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."

Maya 

The cab ride back to my apartment is quiet-too quiet. The driver keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror, probably wondering why a woman in a red silk dress is sitting in the back seat with tears streaming down her face. I don't bother wiping them away, I let him think whatever he wants.

When we pull up to my building, I hand him a twenty without waiting for the fare, then practically fall out of the car. The door to the lobby is locked, of course it is, it's almost midnight-but I manage to get my key in the lock on the third try, my hands still shaking.

I'm halfway up the stairs when my phone buzzes in my dress pocket. Chloe: u home yet??? i've been texting u for an hour. i'm outside ur building with chinese food and tequila.

I push open the door to my floor to find her sitting on the hallway carpet, a paper bag in one hand and a bottle of silver tequila in the other. She's still in her party dress. It's short, black, covered in sequins that catch the light from the hallway fixture.

"I knew you'd need this," she says, pushing herself to her feet. "I got your favorite...kung pao chicken with extra peanuts. And I brought salt and limes, because we're doing this right."

I don't say anything-just throw my arms around her and start crying again, hard enough that my shoulders shake. She holds me tight, rubbing circles on my back like she did when we were in college and I'd just gotten dumped by my first real boyfriend.

"Okay, okay," she says, leading me into my apartment and kicking the door shut behind us. "Let's get you out of that dress and into something comfortable. Then we're getting drunk and you're going to tell me everything."

Twenty minutes later, I'm in sweatpants and an old college t-shirt, sitting on my couch with a plate of food in my lap and a glass of tequila in my hand. Chloe's sitting cross-legged across from me, her hair piled on top of her head, already halfway through her second drink.

"Start talking," she says, pointing her fork at me. "And don't leave anything out. Did you punch him? Did you tell your mom off? Did the twin brother ask you to run away with him?"

I take a long sip of tequila, it burns going down, but it clears my head a little. "No punching. No running away. But I found out some things."

I tell her everything...about how Philip said he didn't start seeing my mom until after the divorce, about how Ethan said they'd been friends first, about the way Philip looked at me when we were standing by the window. I even tell her about the note Ethan slipped me, though I leave out the part about his fingers brushing mine, about the way his breath felt warm against my ear.

Chloe listens quietly, her expression serious. When I finish talking, she takes a sip of her drink and shakes her head.

"So what are you going to do?" she asks. "Are you going to give him a chance? Try to get to know him?"

I laugh, but it comes out bitter. "Give him a chance? He's engaged to my mom, Chloe. Even if he didn't break up my parents, he's still going to be my stepdad if they get married. I can't just... forgive him."

"Maybe not. But you don't have to hate him either." She leans forward, setting her glass on the coffee table. "What do you really want to do?"

I think about it-about the way my mom looked tonight, happy and bright in a way I haven't seen in years. About the way my dad sounded last time I talked to him, tired and sad and pretending everything was fine. About Philip; his steady eyes, his calm voice, the way his hand almost touched my arm.

"I want him gone," I say, the words coming out clear and sharp. "I want him out of her life so she'll realize what she's lost. So she'll go back to Dad."

Chloe raises an eyebrow. "And how exactly do you plan to do that? You can't just walk up to her and say 'Mom, break up with your fiancé...he's bad news.' She won't listen to you."

"I know." I take another sip of tequila, my mind already racing. "But what if I can make him leave her? What if I can make him want me instead?"

Chloe's eyes go wide. "Maya... are you serious? That's insane. He's twice your age, he's engaged to your mom-"

"He's human." I set my glass down, leaning back against the couch. "Everyone has weaknesses. Everyone makes mistakes. If I can get close to him, like, really close. Then I can make him choose me. And when my mom finds out, she'll hate him. She'll go back to Dad, and everything will be the way it's supposed to be."

"Everything won't be the way it's supposed to be," Chloe says, her voice firm. "You'll get hurt. Your mom will get hurt. Your dad will get hurt. This is a terrible idea."

"Maybe. But it's the only idea I've got." I stand up, walking to my bedroom and pulling the red dress out of the closet. I hold it up against myself, looking at my reflection in the mirror...angry and determined, ready to play a game I know I might not win. "He ruined my family. Now I'm going to ruin his engagement."

Chloe opens her mouth to argue, but my phone vibrates on the coffee table-three times in quick succession. I walk back to pick it up, my heart sinking when I see the sender: Admissions Office – Davenport Innovations Internship Program.

I'd applied for the marketing internship months ago, back when I still thought my life was going to be normal-graduate school, a good job, maybe even marry Noah someday. I'd forgotten all about it.

I tap the email open, my hands starting to shake again as I read the words on the screen:

Subject: CONGRATULATIONS- YOUR  INTERNSHIP PLACEMENT 

Dear Maya Wilson,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the Summer 2026 Marketing Internship at Apex Industries, a division of Davenport Innovations.

Your placement has been approved by our CEO, Philip Davenport, who has requested that you be assigned to the Executive Marketing Team.

Please report to our headquarters at 8:00 AM on Monday morning for orientation.

We look forward to welcoming you to the team.

Sincerely,

Human Resources Department

Davenport Innovations

I drop the phone on the couch like it's burned me. Chloe leans over to read the screen, her face going pale.

"Oh my god," she whispers. "Maya...what are you going to do?"

I look from the email on the screen to the red dress in my hand, a dangerous smile spreading across