuates my lungs.
Nathan stands in the doorway, tie askew, eyes glassy with the particular sheen of a man who's had two drinks too many. His blond hair is disheveled, that boyish charm I once found irresistible now looking distinctly feral.
He shouldn't be here. This is the women's restroom. This is supposed to be safe.
"Viola." He breathes my fake name like it's a prayer, like he hasn't just committed a minor felony by barging into the ladies' room at a corporate event.
This is Nathan. My Nathan. Well, formerly my Nathan—the man who walked out the night I told him I was pregnant. The man who said no one else would ever want me, and now he's looking at me like I'm oxygen and he's been drowning.
The irony is so thick I could choke on it.
"You can't be in here," I say, and thank God, Viola's voice comes out—low, mocking, dripping with confidence. "This is the women's restroom. Last I checked, you don't qualify."
"I had to talk to you." He takes a step forward, and I instinctively step back. "I've been watching you all night."
"How romantic. A stalker with performance anxiety." The words are pure Viola—sharp and dismissive. "You're pathetic. Absolutely pathetic."
Something snaps behind his eyes. In two strides he's on me, hands slamming against the cool tile wall on either side of my head, caging me in with his body.
Fear floods through me—real, primal, suffocating—because Nathan is bigger than me and drunk and clearly not thinking straight. Suddenly I'm not Viola anymore. I'm just a woman trapped in a bathroom with a man who doesn't understand the word no.
"Shut up," Nathan growls, leaning closer. "You think you're too good for me?"
His face hovers inches from mine, alcohol-sour breath washing over me, and every instinct screams to shrink, to submit, to wait for it to be over.
But then I think of Milo. Milo, waiting at home. Milo, who needs me to come home safe.
And something shifts.
I am not the scared twenty-seven-year-old who let this man walk all over her. I am a mother. I am Viola. Neither of them deserves this.
My knee connects with his groin with every ounce of force I can muster.
Nathan doubles over with a strangled howl, stumbling backward. The sound is deeply satisfying—primal and ugly and exactly what he deserves.
"You—" He gasps, face contorted with fury. "You bitch—"
He straightens, still hunched but moving toward me with murder in his eyes, and my brief surge of victory curdles into fresh terror. I back up until I hit the counter, nowhere left to go—
The bathroom door swings open.
Grayson Smith fills the doorway like a force of nature, silver-streaked temples and piercing gray eyes taking in the scene with cold calculation. His gaze moves from Nathan's hunched posture to my position against the counter, and something dangerous settles over his features.
"Nathan." His voice is quiet. Deadly quiet. "I believe you're in the wrong restroom."
Nathan's face cycles through emotions—pain, fury, embarrassment. "Mr. Smith. I was just—"
"Leaving. Now."
Self-preservation wins. "Of course. Just a misunderstanding."
He moves toward the door, and Grayson steps aside just enough to let him pass—but not before murmuring something I can't quite hear. Whatever it is makes Nathan's face go white. He practically flees into the hallway.
The door swings shut. Silence.
My legs give out. I grab the counter to keep from collapsing, trembling so hard my teeth chatter.
"May I?" Grayson gestures toward me, asking permission before approaching.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He crosses the bathroom and stops beside me, maintaining careful distance. Close enough to help. Far enough that I don't feel trapped.
"Breathe." His voice is calm, steady. An anchor in the storm. "You're safe now."
"I kneed him," I manage, something between a laugh and a sob. "I can't believe I—"
"Good." There's no judgment in his tone. Only approval. "He deserved worse."
I look up and find unexpected warmth in those gray eyes. Not pity. Something closer to respect.
"I saw him follow you," Grayson explains. "I hoped he was simply drunk enough to misread the sign and would leave immediately. When he didn't, I decided to intervene." He pauses. "I arrived to find him incapacitated. Whatever I interrupted, you were already winning."
The observation steadies something inside me. I didn't freeze. I fought back.
"Do you want to report this?" Grayson asks.
I shake my head. Report it as who? Viola doesn't exist. If I involve security, my entire double life unravels.
"No. I just want to forget this happened."
He nods. "I understand. But Nathan Cole's behavior tonight will not be forgotten, even if it goes unreported."
There's a promise in those words. A threat aimed at someone who isn't in the room.
"Here." He offers his handkerchief. "Your lipstick."
I glance at the mirror and wince. My crimson lips are smeared where Nathan tried to kiss me before I turned away. I wipe away the damage.
"Keep it," Grayson says. "For not letting this define how the evening ends. You could leave now. Let this ruin the night. Or you could walk back out there and rob Nathan Cole of the satisfaction of chasing you away."
I don't want to give him that.
"I'll need to fix my makeup first," I say, voice steadier than expected.
Grayson's lips curve. "Take your time. I'll ensure you're not disturbed." He pauses at the door. "In my building, under my watch, no one will corner you again."
He slips out, leaving me alone.
I stare at my reflection. Wig askew. Mascara threatening to run. But my eyes look different. Harder. Like someone who's been tested and didn't break.
When I push through the bathroom door, Grayson is nowhere in sight. He gave me space.
I could leave. Be home in time to kiss Milo goodnight.
Instead, I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and walk back toward the party.
Viola doesn't run.
And tonight, neither does Rory.