Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
THE DAY AFTER, PART II
“Not even God is going to get you out of this,” I say, feeling smug.
It’s really hard not to smile, but I need to focus on the present moment: Being pissed at Rafael. Getting much-needed answers about last night. And reminding him that while he may have won a few battles, I’m certainly winning the war.
“You can start by telling me where I can find my purse.”
Rafael doesn’t answer.
He scrubs a hand down his face. Blinks once. Twice. Opens his mouth. Closes it.
“This isn’t possible,” he mutters.
“It’s the first thought I had waking up here.” I tap my heel impatiently. “Purse, Rafael?”
He shakes his head, mumbling to himself—and he smacks the side of his face.
I jolt.
He smacks his other cheek.
I blink at him. “Are you having a stroke?”
Rafael stares. Pales. And gives my plan pause.
If he’s experiencing a medical episode, he’d better have a list of emergency contacts on hand.
I wince at the knowledge that my emergency contacts are a long-gone great-aunt and a dad I never met.
Rafael, on the other hand? His family once rented an entire hotel for a family reunion. He should be set on that front.
“I’m not taking you to the hospital,” I add, suddenly half tempted to leave this for another time. I’m great at a lot of things, but I don’t do well with blood and unconscious people (not even if it were Rafael).
My stomach folding on itself, I force my thoughts from a comatose Rafael to something better—to me sitting in my new office. Being his boss. Attaining something I’ve worked so long and hard for.
I stand my ground, even though he might be in immediate need of a doctor.
Rafael looks … different. His skin lacks its usual luster, his shoulders slump slightly, and his stubble? That definitely wasn’t there last night.
The stress of the last weeks—months—must have gotten to him too. I know I’ve lost sleep over the OhLaLove account, over the promotion, over all things Rafael-touched.
Still, he looks tired. Like, really tired.
Did he even sleep? Or was he contemplating ways to make this more petrifying for me?
I imagine him taking Sharpie markers to my face, and the urge to find a reflective surface is overpowering.
“This is impossible,” he says finally. “I’m losing it.”
“The only thing you’re losing is the OhLaLove account,” I point out, eager to get the conversation on track. “Which, by the way, we can agree is now solely mine.”
“OhLaLove?” Rafael’s brows pull together like it’s not fully registering.
“You know—the account you nearly tanked by going off script and channeling your inner frat boy?” I narrow my eyes. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you?”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer.
I fight the urge to retreat and maintain my power stance.
Rafael keeps advancing until he’s within touching distance.
He’s somewhere around six feet tall, and even though my heels address some of the height gap, I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze head-on. But his height doesn’t intimidate me. Not one bit.
My lips twitch at the same time as his.
“I need to stop drinking,” he says, rubbing a hand down his scruffy jaw.
“It’s a little late for that revelation,” I counter.
Flecks of honey glimmer in the dark brown of his irises. I’ve never been this close to him without my blood pressure spiking—which is clearly responsible for the heat climbing up my chest.
I swallow it down and lean closer into his space. “You should have thought about your drinking before you ordered tequila shots because you thought I couldn’t handle it.” I smirk. “Joke’s on you. I handled your shots just fine. I feel like new.” My pounding head would disagree.
His eyes scan my face. “But you seem so real,” he murmurs.
Rafael’s arm darts out.
I duck away before his hand can make contact.
“What the hell are you doing?” I gape at him.
Silence.
Rafael prowls forward a step.
I retreat. Once. Twice.
We do this absurd little dance until my butt is almost up against the edge of the dining table. I throw my arms out to stop his advance before we start climbing over the table.
“Enough!” I snap. “Are you on something?”
Rafael stalls, shaking his head. “I must be. It’s the only explanation.”
“I’ll also need an explanation,” I add. “And I’m dying to hear what it is …”
He scrubs a hand down his face, mutters unintelligible words in Spanish.
Outside, an ambulance siren blares. Inside, the AC hums through the exposed industrial vents above us.
Seconds tick away. Rafael just … stands there.
I imagine another email dinging in my inbox, and my irritation flares.
“While I’d love nothing more than to have a staring contest before I’ve had my coffee, I’ll pass,” I say.
“You knew the rules, and you broke them. That was completely unprofessional!” I pause as more of the night comes back.
Him and Cyril bro-bonding. Me trying to keep up.
Him breaking the rules and me having to pay for it. Rage makes me want to tackle him.
Rafael doesn’t respond. He’s so still I wonder if he’s about to give in to whatever ailment has got him looking like he’s seen a ghost. Before he does, I need to say my part, get my purse, and maybe (if he doesn’t piss me off some more) call an ambulance.
“Here’s the deal,” I start. “Tell Dana you don’t want the promotion, and I won’t say a peep to her about last night. I won’t even tell Gemma about it. It’ll be our little secret.”
His brow furrows like he’s not fully on board.
I thrust out my hand, ready to shake on it.
He looks from it to me.
The furrow deepens with an emotion I can’t fully pinpoint. Doubt? Confusion? Indigestion? All three?
Or maybe he doesn’t trust me.
The feeling is mutual.
Sighing with impatience, I add, “Do you want to sign on it? I can understand if you might be reluctant to trust me. We can draft a pseudo-NDA and seal the deal.”
