4. Duncan
DUNCAN
The restaurant Jeremiah picks is the place that doesn't have a sign out front. You either know where it is or you don't deserve to. It's called Sorella, tucked into a brownstone off Washington Square, and the dining room holds maybe twelve tables. Privacy costs extra here, and I'm paying.
I arrive ten minutes early because showing up late feels like the move the old me would have made, the one whose voice is still playing on loop across every social media platform.
The host recognizes me, which means Jeremiah called ahead.
She leads me to a table in the back corner where the lighting is low and the acoustics are designed to keep conversations contained.
I order water and check my phone. Jeremiah sent the contract terms this morning, a ten-page document outlining the arrangement in language so airtight it could survive a Senate hearing.
I read it twice over coffee, flagged three clauses I didn't love, then signed it anyway because I'm out of options.
Millie is late.
Not fashionably late, just late. Fifteen minutes become twenty, and I'm starting to wonder if she changed her mind when the host reappears with a woman behind her who makes the entire room recalibrate.
Millie walks in wearing black jeans, a cream silk blouse, and a leather jacket.
Her hair is pulled back in a low bun, and she's wearing sunglasses indoors, which should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. She's taller than I remember, though that might just be the boots, and when she pulls the sunglasses off and looks directly at me, my eyes widen.
She's beautiful. That's not new information, I've seen her in magazines and on red carpets, but seeing her in person is different.
Her skin is flawless under the restaurant lighting, her features sharper than they photograph, and there's a quality to the way she moves that suggests she's aware of every eye in the room and couldn't care less.
She stops at the table but doesn't sit.
"Duncan."
"Millie."
Her mouth twitches, just barely. "You look the same."
"You don't."
"I know."
She sits, finally, and sets her bag on the empty chair beside her. The host offers menus but Millie waves her off. "Just water for now."
We sit in silence for a beat. I can feel her studying me, cataloging details, looking for evidence of the boy who used to make her life miserable. I wonder what she's finding.
"So," she says. "This is happening."
"Looks like it."
She leans back in her chair, one arm draped over the backrest, and tilts her head slightly.
"Let's get something straight. I don't like you.
I didn't like you in high school, and I don't like you now.
That you got caught being a sexist asshole on tape doesn't surprise me, because you were a sexist asshole in person for four straight years. "
I nod. "Okay."
"Okay? That's all you've got?"
"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? I am. I was a dick to you in high school, and I've spent the better part of a decade trying to become someone who wouldn't do that again. But none of that changes the fact that you're here because this benefits you as much as it benefits me."
Her jaw tightens. I can see the muscle flex just below her cheekbone.
"I'm here," she says slowly, "because my manager convinced me that letting you rehabilitate your image while I run an Oscar campaign is beneficial to me. But don't mistake that for forgiveness. You don't get that from me."
"I'm not asking for it."
She blinks, just once, and I realize I've surprised her. Good.
The waiter arrives with water and Millie orders a salad without looking at the menu. I order the same because eating feels secondary to getting through this conversation in one piece.
"I have terms," she says once the waiter leaves.
"I figured."
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a single sheet of paper, folded once down the middle.
She slides it across the table and I unfold it.
The list is typed, single-spaced, and thorough in a way that makes it clear she's been thinking about this longer than the twenty-four hours since her manager first floated the idea.
I read through it slowly.
"These are pretty one-sided," I say.
"Very aware." She leans forward, elbows on the table, and her voice drops just enough that I have to focus to hear her over the low murmur of the dining room.
"Let me be clear, Duncan. I'm doing this because it serves my career.
You're doing this because your reputation is in the toilet and you need someone to pull you out.
That means I have all the leverage, and I'm going to use it.
You don't get to negotiate. You don't get to push back.
You agree to everything on that list, or you can walk out of here and figure out another way to convince the world you're not the same misogynistic piece of shit you were at twenty-two. "
I can feel the anger underneath them, the years of resentment she's been carrying, and I know better than to argue. She's right. About all of it.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"I agree. To everything."
She sits back, and for the first time since she walked in, I see her falter. Just for a second, a flicker of confusion crosses her face before she locks it down.
"Just like that?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're right. I need this more than you do, and I'm not in a position to make demands." I pick up the paper and fold it back along the crease. "Six months. You control the narrative. I pay for everything. You can walk away whenever you want. I agree."
Millie stares at me, and I can see her trying to figure out if this is some kind of play, if I'm working an angle she hasn't spotted yet.
But there's no angle. I'm just a man who made a mistake six years ago, and another one twelve years ago, and I'm tired of letting past versions of myself dictate who I get to be now.
"I'll have my lawyer draw up the contract," she says finally. "You'll sign it before the gala."
"Done."
The waiter returns with our salads and we both ignore them. Millie picks up her fork, then sets it back down.
"For the record," she says, "I hope you're as miserable doing this as I'm going to be."
I almost smile. "Noted."
"And if you screw this up, if you embarrass me or say something stupid in public or do anything that makes me regret this, I will end it so fast your head will spin. And I'll make sure everyone knows it was your fault."
"Got it."
She finally picks up her fork and spears a piece of lettuce with more force than necessary. I watch her eat for a moment, taking in the tension in her shoulders, the way her free hand rests on the table with her fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the wood.
She hates me. That much is obvious. And she's doing this anyway, which means she wants that Oscar badly enough to sit across from the boy who once told her she'd never make it and pretend to be in love with him for six months.
I pick up my own fork and take a bite of salad that tastes like absolutely nothing.
"What happens between now and the gala?" I ask.
"We get our story straight. Practice being seen together in public without looking like we want to kill each other.
Figure out how to sell this thing so people actually believe it.
" She pauses. "And you stay out of trouble.
No more leaked tapes or controversies. You keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. "
"Sure thing."
She finishes her salad in silence and I do the same. When the check comes I hand over my card without looking at the total, and Millie stands before the waiter returns with the receipt.
"I'll have my lawyer send the contract over tomorrow," she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Read it, sign it, send it back. We'll schedule our first public appearance for this weekend."
"Where?"
"Somewhere photographers will notice but won't expect it. A coffee shop, maybe. A casual place." She slides her sunglasses back on even though the lighting in here is already dim. "And Duncan?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't make me regret this more than I already do."
She walks out before I can respond, and I'm left sitting alone at the table with two empty salad plates and the dawning realization that I just agreed to spend the next six months pretending to be in love with a woman who would probably enjoy watching me get hit by a bus.
The waiter returns with my card and I sign the receipt, adding a tip that's probably too generous because I'm feeling reckless. When I step outside, the afternoon sun is bright enough to make me squint, and I can see Millie half a block away, already in a cab that's pulling into traffic.
Millie Harris just agreed to marry me. Fake marry me. For six months. And she hates me enough that she made sure I know exactly who's in control.
I muse about the way she looked at me across the table, the intensity of her anger, the fact that she's spent ten years turning herself into someone untouchable and is now lowering herself to use me as a prop in her Oscar campaign…
And I think about the boy I was at seventeen, the one who told her she wasn't good enough, and how spectacularly wrong I was.