Chapter 6

Iris’s POV

The café on Fourth was the kind of place that made you want to be a better person. Exposed brick walls, hanging ferns, mismatched vintage chairs that somehow looked intentional rather than chaotic. The smell of fresh bread and lavender drifted through the air, and every table had a tiny vase with a single white flower.

I got there early, claimed a spot by the window, and ordered coffee just to have something to do with my hands. The barista brought it over with a smile, something lavender-infused that Maya would roll her eyes at and then drink half of anyway.

I was stirring it absently, watching the foam swirl, when Maya slid into the chair across from me.

"You look like shit," she announced cheerfully.

I laughed at myself. "Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel special."

"I'm serious." She shrugged off her jacket, draped it over the back of her chair, and studied me with those sharp brown eyes that had been seeing through my bullshit since we were sixteen. "You've got that hollowed-out look. The one you get when you've been writing for twelve hours straight and forgotten to eat."

"Close. I've been writing for twelve hours straight, and I definitely ate." I pushed the coffee toward her. "Here. It's lavender something. You'll hate it and love it."

She took a sip, made a face, took another sip. "You're right. I hate it, but I love it." She set the cup down. "Now talk. What's going on?"

I opened my mouth to give her the usual answer about writer's brain, deadline stress, wedding planning chaos, but the words stuck. Maya had known me too long. She'd hear the lie before I finished forming it.

So I gave her part of the truth.

"My book is changing," I said. "My editor loves it, but she wants me to go darker. More edge. More possession. The hero she wants me to write about is… not who I usually write about."

Maya tilted her head. "And that's bad because?"

"Because I don't know where it's coming from." I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, focusing on the warmth. "The words just… pour out. And they're good. They're perfect. But they feel like someone else wrote them."

Maya was quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe that's not a bad thing. Artists evolve. You've been writing the same sweet heroes for years. Maybe it's time for something different."

"Maybe."

She wasn't buying my deflection. I could see it in the way her eyes narrowed, the way she leaned forward just slightly.

"What else?" she asked.

"Nothing else. Just writer's stuff."

"Iris."

"Maya."

We stared at each other. She blinked at first, but only because she was smiling.

"Fine," she said. "Keep your secrets. But I'm ordering the biggest bread basket on the menu, and you're going to watch me eat every single piece while you spill at least one interesting thing about your life that isn't book-related."

I laughed. "Deal."

She flagged down a waiter, ordered enough bread for four people, and sat back with that satisfied look she got when she knew she'd won. "So. How's Marcus? Still perfect?"

"Marcus is Marcus." I shrugged, aiming for casual. "He made me breakfast in bed last weekend. French toast with extra syrup."

"That's disgustingly adorable." Maya grabbed a roll the moment the basket arrived, tearing into it with unapologetic enthusiasm. "You're going to marry that man and have beautiful, boring children, and I'm going to be the cool aunt who teaches them to swear."

"That's the plan."

"Good plan." She chewed thoughtfully. "And his dad? The mysterious overseas one? Have you met him yet?"

My heart stuttered. I kept my face neutral.

"Yeah, I met him briefly. We are having dinner with him on Friday night."

Maya's eyebrows lifted. "And? What's he like?"

"Intense." The word slipped out before I could catch it. I tried to soften it with a laugh. "I mean, he's very… present. You know? The kind of person who fills a room."

"Hot or not?"

"Maya."

"What? I'm curious. Marcus talks about him like he's some kind of legend. Silver fox energy, right? All the women in his office have crushes on his photo."

I thought about Victor's hands, his eyes and the way his thumb had pressed my pulse point. It was like he was reading my secrets.

"He's attractive," I said carefully. "For his age."

Maya snorted. "For his age. You're so diplomatic." She grabbed another roll. "Did he like you?"

"What?"

"Did he like you? The dad. Marcus said he was nervous about your two meetings. Wanted you to get along."

I thought about the card in my purse. The texts I'd deleted but read first. The way he'd said my name was like he was tasting it.

"He seemed to," I said. "We had a nice conversation about my books."

"See? Perfect. You're in." Maya waved her bread for emphasis. "Now you just have to survive Friday dinner, and then you never have to see him again, except at holidays. Easy."

Easy.

I nodded and took a long sip of my coffee, letting the bitterness cover the taste of the lie.

We talked about other things after that. Maya's new promotion. Her latest dating disaster, a guy who'd shown up to dinner in full cosplay and refused to explain why. Her mother's ongoing campaign to marry her off to anyone with a pulse and a 401k.

I laughed in all the right places, asked questions and nodded along.

But underneath it all, a current pulled.

Hot or not?

For his age.

The lies were stacking up. Small ones now, easy to carry. But I could feel their weight growing, pressing against my ribs, waiting for the moment they'd finally crush me.

When the basket was empty and our coffee cups drained, Maya leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "This was good. We need to do this more often. Once a week minimum. I need someone to remind me that men who shower regularly actually exist."

"Deal." I meant it. Maya was my anchor, the one person who'd known me before any of this, who saw me clearly and loved me anyway. I needed her more than she knew.

She grabbed her jacket, paused, looked at me with those too-sharp eyes. "You sure you're okay? You seem… I don't know. Different."

"Different how?"

"I can't put my finger on it." She studied me for a long moment. "Just different. Brighter, maybe. Or sadder. It's hard to tell you lately."

I smiled—the real one, not the performance smile. "I'm okay, Maya. Really. Just tired and wedding-brain and book-brain all at once."

She nodded slowly, like she was filing that away for later. "Okay. But if you need to talk about anything, call me. Doesn't matter when. I don't sleep anyway."

"I know." I stood and hugged her, holding on maybe a second longer than usual. "Love you."

"Love you too, weirdo." She squeezed back, then pulled away with a grin. "Now go write your dark, possessive heroes. Make them hot and dangerous enough to earn that redemption arc."

I laughed. "That's not how it works."

"It's exactly how it works. Romance novel 101. A boy does bad things, the boy suffers, the boy grovels and the girl takes him back." She winked. "Easy."

I watched her walk away, her bright hair bouncing, her laughter trailing behind her like confetti.

The boy does bad things, suffers and grovels to the girl.

Victor didn't strike me as the groveling type.

I walked home slowly, letting the afternoon sun warm my shoulders, trying to hold onto the lightness Maya always brought. It worked for a few blocks. By the time I reached my apartment, the weight had settled back into my chest, familiar and heavy.

I checked my phone before going inside.

One new message.

V (Emergency Only): Looking forward to Friday, Iris. I've been thinking about our conversation. Have you?

I deleted it.

Then I read it again before it disappeared from my trash folder.

Have you?

Yes.

God help me, yes.

I went inside, locked the door behind me, and stood in the quiet apartment with my heart hammering against my ribs. Marcus wouldn't be home for hours. I had time to write, to think and to figure out how to be the woman I'd promised to be instead of the woman Victor's texts kept pulling me toward.

I sat at my desk, opened my laptop and stared at the blinking cursor and wrote.

The hero was darker now. More dangerous. He watched the heroine from across the room with hungry eyes. She tried to resist but failed and every time she gave in, she lost another piece of herself to him.

It was the best thing I'd ever written.

It was also a confession.

When Marcus came home at seven, I closed the laptop and went to greet him with a kiss. He wrapped his arms around me, pulled me close, and told me about his day in that easy, familiar way that used to feel like home.

I listened but somewhere deep inside, where the truth lived, a voice whispered:

Friday night. Have you been thinking about it?

Yes.

God help me, yes it is all I think about.