Chapter 6: Story 1

I don’t see Dominic for three days.

Not in the office. Not in meetings. Not in the elevator at 7:00 AM where he usually exists like a very expensive, very pissed-off fixture.

Marcus runs the Meridian stand-ups. His eyes linger on me for half a second longer than necessary. He knows. Of course he knows. Marcus knows when the coffee’s stale and when the CFO is lying. He definitely knows his boss made out with the Me during a blackout.

I don’t bring it up. He doesn’t either. We talk in data. Safe, sterile, numbers.

“Day-one retention is up 31%,” I say, clicking to the next slide. “The ‘lights on’ copy outperformed everything else in A/B testing. Chicago wants to push the full rollout to next week.”

Marcus nods. “Mr. Cole will be pleased.”

Mr. Cole. Not Dominic. We’re back to surnames and armor.

Good. That’s good. That’s what I want.

I repeat it until it sounds true.

---

Day Four.

He’s back.

I know before I see him. The air changes. The floor goes quiet in that specific way it does when a predator walks in.

He doesn’t come to my desk. He doesn’t look at me. He walks into his office and shuts the door.

I exhale. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath.

Ten minutes later, Marcus drops a folder on my desk.

“Charity gala,” he says. “Friday. The Cole Foundation’s annual fundraiser. You’re attending.”

I blink. “I’m… what?”

“Mr. Cole’s plus-one,” Marcus says, and his tone makes it very clear this isn’t a request. “Ethan was supposed to go. He’s… unavailable.”

Unavailable. Code for: Ethan’s on a bender because his dad hasn’t returned his calls since the missing-pages incident.

“I’m not—” His plus-one. His anything. “—appropriate for that.”

“Mr. Cole disagrees.” Marcus is already walking away. “Dress code’s black tie. Car picks you up at 7. Don’t be late.”

He leaves. The folder is heavy. Inside: a gala invite, embossed. Mr. Dominic Cole + Guest.

I stare at the + Guest until the letters blur.

Sienna’s response when I text her is immediate: Absolutely not. That’s not a gala, Alina. That’s a battlefield and you’re wearing heels.

Me: It’s work. Networking. Strategic.

Sienna: It’s you in a dress, on his arm, while Ethan watches. Tell me how that’s not personal.

I don’t have an answer. Because it is personal. It’s been personal since the thunderstorm. Since his hand in my hair. Since Alina in his mouth like a secret.

I text back: I’ll be fine.

Sienna: You said that about Ethan too.

---

Friday. 6:58 PM.

The dress is emerald. Sienna picked it. “If you’re going to self-destruct,” she said, zipping me in, “do it in a color that makes him regret everything.”

It’s backless. It’s dangerous. It’s not me.

Or maybe it is. I don’t know anymore.

The car is a black SUV with tinted windows. The driver opens the door without a word. Dominic’s already inside.

He’s in a tux. Of course he is. It’s tailored to within an inch of its life, no tie, top button undone like he can’t be bothered to play full corporate. He looks like every terrible decision I’ve ever made, wrapped in Tom Ford.

He doesn’t say hello. He says, “You’re on time.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

The car pulls out. Manhattan slides by. He doesn’t look at me. I don’t look at him. We’re two strangers pretending we didn’t rewrite each other in the dark four nights ago.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I say finally. “Marcus could’ve gone.”

“Marcus hates galas.”

“So do I.”

That makes him glance at me. Really look. His eyes do the inventory — dress, hair, the fact that my hands are knotted in my lap.

“You look,” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat. “Appropriate.”

Appropriate. Not beautiful. Not stunning. Appropriate. Like I’m a quarterly report.

“Thanks,” I say, dry. “You look like you’d rather be in a server room.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I would.”

We don’t talk again until we get there.

---

The Gala is exactly what you’d expect: ice sculptures, billionaires, and a string quartet playing covers of songs Ethan probably thinks are deep. The room is all crystal and judgment.

Dominic gets mobbed instantly. Board members, investors, politicians who want his money and his blessing. He handles them with the same efficiency he handles code — no wasted words, no fake smiles. Just precision.

I’m good at this part. I’ve been working rooms since I was 16 and needed tips. I smile, I nod, I remember names. I’m + Guest, but I’m not invisible.

