CHAPTER 5: Too Close

Maya

I slip the piece of paper into the hidden pocket of my dress, my fingers fumbling against the silk. The note feels heavy there, like a secret I didn’t ask to carry. When I look up again, Philip is already walking away from Ethan, heading toward a quiet corner near the windows, he doesn’t look back, but I know he’s waiting for me.

I hesitate for a long moment, my champagne flute sweating in my hand. The party hums around me, music drifting from the stage, laughter echoing off the high ceilings, the clink of glasses mixing with quiet conversation. My mom is still by the cake table, talking animatedly to her planner, her hands moving as she explains something about the decorations. She hasn’t noticed Philip pulling me aside.

I take a final sip of champagne, set the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray, and start walking toward him.

He’s standing by one of the tall windows, looking out at the city lights. He doesn’t turn when he hears me approach, but I know he’s aware I’m there. The air around him feels different—quieter, tighter, like a wire pulled taut.

“You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that,” he says, his voice low enough only I can hear it over the music. “Ethan has a habit of saying things he doesn’t mean…of getting involved where he doesn’t belong.”

“He’s the only one who’ll say anything to me.” I stop just a few feet away, close enough that I can see the way his shirt collar sits against his throat, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. “Why won’t you tell me the truth? Did you or did you not see my mom while she was still married?”

He turns then, and the space between us narrows. He doesn’t move forward, but somehow he feels closer, close enough that I can count the silver threads in his black hair, see the way his eyes catch the light from the window. The woodsy scent of his cologne is stronger now, no Ethan to dilute it, just him, all sharp edges and steady calm.

“I didn’t,” he says. The words are clear, firm, leaving no room for doubt. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not responsible for what happened between your parents.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” My heart is beating faster now, and I press my palm against my chest to steady it. “If you weren’t seeing her, how are you responsible?”

He looks past me, toward where my mom is now laughing with a group of her old friends, she’s holding a slice of cake, feeding a bite to a woman in a purple gown, her face bright with joy. When he looks back at me, something softens in his eyes… something I don’t recognize.

“Your parents had problems long before I met Monica,” he says. “Robert was working too much, traveling three weeks out of every month, never home for dinner, never there for her when she needed him. She felt invisible. Like she was just keeping his house clean and raising his kid while he lived his life somewhere else.”

“That’s not true.” The words come out weak, even to my own ears. I remember the way Dad would leave early in the morning, the way Mom would sit at the dinner table alone, pushing her food around her plate. “He worked hard for us. He was trying to give us a good life.”

“I know he was.” He takes a small step closer, and the heat from his body reaches me even through our clothes. “But Monica needed more than that. She needed someone to see her. I mean to really see her. I tried to help them work through it. I talked to Robert, told him he needed to be there for her. I talked to Monica, told her to give him another chance. I even offered to help with his business so he could spend more time at home.”

“And?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

“And I failed.” He runs a hand through his hair, a rare moment of unsteadiness. “Robert didn’t want help, he thought he could fix everything on his own. Monica was too tired to keep trying. They made the decision to split up on their own. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“So you decided to marry her instead?” The anger flares up again, hot and sharp in my chest but underneath it, something else is building, something low and warm that makes my skin prickle. “You waited until she was single and then swept in?”

“I cared about her,” he says. “I’d been caring about her for a year before they split up. As a friend. When she told me she was getting divorced, I told her I’d be there for her no matter what. That’s all it was supposed to be. But then we started spending more time together, and… well, you know how it is when you find someone who sees you the way you need to be seen.”

I know. The words hang in the air between us, unspoken but heavy. I think about Noah—my boyfriend of two years, who spends every night at the office, who forgets my birthday and never asks how my classes are going. I think about how lonely I’ve been, even when I’m right next to him.

“I’ve been through a lot,” I say, my voice cracking. “My dad’s been through a lot. Did you ever think about that? Did you ever think about what this would do to us?”

“I think about it every day.” He reaches out like he’s going to touch my arm, then stops just short, his hand hovers in the air between us, close enough that I can feel the heat from his skin. “I know you hate me. And maybe you’re right to. I know I can’t make you understand why this is happening, not right now. But I’m not the villain you think I am, Maya. I’m not trying to hurt anyone.”

The air between us is thick enough to breathe. My anger is still there, hot and sharp in my chest—but it’s mixing with something that makes my breath catch in my throat. I can feel his breath on my cheek, warm and steady. I can see the way his eyes drop to my lips for just a second before snapping back up, dark with something I can’t name.

I lean in without meaning to, so close that our foreheads almost touch. My heart is hammering so hard I swear he can hear it—thump-thump-thump against my ribs, matching the beat of the music from the stage. The noise of the party fades to nothing, all I can focus on is him, the way he’s looking at me, the heat that’s building between us like a storm.

His hand moves the rest of the way, his fingers brushing against my arm; light, careful, like I’m something fragile. The touch sends a sparks through me that makes my knees weak.

“Careful, Maya… you don’t know what you’re starting.”