This Means War

7. - LUIS -

seven

- LUIS -

T he thing about Rafael is that he never gives up.

I thought maybe last night—him letting me crash on his couch, the angry way we ended the morning—meant we were taking a break from hanging out. Maybe, for once, we’d focus on something other than one-upping each other.

But no. Rafael doesn’t know how to quit.

Case in point: the text I got from him at exactly 08:59 AM Monday. Literally a minute before my phone would drop into focus mode. I rolled my eyes, scrolling past a news update about that CEO killer still not being found, on the way to opening his message.

Rafael: You’re invited, Friday night. Dress sharp. No excuses.

I blink at the text, trying to figure out what angle he’s playing. It doesn’t give much away, and Rafael is too calculated to just invite me somewhere without a plan. Especially if a dress code is involved. Some mysteries just don’t get solved, I guess.

Still, I’m curious. And I hate that I am. I hope by Friday the feeling passes.

It does not. If anything I feel like I’m on a secret mission as I’m pulling up to a private gallery in the arts district. The building is all glass and steel, the kind of place where everything reeks of money and exclusivity.

I spot Rafael the second I walk in. He’s standing near a massive abstract painting, looking as polished as ever in another perfectly fitting suit. Blue this time. Monica is with him, her laugh light as she leans in slightly, clearly captivated by whatever nonsense he’s spinning.

What a dick. To invite me a week ahead of time just to rub everything in my face.

He sees me before she does, his eyes brightening just enough that I smile back out of habit. The urge to leave is strong but it would be more embarrassing to go now, so I stride over to him.

“Luis,” he says as I approach, his tone perfectly civil. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

Monica turns, her expression lighting up when she sees me. “Luis! I didn’t know you’d be here.”

I shoot Rafael a look. “He didn’t tell you?”

Rafael’s jaw tightens, but his smile doesn’t falter. I know that look. I’ve joked it’s his cyanide pill tell. When he crushes a secret between his teeth.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he answers at last, swaying as if to speak to us both.

Monica smiles, her eyes sparkling. “You two always seem to find new ways to keep things interesting.”

I opt to ignore him and focus on Monica. “What’s the occasion?”

“Tonight is a private showing,” she explains, gesturing to the artwork around us. “A new collection from a contemporary artist that’s gone viral. Between us, I think NoxTech is doing some BS with crypto, but art is art. I wouldn’t have gotten on the guest list if it wasn’t for Rafael so will save my complaints about the host.”

Of course, he got the invites. Rafael’s always been good at this—choosing the perfect setting to show off.

“Care to join us?” Monica adds.

“Happy to,” I confess and follow at her free side onto the next piece. “This is an interesting one,” I say, stepping closer to the painting in front of us. It’s a chaotic swirl of colors, bold and unapologetic, but with just enough structure to feel deliberate. It reminded me of that infamous banana taped to a wall—only here, it felt like the whole thing had exploded into a chaotic splash of yellow paint. “What do you think?”

She tilts her head, studying the piece. “I like it. There’s something... raw about it. Honest.”

Rafael squints at the painting, before ending up simply nodding along without comment. I do my best not to outright snort over the confused little expression he has.

We view the next pieces in a similar dance. A careful push and pull between Rafael and me as we vie for Monica’s attention. Just because he doesn’t get art doesn’t mean he isn’t still all charm.

When Monica excuses herself for the bathroom, I see my chance. “What game are you playing?”

“It wasn’t fair that something as fleeting as a one-off post changed everything,” Rafael said, his gaze fixed on the art as if still searching to see what we did. “When I got invited to this PR event, I knew you and Monica would enjoy it more. I don’t play dirty, and I don’t cheat when it comes to matters of the heart. But I’m not giving up, either.”

“How she was invited is very understandable,” I say trying to figure out the new rules of his game, “What I don’t understand is how I was on the guest list. Our companies are rivals.”

“Specific job perk.”

I get it without needing further explanation. It’s the kind of thing you can’t discuss openly, the kind of advantage understood by people in our field but never said aloud. Sometimes I swear things like this expand the agency’s budget by a trillion or two. A tiny invite here, a private plane there, soon someone could be swaying some judge into agreeing with you since you paid off their parent’s mortgage. You know, just political things.

Raf’s good, I think, as he walks past me, the confidence in his stride practically daring me to waver. But it won’t be good enough—not against me. Especially now that the gloves are off, and we’re free to play this game without as much pretense.

I catch up to the two of them and just as Monica is leaning in to read the plaque beneath the sculpture.

“This one is nice,” I say, nodding toward the work. It’s a sleek, minimalist structure—black metal twisted into impossible shapes. I bet this is Raf’s favorite.

She glances at me, her expression thoughtful. “What do you think it means?”

I pause, considering my answer. “I think it’s about control. How we try to bend things to our will, only to end up tangled in the process.”

She raises an eyebrow, impressed. “That’s... surprisingly insightful.”

I shrug, playing it cool. “Art’s open to interpretation, right? What do you see?”

Monica steps back, her gaze fixed on the sculpture. “It feels like a struggle. A push and pull between chaos and order.”

“Equally deep,” I say, my tone light.

She laughs, nudging me lightly. “Thanks.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rafael not watching us, but studying the sculpture. His expression is unreadable before he says, “I like it.”

Monica smiles at him with affection, and I find myself mirroring her expression. But unlike her, I don’t take his arm. As they walk ahead, Raf holds my gaze and I catch his lips forming the words: head start, bitch.

He winks, and despite myself, I laugh. Damn it, it’s on now. The beauty of the game, the danger of what’s at stake—no matter what it costs to pull off, there’s no turning back now. This means war.