Chapter 27
WORTH
It’s Friday, and I’m a goddamn wreck.
Tonight, Mya is supposed to come over for dinner and officially meet Brianna. As my girlfriend.
The word feels foreign on my tongue. And yet, I’ve caught myself repeating it in my head all week.
We’ve been not-so careful at the office, sneaking moments where someone might catch us close enough to stir suspicion.
Her bent over my desk while I “point out corrections,” my hand brushing her back a second too long in the breakroom, our heads tipped together over blueprints.
Subtle enough to be deniable, suggestive enough to fuel gossip.
It worked.
On Wednesday, HR rolled out the revised fraternization rules, and within hours, three other couples came forward like roaches under light. Turns out I wasn’t the only one breaking my own damn policy.
Now, I’d bet my last dollar people are whispering about me and Mya.
I grab my phone and shoot my girlfriend a text.
Minutes later, there’s a knock, and then Mya slips inside my office, shutting the door behind her.
She’s in wide-leg slacks, blouse tucked in, glasses perched on her nose.
Christ. Every time she wears those glasses, my blood runs hotter.
Like I want to ruin her in the filthiest ways and then straighten them back on her face after.
I nod at the chair opposite my desk, but she doesn’t sit. She plants a hand on her hip instead.
“What is it, Worth?”
No pleasantries, straight to the point. “Did you tell Ethan?”
Her brows knit. “Tell Ethan what?”
“That you and I are dating.”
“No.” Her answer comes quickly, clipped. She crosses her arms. “Why would I? He’s been avoiding me, so he’s probably heard, anyway.”
“Good,” I say. “Better off that way.”
The thought of Ethan anywhere near her grates in ways I don’t understand. Jealousy isn’t an emotion I’ve ever entertained, but with Mya, it’s instinct. It doesn’t matter that what we have is staged, signed, and bound by circumstance.
Her eyes roll. She’s perfected that move with me. And god help me, it makes me want to pin her against the wall every damn time.
“Tread lightly, Ms. Jones,” I murmur, leaning back in my chair, deliberately letting my gaze drag over her face. “One of these days, I’m going to make sure those pretty eyes stay rolled back for an entirely different reason.”
Her lips part, color blooming across her cheeks, but she doesn’t fire back right away. Which means she’s thinking about it—imagining what it would be like. Exactly the reaction I want.
I smirk, satisfied. “Back to work. I’ll see you tonight.”
She turns on her heel with a muttered, “You’re the worst,” and storms out, but not before I catch the way her fingers tighten around the doorknob, as if she’s holding herself together.
It’s evening, and I’m pacing the kitchen like a caged animal. Maggie swats me away from the stove for the third time.
“Shoo, Worth. You’re making me nervous. Since when do you get jittery?”
I grunt, pretending to check the oven. She’s right, I’m never nervous. But tonight is different.
Brianna is perched at the island, chipper as always. She keeps sneaking glances at me, like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment.
I check the time again. Almost eight. Which means—
The doorbell rings.
My pulse spikes.
I stride to the door and open it.
Mya is standing on the porch, bundled against the Seattle chill, curls escaping her scarf. She holds out a bottle of wine in one hand, and in the other, a sketchbook and a pack of fine-tip markers by the exact brand Brianna’s been doodling with.
Thoughtful. I had mentioned to her that Bri was into art quite a while ago.
She really listens.
“Hi,” Mya says softly, offering a tentative smile.
For a second, I just stare at her.
The porch light glows against her skin, and I can’t stop my eyes from dragging over her outfit. A simple dress, nothing ostentatious, but on her it looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. She’s beautiful.
“You look great, Mya.” My voice is rougher than intended and I try to clear my throat.
She smiles shyly. “Thank you.”
I step aside. “Come in. They’re waiting.”
We head to the kitchen, where Maggie is fussing over the final touches of dinner. She wipes her hands on a dish towel, then surprises me by wrapping Mya in a hug.
“Oh, it’s so nice to finally meet you.” Maggie’s smile is kind and genuine.
