The drive home is a blur of headlights and paranoia.
Every car behind me could be Nathan. Every red light feels like a trap. My hands shake on the steering wheel, and the crimson dress that made me feel like a goddess three hours ago now feels like evidence at a crime scene.
I make it to my apartment complex without being followed—I think—and practically sprint up the stairs in heels that were definitely not designed for escape velocities.
Mrs. Patterson takes one look at my face and wisely doesn't ask questions. I pay her double, which I absolutely cannot afford, and she slips out with the efficiency of someone who's learned not to get involved.
Milo's bedroom door is cracked open, nightlight casting dinosaur shadows across the ceiling.
He's not quite asleep. His eyes flutter open when I peek in, and his small voice pierces through my panic like sunlight through storm clouds.
"Mommy? You look like a princess."
I'm still in the wig. Still in the dress. Still wearing the mask of a woman I invented to feel worthy of attention.
"Can I sleep with you tonight, baby?" My voice comes out smaller than I intend.
Milo scoots over without hesitation, making room in his tiny bed. I kick off the heels, climb in beside him—crimson dress, platinum wig, and all—and pull his warm little body against mine.
"Did you fight a dragon?" he mumbles sleepily.
"Something like that."
"Did you win?"
I press my lips to his hair, breathing in the scent of baby shampoo and innocence. "I'm not sure yet."
He's asleep within minutes, but I stay awake for hours, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling.
The next day at work, I wait until exactly 12:15 PM before making my move.
Lena is heading toward the break room with her lunch bag when I intercept her like a heat-seeking missile of anxiety. My hand closes around her elbow and I steer her past the refrigerator, past the microwave, into the tiny supply closet where extra paper towels go to die.
"What the—" Lena starts.
I close the door behind us and flip on the single flickering bulb. We're surrounded by industrial cleaning supplies and enough toilet paper to survive an apocalypse.
"Emergency meeting," I whisper frantically. "Maximum secrecy required."
Lena's eyes adjust to the dim lighting, taking in my expression. She sets down her lunch bag on a shelf of paper towels. "Okay. I'm listening. But if this is about the vending machine eating your dollar again—"
"Three men showed up to my charity dinner date." The words come out in a rush. "Not one. Three. They tied in the bidding, Lena. The charity split the date three ways."
Her jaw drops. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Grayson Smith." I tick them off on trembling fingers. "Julian Hale. And Nathan."
"Nathan?" Her voice rises and I frantically shush her. She drops to a whisper. "Nathan your ex? Abandonment Nathan? Left-you-pregnant Nathan?"
"The very same." I lean against a shelf of cleaning supplies, the scent of industrial bleach mixing with my desperation. "He has no idea Viola is me. None of them do. But they're all circling like sharks who smelled blood in the water."
Lena processes this, her protective instincts visibly activating. "Okay. Start from the beginning. Tell me everything."
So I do. In hushed, frantic whispers, I recount the entire disaster—how Julian kept mentioning quarterly reports and the data analysis department, dropping comments about patterns and inconsistencies like he's solving a puzzle with my face as the missing piece.
"He said numbers reveal more about people than words," I hiss. "Who says that? Serial killers and accountants, that's who."
"Julian's not an accountant," Lena points out.
"Exactly my point!"
I tell her about Nathan's unsettling restraint—how he didn't grab me or corner me, which somehow felt worse. How he described my social media posts with photographic precision.
"He measured the angle of my lighting, Lena. Thirty degrees from the lamp. He measured it."
"That's..." She searches for the word. "Deeply unhinged."
"Thank you! That's what I said! Well, internally. Externally I maintained Viola's mysterious cool, but internally I was screaming into the void."
"And Grayson?"
"Asked questions like a prosecuting attorney. Every word designed to catch me in a contradiction." I run my hands through my hair—my real hair, mousy brown and pulled into its usual messy bun. "He watches everything. Misses nothing. I felt like a bug under a microscope."
Lena leans against the opposite shelf, arms crossed. "What happened when the check came?"
"Chaos. Absolute testosterone-fueled chaos." I mime three hands grabbing simultaneously. "Julian insisted he had it. Grayson's grip turned to iron. Nathan claimed he should pay because he had 'the most to make up for'—which, the audacity."
"Who won?"
"Grayson. CEO privilege apparently extends to check-grabbing supremacy."
"And then?"
"Then they all asked me out. Separately." I sink down to sit on a box of printer paper, the fight draining out of me. "Grayson even said his assistant would coordinate."
Lena whistles low. "Three dates. Three men who work in this building. Three chances to get caught."
"Now you see my problem."
She's quiet for a moment, strategic wheels turning behind her cat-eye glasses. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a breath. "Does anyone actually suspect you're Rory?"
"Julian keeps saying I seem familiar. But he hasn't connected the dots—the wig and contacts do most of the heavy lifting." I laugh bitterly. "Nobody expects invisible office Rory to transform into platinum goddess Viola. That's literally the point."
"Then we maintain the illusion." Lena crouches down to my level, her voice fierce even at a whisper. "Separately. Very, very separately. These three men cannot compare notes. Ever."
"How am I supposed to juggle three dates with men who share an elevator every morning? Who attend the same meetings? Who probably golf together or whatever rich men do?"
"Carefully. Strategically." She grabs my hands. "And with backup. I'll help however I can—babysitting Milo, constructing alibis, emergency extraction if things go sideways. You text me a code word, I'll call with a fake crisis."
"What's the code word?"
"Dinosaur. Milo-related, totally believable, immediate exit required."
I want to cry. Actually, I might already be crying—it's hard to tell in the dim supply closet lighting. "You'd really do that? Help me maintain an elaborate double identity while dating three men from our workplace?"
"Babe." Lena squeezes my hands hard. "You spent five years being invisible. Overlooked. Dismissed. You finally created something that makes you feel powerful, and yeah, it's gotten complicated, but we're not giving up now." Her expression softens. "You're not alone in this. We figure it out together."
"I don't deserve you."
"You absolutely don't," she agrees cheerfully. "But you're stuck with me anyway. Now." She stands, pulling me up with her. "We need to get back before someone notices we've been in the supply closet for fifteen minutes and starts rumors."
"Rumors about what?"
"Use your imagination. This is an office. They'll make it weird." She cracks the door, checking the hallway. "Coast is clear. You go first. I'll follow in two minutes."
I slip out of the supply closet, heart still racing but somehow lighter.
Three men. Three complications. One impossible juggling act.
But at least I'm not doing it alone. That's something. Right?