“Alina, right?” A woman in diamonds corners me. “You’re the Meridian girl. My daughter’s obsessed with the ‘off the clock’ feature. Says it saved her marriage.”

I laugh, real. “Tell her we’re happy to help. Divorce lawyers are expensive.”

She cackles. “I like you.”

Dominic appears at my elbow. Not touching. Just… there.

“Mrs. Whitman,” he says. “She’s better than the app.”

Mrs. Whitman’s eyebrows go up. Mine too. Before I can respond, he’s gone again, pulled into another conversation about offshore holdings.

I exhale. Better than the app. What the hell does that mean?

Then I see him.

Ethan.

He’s by the bar, three drinks in, wearing a tux that’s wrinkled. His eyes are on me. Not Dominic. Me.

He looks like shit. He looks like a man who’s been Googling “how to get your dad to love you” at 3 AM.

He drains his whiskey and starts toward us. Toward me.

I brace.

Dominic gets there first.

He doesn’t intercept Ethan. He just shifts. One step. So he’s between me and Ethan, his back to me. Not obvious. But deliberate. A wall.

His hand brushes mine when he moves. Barely. Just the back of his knuckles against my wrist.

It’s not possessive. It’s protective.

And it undoes me more than the kiss did.

“Ethan,” Dominic says. His voice is flat. “You weren’t invited.”

“I’m your son,” Ethan slurs. “I don’t need an invite.”

“You need an appointment,” Dominic says. “Which you don’t have. Because you’re drunk at a fundraiser.”

Ethan’s face crumples. “You brought her? After everything?”

“After everything, yes,” Dominic says. “Because she’s useful. You’re not.”

Brutal. Surgical. The kind of truth that leaves scars.

Ethan laughs, but it’s broken. “Useful. Right. Is that what you call it when—”

“Security,” Dominic says, not loud, not angry. Just final.

Two men in earpieces appear. Ethan doesn’t fight. He just looks at me, betrayal and rage and something else — fear — all over his face.

“You’ll regret this,” he says to me. “He ruins everyone.”

Then he’s gone.

The room pretends it didn’t happen. The quartet plays louder.

Dominic turns. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking past me, at the crowd, like he’s already recalculating the damage.

“Are you okay?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He blinks. Like the question surprises him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because that was your son.”

“He stopped being my son when he decided to be my problem.”

Cold. So cold. But his hand — the one that brushed mine — is in a fist at his side.

“Come on,” he says. “We’re leaving.”

“What? The auction hasn’t—”

“We’re leaving.”

---

The car ride is silent. Worse than before. This is the silence after an explosion.

I wait until we’re halfway back to my apartment. Then: “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Humiliate him. For me.”

He finally looks at me. Really looks. The streetlights cut across his face in stripes. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“Bullshit.”

His jaw ticks. “Watch your tone, Ms. Reyes.”

“There it is,” I say. “Ms. Reyes. We’re back to that.”

“You want to be Alina again?” he asks, quiet. “Then stop acting like Ethan. I don’t protect people. I don’t do plus-ones. I did both tonight. Ask yourself why.”

The car stops. My building. He’s not looking at me.

I should get out. I should say thank you and go upstairs and pretend this is still a plan.

I don’t.

“Why did you?” I whisper.

He’s still for a long time. Then: “Because I’m not my son.”

It’s not an answer. It’s a confession.

“Don’t punish me for his sins,” he says, and it’s the same thing he said at the gala, but now I hear it. Really hear it.

He’s not talking about Ethan.

He’s talking about me.

About revenge. About the fact that he knows — he has to know — why I really took this job.

“I’m not,” I say. My voice breaks.

“You are,” he says. “Every time you look at me like I’m him. Every time you assume I’m playing a game. I’m not. I don’t play. I win or I walk away.”

He finally meets my eyes. “So decide, Alina. Are you in this for revenge, or are you in this with me?”

The car is too small. The city is too loud. My heart is too fast.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

I get out.

He doesn’t call me back.

I don’t look back.

But I feel him watching until I’m inside.

Upstairs, I take the dress off like it burned me. I hang Dominic’s coat over my desk chair.

It still smells like him.

I don’t sleep.

Because Are you in this with me? isn’t a question.

It’s a line.

And I’m standing right on top of it.