Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
THE DAY AFTER
Rafael was the second-worst part of the most important client dinner of my entire career. Passing out at the end of it was the first.
One moment he’s inciting feelings that make anesthetic-free root canals seem more bearable, and the next I’m blacking out at the corner of Chicago and Wells. That’s what I get for thinking I can keep my syncope in check long enough to get through the evening with him. Silly me.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been out, but my blood is on a slow simmer as I return to consciousness. With a quiet groan, I blink my eyes open, massaging my temples and fighting off grogginess as the room comes into focus.
Despite feeling like roadkill, I’m prepared for his smug face—because me fainting in the middle of Chitown is the closest he’s come to winning a new tally in this war of ours (despite his best efforts).
But it’s not his face I’m staring at as my vision clears, nor is it the gilded ceiling of the Aviary.
Oh God.
Morning light—hazy and nausea inducing—floods my senses, and I think I’m going to be sick. I shut my eyes, taking deep, deep breaths, and wait for the nausea to subside before I attempt to try again.
I squint my eyes open. Slowly the room shifts and solidifies around me. One. Terrifying. Element. At. A. Time.
The camel-colored leather sofa beneath me.
The stone coffee table in front of me, laden with books and a half-empty pizza box.
An unnecessarily large TV hovering over a marble fireplace.
And there—directly above the liquor cart—is a framed poster of the Publicity Today cover, from last year, when he and I tied for its Emerging Game Changer of the Year award.
Rafael is sitting in an armchair wearing a dark-gray suit, and I’m standing beside him wearing a crimson Oscar de la Renta gown that accentuates curves I don’t actually have.
When I found out I’d be the one to stand in the photo, I almost popped a seam on the one-size-too-small dress.
It’s why there’s the shadow of a smile on my ruby-red lips.
Even if we had tied for the award, I was the one standing a head above his in the photo.
Naturally, I considered myself the victor.
But now I’m the one waking up in Rafael’s apartment after screwing up possibly one of the most important nights of my career … possibly my entire life.
Who’s the winner now?
A fresh wave of nausea makes it hard to think about the answer.
The throbbing at the base of my skull makes it even harder.
I swallow another groan and wish the world would gobble me up whole and spit me out approximately six months ago when I should’ve dug my heeled feet in and told our boss I wasn’t going to work with him.
Wishing is for optimists. So is hoping I didn’t somehow give Rafael another reason to think he’s got the promotion in the bag.
The pressure inside my chest might crack my ribs, and it’s enough to make me double over and clutch my middle. I need to breathe, relax, and pretend like I’m not living out a nightmare. The alternative is giving in to my extremely ill-timed condition and fainting. Again.
One Mamma Mia.
It could have been worse, I remind myself, hoping it’ll calm me.
Two Mamma Mia.
His smirk in the poster taunts me.
Three. Mamma. Mia. My breathing has morphed into a harsh wheezing.
I’m in his apartment.
No breathing exercise will make this any less petrifying, because I’m on Rafael’s sofa, wearing yesterday’s clothes, without any recollection of the rest of last night.
This time when I groan, it cuts through the silence of his loft.
I hold my breath for the span of a few seconds, readying myself for Rafael to pop out of wherever he’s hiding and for whatever gloating he has planned.
I imagine his knowing smirk and the glint in his eyes as he recounts the rest of the evening, and I haven’t even had my coffee. Screw syncope.
I listen for a second. Then three more.
When he doesn’t manifest from one of the rooms, I breathe a quiet sigh of relief.
With slow, painfully quiet movements, I shift my body, perching on the edge of the sofa.
I scan my surroundings for my things, mainly my purse and my phone.
Whatever happened last night, my phone will have some answers.
Texts? Possibly. Photos? Dear God, I hope not.
The Jell-O–like feeling in my limbs spreads as I search the area around me. Beneath and behind the couch. Beneath and atop the coffee table. No sign of my Prada shoulder bag.