Mya returns the hug and inhales deeply. “Likewise. It smells amazing in here!”
Maggie beams, clearly pleased.
We settle around the table, plates soon filled, and Mya makes a deliberate effort to keep Brianna engaged.
She asks about school, friends, and even compliments the doodles scattered on the table beside Bri’s plate.
My daughter lights up like a Christmas tree, soaking up every ounce of attention as she pulls her tablet closer.
“Look,” Brianna says, showing off a half-finished sketch of a wolf. “I’m still working on the shading.”
Mya leans closer. “This is incredible, Brianna. You have such a good sense of proportion. Do you draw every day?”
Bri nods eagerly. “Pretty much. Dad says I leave drawings everywhere.”
I hide a smile behind my glass.
Mya laughs softly. “I used to do the same thing, though what I draw isn’t nearly as fun. Mostly boring stuff, like buildings and interiors.”
“You draw buildings?”
“Mhmm. Floor plans, elevations, the kinds of sketches that eventually turn into real spaces. It’s not exactly artistic, but it’s how I learned to see details.” Mya picks up one of Bri’s markers, spinning it between her fingers. “That’s what makes your art so good. You already see the balance.”
Brianna blushes under the compliment. “Really?”
“Really,” Mya says warmly. “You’ve got an artist’s brain. I’d love to see all your sketches one day.”
My daughter’s smile grows shy. “There’s a lot.”
“I’ve got time,” Mya teases. “Maybe when I come over next, you can teach me how to draw something that isn’t a building.”
Bri lights up. “We could draw together! Like a collab!”
“Exactly.” Mya leans in conspiratorially. “But you’ll have to promise not to laugh at my attempts at drawing animals.”
Brianna giggles. “Deal.”
The two of them fall into easy conversation, swapping stories about their favorite colors, tools, and how frustrating it is when ink bleeds through the page.
They even start sketching quick little doodles on the back of Bri’s napkin, side by side.
Mya’s lines are sharp and clean; Brianna’s are full of energy and imagination.
Together, they look like something I’d frame.
Watching them, I feel something loosen in my chest. Relief—maybe even hope.
Across the table, Maggie catches my eye. She winks and mouths I like her.
I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my mouth, even as something drops in my stomach. My carefully-rehearsed plan is already unraveling at the edges. Mya looks like she belongs here, and that scares the hell out of me.
By the time we’ve cleared the table, Brianna’s practically attached to Mya’s side.
“You have to come back soon,” she insists, holding up her pinky. “Promise?”
Mya hooks her little finger with Brianna’s, smiling. “Promise.”
Satisfied, my daughter disappears upstairs, calling over her shoulder, “Goodnight, Dad! Night, Maggie! Night, Mya!”
Mya chuckles, watching her go. “She’s special.”
“She is. Her mom and I did one thing right together.”
Her smile falters just slightly, but she nods. “You’re doing better than you think.”
Maggie gathers her things and says her own goodbyes, slipping out with one last smile at me.
And then it’s just me, Mya, and the remnants of the wine.
I tilt the bottle toward her glass. “Another?”
Mya hesitates, then nods. “One more. But that’s it. I have to drive home.”
I pour, and the sound of wine spilling into the glass fills the quiet kitchen. We both take our stools again.
“Tell me something,” I say, leaning my forearms on the counter. “Something I don’t know about you.”
Her lips curve. “Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Hmm.” She takes a sip. “Well, my favorite band of all time is Queen.”
I arch a brow. “Classic. I approve.”
“I’ve been dying to get my hands on a signed copy of A Night at the Opera record on vinyl,” she adds. “But it’s rare. Like… ridiculously rare. I’ve looked everywhere, and no luck.”
“Why that one?”
Her smile softens. “My dad used to play it all the time when I was little. Saturday mornings, he’d put it on while making pancakes.
The whole house smelled like syrup and butter, and Queen would be blasting in the background.
I think that’s when I first started falling in love with music.
” She lets out a quiet laugh, then shakes her head.
