Be My Plus One

Chapter Six

Sylvia’s POV

Be My Plus One

The mahogany doors of Whitmore & Associates stared back at me like they always had, polished, imposing, utterly indifferent to the chaos swirling in my chest. I'd stood in this exact spot a hundred times before, maybe more. Back when visits meant something simple. Back when Adrian's office was just the place I'd barge into with takeout containers and complaints about my mother, and he'd close his laptop without a second thought, already reaching for the spring rolls.

That was years ago.

Now the brass nameplate gleamed under the hallway lights, and my reflection in the glass partition looked like a stranger wearing my clothes. Same dark blazer. Same anxious habit of twisting my grandmother's ring around my finger. Different everything else.

I pressed my palm flat against the wood. Just for a second. The grain was cool, familiar in a way that made my throat tighten. God, I was being ridiculous. This was just a building. Just an office. Just a man I hadn't spoken to since I'd walked out of his life with nothing but a voicemail and a half hearted apology that I'd rehearsed for weeks and still managed to botch completely.

I pushed the door open.

The reception area hadn't changed. Same minimalist aesthetic that screamed wealthy but tasteful, all cream walls and abstract art that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. The receptionist, a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses perched on her nose looked up from her computer with the practiced smile of someone who'd spent decades perfecting the art of polite disinterest.

"Good afternoon. May I help you?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I'm here to see Adrian."

Her smile didn't waver, but something in her eyes shifted, a flicker of professional assessment, maybe. "Do you have an appointment, miss?"

"I don't," I admitted, already feeling the heat creeping up my neck. "But could you please let him know that Sylvia's here? He'll—" I stopped myself. Would he? Would he see me? "Just tell him I'm here. Please."

The receptionist studied me for a moment longer. Then something softened in her expression, almost imperceptibly. She picked up the phone, pressed a button, and spoke in a low murmur that I couldn't quite catch. A pause. Another murmur. Then she hung up and gave me a small nod.

"Go on in. He's free."

My heart was doing something ridiculous in my chest, a frantic staccato that had nothing to do with the brisk walk down the corridor and everything to do with the door at the end. The one with the nameplate that read Adrian Whitmore, Managing Partner in elegant gold lettering.

I didn't knock. If I knocked, I'd lose my nerve. If I knocked, I'd have to stand there waiting, and waiting meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering every single reason why this was a terrible, catastrophic, soul-crushing idea.

So I just turned the handle and walked in.

He was at his desk, of course. He was always at his desk, even back when I'd tease him about being married to his work. Same broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored suit jacket. Same dark hair, though it was shorter now, neater. He looked up from whatever document he'd been reviewing, and for a split second, just a fraction of a heartbeat, I saw it. Recognition. Surprise. Something else that flickered too fast to name before he shut it down completely.

"Sylvia." His voice was measured, carefully neutral. "I didn't expect to see you here."

I forced my feet forward until I was standing in front of his desk, close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there before. Close enough to catch the familiar scent of his cologne, something woodsy and warm that made my stomach flip in ways I'd spent years trying to forget.

"I know you didn't." The words came out steadier than I felt. "Look, I'm very sorry that I'm barging into your space right now, but—" I took a breath. One breath. That was all the courage I had. "you have to marry me."

Adrian's pen clattered onto the desk. He stared at me with an expression I'd never seen on his face before, equal parts bewilderment and utter disbelief. His eyebrows had shot up so high they were practically merging with his hairline.

"I'm sorry, what now?"

I squared my shoulders. No backing down. That was the old Sylvia, the one who'd run away from every hard conversation. Not anymore. "Marry me."

He leaned back in his chair, studying me like I'd just proposed a hostile corporate takeover. "You know, most times, it's the man doing the requesting. The rich man, actually." A pause. His eyes narrowed, but there was the ghost of something, amusement? lurking beneath the confusion. "Is there something about your gender that I'm not aware of?"

"You think I'm gay?" The question came out more indignant than I'd intended.

"You're asking me to marry you!" He gestured at me, at the space between us, at the sheer absurdity of the entire situation.

"Okay, fine." I held up my hands in surrender. "Maybe it came out way harsher than I intended. Let me rephrase." I took a breath, gathered my scattered thoughts, and tried again. "I need a boyfriend. For a wedding."

Adrian blinked. Once. Twice.

"Are you nuts?"

"Probably," I admitted. "But that's not the point. I have a wedding to attend, my ex’s, he’s getting married to Pretzel, which is a whole separate nightmare and I need a boyfriend. A plus one. That's it." I was rambling now, I knew it, but I couldn't stop. "There's no big deal, Adrian. Please. It's just once. Just a stage play. The moment the wedding ends, all of this is over. Okay?"

He was quiet for a long moment. His fingers drummed against the mahogany surface, a nervous habit I remembered from late nights when he'd been working on a particularly brutal case. The sound was so achingly familiar that I had to look away, focus on the bookshelf behind him, anything to keep my composure intact.

"When," he said slowly, carefully, "is this drama of a wedding happening?"