Anxiety pokes holes at my resolve the more this entire situation clicks into place. Passing out on a crowded street. Surrounded by strangers. At Rafael’s mercy. And I don’t remember any of it.
Hands shaking, I press my palms together to keep them still.
Get a hold of yourself.
I close my eyes and take a steadying breath.
I’m Evie flipping Pope.
I breathe in.
I’m in control.
I breathe out.
A flash of sitting at the restaurant cuts through the mental fog.
Anger—the kind I usually experience in stress dreams where I show up to work in only my running shoes and Rafael taunts me from the break room—buzzes through me as details from last night click into place, one puzzle piece at a time.
The two of us and Cyril having dinner at the Aviary, the final step in our courtship of OhLaLove. Dinner. Drinks. Business talk. I do two of those things well, but drinking? It’s not one of them. It dulls my edge and breaks Dana’s Doctrine.
Our boss, Dana Casper, vice president of Media Lab and unflinching purveyor of corporate discipline, has three rules when it comes to client meetings: No drinking (more than two drinks).
No gambling. No funny business (up for interpretation, but it isn’t rocket science—if it sounds like a bad idea, it probably is).
Dana came up through the ranks during a different time, and she’s dead set on making sure we don’t have to stoop to old-school tactics to win business. I like rules as much as checklists (a lot), but Rafael? He went for the tequila, and I played along because the account was—is—everything.
And now I may have screwed it up because Rafael knows exactly what buttons to press to make me explode, and last night he smashed all of them. One by one. Until I actually passed out.
Was Cyril somehow still around when it happened? Did I sabotage the account because I let Rafael get to me? Did he bring me here because he thought he was helping?
The thought of Rafael thinking I needed him makes me shoot off the sofa—too fast.
The room spins. My knees buckle. And I almost topple over.
Somehow I’m still in my heels, because, of course, he didn’t have the decency to remove my shoes or cover me with a blanket like a halfway-evolved human.
Not that I should have expected anything decent. It’s Rafael we’re talking about.
What did I expect?
That he’d hail a cab or call Gemma?
As my best friend, she would’ve been more than happy to take me home. As a junior associate on his team, Gemma is always a phone call away.
A man with basic reasoning skills would have called her. He’s not that man.
I swallow a growl.
I’m going to make him pay.
Right after I pull my thoughts together and make a plan. Right after I find my phone and prepare my speech—because sure, I may have fainted, but he’s the one who tipped me over the edge.
Keeping my movements quiet and my wrath in (temporary) check, I slip off my black pumps, tuck them under one arm, and start across his loft, scanning for my purse. The backstabbing jerk probably hid it to make me suffer this morning.
Illegal-adjacent ideas of payback moving solidly into felony territory, I pad across the hardwood floor from the living room to the dining room overlooking the city.
Dazzling morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which open to downtown Chicago.
The glossy facades of skyscrapers gleam back.
Beyond them, Lake Michigan sparkles. I can make out the Aviary …
and the corner where I passed out. People and cars move through their morning, business as usual.
And I’m here—temporarily out of office. No phone. No way to check my emails and see what I missed. I can imagine at least a couple of emails and several Teams messages asking for a follow-up on last night’s meeting, and I haven’t even responded. Because I can’t.
So much for being a game changer.
Last night, I messed up the game.
That’s what I get for thinking I could sit across from Rafael long enough to make it through dinner, win an account, and secure a promotion.
The need to get out of here has me feeling like I could crawl out of my skin. I scan as I go, desperate to escape the enemy’s den. If this were any other time, I’d scour through Rafael’s things, I’d take notes, and I’d use them to my advantage.
That day isn’t today.
I make a mental note in big, bold red letters to never agree to work with Rafael on any account, no matter how big or life-changing. Ever.
A deep, low groan rumbles from the dark bedroom to my right, the one with its French doors pulled open.
I squeak in surprise.
I freeze.
Rafael.
Like a deer in headlights, I stand there, lip caught between my teeth and lungs forgetting their one job.