“It’s funny, the things that stick with you. ”
Her eyes dim a little. “It feels like one minute we were arguing over who got the last pancake, and the next, he was just… gone. I think that’s why I love that album so much. It’s the last sound that reminds me of him before everything changed.”
I don’t say anything, simply listen.
Mya traces her thumb along the base of her glass. “I used to think grief was something you got over. But I don’t think it works that way. It’s more like a scar under your skin. You stop noticing it every day, but it’s still there when you press hard enough.”
I nod. “You just learn how to live around it.”
Her gaze meets mine across the island. She’s not hiding behind sarcasm or control or all the walls she usually builds this time. Mya is just here, open and human. And somehow, that makes me feel seen in a way I haven’t in years.
“Sorry,” she says after a beat, forcing a small smile. “That got dark fast.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you trust me enough to talk about him.”
Her expression shifts. “I guess I do,” she admits quietly.
That simple confession settles somewhere deep in my chest, in a dangerous territory I’ve spent years avoiding.
For a moment, we sit in silence, and I ignore the fact that this already feels like more than a fake marriage arrangement. More than a business deal.
“So,” I start, swirling what’s left in my glass, “we need to talk about next steps.”
Mya sets her glass down slowly, her lashes flicking up to meet my gaze. There’s a hint of apprehension in her eyes.
“On Sunday, we’ll make our relationship public. The gala is the perfect stage.”
She shifts in her seat, chewing her bottom lip. She looks nervous. I almost tell her we can delay, but she straightens her spine and nods. “Okay.”
“After that, I’ll propose. Nothing too dramatic, but showy enough to make it official. Do you want me to tell you when it’ll happen? Or would you rather be surprised?”
Her lips part, and for a moment she just stares at me. Then, softly, “Surprise me. That way, my reaction will be genuine.” She tilts her head. “Is this weird?”
“Yes,” I admit. No point in pretending.
Mya exhales a short laugh, shaking her head.
“I pictured my marriage differently. I imagined real love, a cute engagement filled with little hints of my relationship with my future husband. Dress shopping trip with Tiana. My dad walking me down the aisle. None of this…” Her hand gestures between us. “Was in the script.”
Guilt claws at me. I rake a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry, Mya. I didn’t mean to take that from you.”
“Don’t apologize. I knew what I was getting into when I said yes. I made the choice, and I’ll stick to it.”
We lapse into silence again. I drain the last of my wine, wishing it would burn hotter, dull the twist in my chest.
Mya pushes back from the stool and stands. “I should get going.”
Every instinct screams at me to tell her to stay. To offer her the guest room, the couch, anything. But I only nod, because wanting more doesn’t change the rules we set.
“Thanks by the way,” she adds as I walk her to the entrance.
“For what?”
“Approving the advance,” she says sheepishly. “I was able to get my landlord off my back.”
“Of course, Mya. I would’ve approved it even if we weren’t in this together.”
She nods.
I grab her coat and slip it around her shoulders, my fingertips grazing her skin, and she shudders.
“Drive safe.”
“Goodnight, Worth. See you on Sunday.”
I watch her walk out, and the hollow ache in my chest settles in deep.
“Do I hear seventy-five thousand?” the auctioneer booms, voice cracking like a whip across the room as he surveys the bidders.
“Eighty!” a man calls from the back.
“Eighty-five. Ninety. Ninety-five!” The numbers climb, each one stoking the room’s energy.
I sit perfectly still, paddle balanced on my knee. I could walk out right now, let someone else take it, but I don’t. I need this one.
The auctioneer’s gaze scans the crowd. “Do I hear one hundred thousand?”
The room stills, tension snapping tight. I raise my paddle. “One hundred.”
A ripple of whispers cuts through the crowd. No one else lifts a hand.
The auctioneer slams the gavel. “Sold! One hundred thousand dollars, bidder number twenty-seven!”
Polite applause trickles around me, but I’m already rising. I barely notice the champagne trays circling.
Outside, cool air cuts against my skin as I slide into the back of the town car. The driver nods once, pulling us into traffic.
I lean back, closing my eyes briefly, a smile tugging at my mouth.