The Fine Print of Falling

I arrived at Veridian forty minutes early, the way I always did.The restaurant was quiet in the pre-service calm. Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the pristine white tablecloths and crystal stemware. Everything in its place. Everything perfect.I’d left Maya’s apartment at six, showered and dressed in my most professional outfit. Navy sheath dress. Low heels. Hair pulled back in a neat bun. Makeup applied with extra care to hide the puffiness around my eyes.Nobody would know I’d spent last night crying into a pint of ice cream.Veridian wasn’t just a restaurant. It was an institution. Two Michelin stars, a waiting list months long, and a reputation built on excellence in both culinary artistry and flawless event execution. The main dining room served sixty covers nightly, each meal a carefully orchestrated performance. But the real money came from our events division, where wealthy clients paid obscene amounts for weddings, corporate galas, a

I didn’t leave Maya’s apartment for four days.The first day, I called a lawyer. A public defender Maya found through a friend of a friend. He listened to my story with the weary patience of someone who’d heard a thousand variations of the same tale.“Did anyone see your stepsister near your bag?” he asked.“No. But she was there. She had access.”“Can you prove she planted the bracelet?”“No, but—”“Then we have a problem.” He sighed. “The good news is Mrs. Wimberton isn’t pressing charges. She got her bracelet back and apparently doesn’t want the publicity. The bad news is your former employer filed a police report. It’s on record now. Even without charges, it’ll come up in background checks.”“So I’m branded a thief. Forever.”“I’ll see what I can do. But Ms. Pembroke, I have to be honest with you. Without evidence of a frame-up, this is going to follow you.”The second day, I tried to find another job. I spent eight hours on my laptop, applying to every event planning position in

I should have left after the third martini. Should have grabbed Maya’s hand, walked out of The Vault, and gone back to the safety of her apartment where I could pretend Alexander Lockwood was just another strange encounter in a city full of them. But I didn’t. Because twenty minutes after he walked away, a server appeared at our table with two fresh martinis we hadn’t ordered. “From Mr. Lockwood,” she said, setting them down. “He’s in the private booth in the back corner. He’d like to know if you’d join him for a conversation.” Maya’s eyes went wide. “Are you kidding me?” “Should I tell him no?” the server asked. I looked at the martini. At Maya’s concerned face. At the choice in front of me. Safe or dangerous. Hidden or seen. “Tell him yes,” I said. “Diana—” “I know. I know this is insane. But Maya, I need to know what he wants. Why he approached me. Why he said those things.” I grabbed my clutch. “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, come find me.” “Fifteen minutes. And I

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped across my waist. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was. Then it all came rushing back. The Vault. The gallery. The sculpture. Xander. Oh God. Xander. I turned my head carefully. He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way it hadn’t been last night. Without the intensity of his gaze, he looked younger. Almost vulnerable. My body ached in places I’d forgotten could ache. Pleasant soreness, the kind that came from being thoroughly used. The sheets were tangled around our legs, and I could see marks on my skin. Bruises on my hips where his fingers had gripped. A faint bite mark on my shoulder. Evidence of what we’d done. Multiple times. My face burned with a mixture of embarrassment and something else. Something I didn’t want to examine too closely. I needed to leave. Now. Before this became something complicated. Before he woke up and we had to have the awkward morn