I should keep moving, forget about the purse and get out of here.
I stall, willing my nerves to calm.
It’s Rafael we’re talking about. And honestly? He’s the one who should be afraid.
With pumps under one arm, I prop the other hand on my hip and decide to wait.
Whatever nonsense excuse he’ll have for how I ended up here, I’ll be ready. Tip-top fighting shape. Evie vs. Rafael.
If he thinks that me fainting is somehow his ticket to the promotion, he has no idea how much I’ve sacrificed to get this far … and how much I’m willing to sacrifice to stay here.
The mental image of me sprawled across a sidewalk makes my face flush with embarrassment.
Okay, maybe I fainted, but he was the one who compromised the account by breaking Dana’s rules. That’s my leverage. My ticket to my own office.
Dana won’t find it charming when she hears about how he went rogue—ordering tequila shots after she explicitly told us to play nice, stick to the plan, and “work our magic” (whatever that meant) to win over Cyril and OhLaLove.
Rafael reveres Dana almost as much as I do, and he’ll want to avoid that conversation. Maybe he’ll even be reasonable for once and take himself out of the running for the promotion. And if he doesn’t? I’ll take care of telling Dana for him. I’d enjoy it. Might even toast to it—with tequila, even.
This could be it—my chance to finally land the director promotion and prove that I am, in fact, the better fit. The better leader. The one who stuck to the rules and plans and didn’t crack under pressure, not once in five years. Not that it should have ever been a contest.
But with Rafael, it always is. Has been since the moment our friendship turned into this. Maybe even from that first day, when I let myself think that I could trust him, that my luck was turning.
If it weren’t for Rafael’s uncanny ability to charm people, especially Dana, it never would have taken this long for her and the other Media Lab executives to see that I’m better prepared to take the lead. And now I might have my leverage to take the lead.
This extremely mortifying (yet increasingly favorable) situation might be my chance to fully turn the tide in my direction. It has only taken the last twenty-nine years to get here.
From inside the too-dark bedroom, Rafael’s feet hit the floor.
And just like that, my game plan clicks into place.
A sense of giddy calm settles over me as I slide my feet back into the pumps, smooth down my dress, and toss my hair over my shoulder.
I wait outside his bedroom door.
First, a low groan. Then footsteps thudding against the wood floor.
A jolt of adrenaline kicks in.
A tiny part of me second-guesses confronting him when I’m the one missing details from last night.
But no.
I’m in control.
I think of the Evie Pope on the cover of Publicity Today—sharp, confident, on the precipice of having it all …
if not for the man with the challenging gazes and taunting smirks waking up in the other room.
How many times have I worked my ass off only to have him swoop in and win accounts by simply being?
Too many. He once turned a ten-minute coffee chat with a client into a six-figure retainer—after I’d spent a month building a pitch deck.
Then there was the DeLuca campaign, for which I build an entire strategy from scratch.
He cracked one joke about charcuterie boards, and suddenly he was the client’s first choice for lead on the project.
And there’s the Art Betton account. Which I refuse to think about, because I’m not giving Rafael the satisfaction of seeing me unhinged. Not today, at least.
I breathe out the rest of my doubt and smooth my features into my business-as-usual face.
And then he emerges from the shadows of his room, barefoot and shirtless. Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips. His hair is a wild chestnut mess, and he’s rubbing sleep from his eyes.
The part of me genetically programmed to appreciate the male physique notices the lean, tanned muscles of his chest, the sugar skull tattoo wrapping around his left bicep, and the subtle way his muscles ripple as he moves.
My gaze drifts lower … and I drag it out of the trenches. This is Rafael Vela.
Rival. Thief. The one standing between me and my promotion.
I focus on all the parts above his neck and take in a steadying breath.
Game time.
“I can’t wait to hear how you’re going to explain your way out of this one,” I chirp, folding my arms across my chest and arching a freshly threaded brow.
His head snaps up, his eyes widening, and he mutters one of only a handful of Spanish phrases I know. “Dios mío.”