13. Millie
MILLIE
Iwake up alone and for half a second I think last night was a dream.
The kind where you wake up disoriented and relieved and maybe a little disappointed that it wasn't real.
But then I shift and feel the ache between my legs, the soreness in my hips, and I know it happened. Duncan was here. In my bed. Inside me.
I press my palms against my eyes and take a breath that doesn't steady anything.
I hear the faint sound of water running in the kitchen, a cabinet closing, and then footsteps in the hallway that stop just outside my bedroom door.
Duncan appears in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee. He's wearing his jeans from last night and nothing else, his hair still messy from sleep and my hands, and when he sees I'm awake he smiles in a way that makes my heart flutter.
"Morning," he says.
I sit up, pulling the sheet higher even though he's already seen everything. "You're still here."
"You told me to stay." He crosses to the bed and hands me one of the mugs. "Light cream, no sugar. Right?"
I take the coffee and stare at it. "How did you know that?"
"I've been paying attention."
The words land wrong, or maybe they land exactly right and that's the problem. He's been paying attention. To how I take my coffee, to the way I move through the city, to the moments when my guard drops and I let him see the parts of me I usually keep locked away.
That is the most dangerous thing he could possibly have said.
I take a sip to buy myself time. The coffee is perfect, exactly how I like it, and I hate that he knows.
Duncan sits on the edge of the bed, keeping space between us. "We should probably talk about last night. But if you need time?—"
"I need coffee first."
He nods and drinks his own in silence. We sit like that for a minute, both facing forward, both pretending this is normal. Two people who just slept together having coffee in bed like it's something we do every morning instead of a massive complication neither of us planned for.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I lean over to check it and see three missed calls from LaToya and a text that just says: "Call me when you're awake. Janie situation."
I set the phone back down. "I have to deal with work stuff."
"Okay." Duncan drains the rest of his coffee and stands. "I should probably go anyway. Let you get your day started."
He finds his shirt on the floor near the door and pulls it on, then his jacket from where it ended up in the hallway.
I watch him get dressed from the bed, still wrapped in the sheet, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say when someone you're fake engaged to spends the night and makes you coffee the way you like it and then leaves before you have to ask them to.
He pauses at the bedroom door. "Millie?"
"Yeah?"
"Last night was…" He stops, searching for the word. "Real. At least for me."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod.
He leaves before I can figure out a response. I hear the front door open and close, and then I'm alone in my apartment with cold coffee and the smell of cedar cologne on my sheets.
I finish the coffee even though it's gone lukewarm, then get up and take a shower hot enough to turn my skin hurt. The water pressure is terrible like always, the tiles need regrouting, and standing under the spray gives me time to think about what I just did.
I slept with Duncan Ellington. My fake fiancé, my high school bully, the man I'm supposed to be using for an Oscar campaign. And it was good. Better than good. It was the kind of sex that makes you forget why you had rules in the first place.
I dry off and pull on leggings and an old Howard sweatshirt, then call LaToya back while I'm making more coffee because the cup Duncan brought me wasn't enough.
She answers on the first ring. "Finally. Where have you been?"
"Sleeping. What's the Janie situation?"
"She gave an interview to The Hollywood Reporter that posted this morning. Said some things about you that are going to make the rounds. I'm sending you the link now."
My phone buzzes and I pull up the article while the coffee maker gurgles behind me. The headline is neutral: "Janie Torres on Her Oscar Campaign and What Success Really Means." But the quote LaToya highlights halfway through is anything but.
"There's a huge distinction between earning recognition and manufacturing it. Some of us have been putting in the work for years without needing a redemption arc or a convenient engagement to make us relatable. I think voters will see through the noise and reward actual artistry."
I read it twice. "She's saying I'm using Duncan to win the Oscar."
"She's strongly implying it, yes. And she's doing it in a way that sounds reasonable enough that people will debate it instead of dismissing it outright." LaToya sighs. "We need to respond."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. I'm talking to the team this morning to figure out the angle."
"What does she want, LaToya? The Oscar? Fine. Let her campaign for it. Why does she have to tear me down to get there?"
"Because she's scared. She knows you're good, maybe better than she is, and attacking you is easier than trusting her own work.
" LaToya pauses. "But here's the thing, Millie.
She's ravenous for this. More than you are.
She's going to keep coming at you with these low blows because she has nothing to lose and everything to prove. "
I lean against the counter and close my eyes. "So what do I do?"
"You keep your head down, do your work, and don't give her any ammunition.
No public feuds, no social media clapbacks, nothing that makes you look like you care what she thinks.
" Another pause. "People are starting to buy the story, which is good for the campaign, but if everyone finds out you were faking it the entire time, the backlash will destroy you.
" Her voice softens slightly. "So whatever is happening between you two, make sure you're clear on what's performance and what's not. Because the line is getting blurry."
She's right. The line has been blurry for weeks, and last night it disappeared completely.
"I'll handle it," I say.
"Good. I'll call you later once we have a response strategy for Janie." She hangs up before I can say anything else.
I set the phone down and pour coffee into a mug that says "World's Okayest Actress" that my friend gave me as a joke three years ago. The apartment is too quiet without Duncan here, which is a thought I should not be having.
I drink the coffee standing at the window looking out at the street below. A delivery truck is double-parked, someone is walking a dog that looks too small to survive a strong wind, and the bodega on the corner already has people lined up for breakfast sandwiches.
I spend the rest of the morning avoiding work.
I clean the kitchen that doesn't need cleaning, reorganize my closet, scroll through social media and immediately regret it when I see people debating Janie's comments in threads that are longer than some essays I wrote in college.
Half the internet thinks she has a point, the other half thinks she's jealous, and exactly nobody knows that the engagement they're all analyzing is fake.
Except it doesn't feel fake anymore. Not after last night. Not after Duncan brought me coffee this morning the way I like it and said he'd been paying attention.