I glance over my shoulder, scanning the table for a pen and paper.
A mountain of books, magazines, and a half-full tequila bottle stare back at me. My stomach churns at the sight of the bottle, but I silently thank it for giving me the leverage I need against Rafael.
Inwardly, I celebrate with a little victory dance before deciding pen and paper are pointless amid the chaos that is his dining room table. So maybe we type one up instead.
When I turn to Rafael, his brow is still furrowed with confusion. It makes me want to roll my eyes and smooth the stupid crease between his brows. As if.
“You can pretend this is baffling all you want, but the rules about client meetings are crystal clear.” I wag a finger in his direction. “And no exceptions.”
“You’re not real.” His voice is raspy and low.
I swallow the urge to groan. “Unfortunately for you, I’m very real.”
To prove my point, I step forward, closing the sliver of space between us, and jab his shoulder.
Only I don’t.
My finger moves through—through!—him, emerging on the other side, like cutting through warm honey.
With a sharp gasp, I yank my hand back as if I’ve touched a live wire. I cradle it against my chest, staring at my fingers as panic sweeps in, sharp and furious.
Rafael makes a soft noise, and I snap my gaze to his face.
His eyes are wide with shock, but his lips are pressed tight, his jaw set.
“What the hell?” I breathe, shocked and unmoored—like someone’s shattered my autographed ABBA vinyls.
Rafael sucks in an uneven breath. “I told you,” he murmurs. “You’re a figment of my imagination.”
“You wish,” I say, a little too breathlessly.
The panic tightens around my chest, unrelenting, as my mind replays the moment over and over, needing an explanation and logic.
I stare at my hands.
This doesn’t make any sense.
“There’s—” My voice wavers. I force steel into it. “Whatever you’ve done … fix it.”
Rafael’s laugh is breathless. Shaky. “I so desperately wish I could,” he says before he brushes past me, ready to walk away.
No way he’s leaving without an explanation.
I reach out for him, for his shoulder.
And my fingers glide through his skin, like a boat cutting through water. I gasp or shriek—I can’t be sure which.
Rafael keeps walking.
“Oh God. What’s happening?” My hands. I stare at them as if I’m seeing them for the first time, but they look the same. I wiggle my fingers. They respond. Whatever is happening, it’s Rafael’s fault.
I fold my fingers into fists and tuck them behind me, where I can’t see them. “Rafael!”
“You’re not here, E. I’ve conjured you up.” Rafael doesn’t even turn around as he keeps walking.
“The only thing you need to conjure up is an explanation,” I add. “Several, in fact!”
Heart beating erratically, I march after him.
And trip over my legs.
My heels—they don’t make a sound.
The hardwood floor should be echoing with each of my stomps. But nothing.
I take a deep, deep breath.
I’m sure there’s a logical reason for it—for all of this—and Rafael’s going to provide it.
Despite the deafening roar of my pulse, I follow him and plant myself on the other side of the butcher-block island bisecting his kitchen.
I glare at Rafael’s back.
“Did you hear me?” I snap.
Not bothering to look my way, Rafael digs through a cabinet, picking through a row of medicine bottles. He chooses one of several orange tubes as he mutters beneath his breath, something about hallucinations.
“I’m not a hallucination,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Damn pills.” Rafael tosses the tube into the trash beneath his sink.
Then another and another. One bounces dramatically off the edge and clatters to the floor.
When he’s done, he braces himself against the counter and stares up at the ceiling like he’s waiting for divine confirmation that he hasn’t lost his mind. “I’m done with them, I swear.”
Reluctantly, I follow his gaze upward to the wrought iron fixture overhead.
It’s clear he’s likely on something … and maybe I am too? Maybe I woke up in the middle of night and took one of his experimental mood-stabilizing, alpha-complex man-pills by mistake?
I imagine the cocktail I might have ingested. BroZen Ultra: For men who want clarity, focus, and abs without trying.
Oh God.
I press the heels of my palm into my eyes and take a deep breath.
This could be worse.
I took some pills I shouldn’t have taken, and now I’m experiencing a series of strange symptoms.
Nothing more.
They’ll flush right out of my body in no time. And then? I’m going to kill him.
I blink my eyes open.
Compelled by a jolt of fury, I march up to him and plant my hands on my hips. “Why didn’t you take me home after I passed out?” The words aren’t as steady as they sound in my head.
He offers no answer.
“Is it because you’re not capable of making sound decisions?”
Rafael groans. “Even as my hallucination, you’re a smartass.”
“Call me a hallucination one more time, and I’ll do everything in my power to make you wish you never stepped foot into Media Lab.” I tilt my head to meet his incredulous gaze. “You’ll be lucky to work in the mail room when I tell Dana how terribly you’ve messed this up.”
Dana’s face—sharp angles, shrewd eyes, and straight nose—flashes to mind. She’ll put Rafael in his place, and if I’m lucky enough, she’ll terminate him when she hears about him breaking her rules and then bringing me here to top off my humiliation.
“You might have had a fighting chance before last night,” I say, cool and clipped, “but you can kiss your golden-boy status goodbye.”
The speech I’ve been perfecting in my head for years practically writes itself.
Almost five years ago, Rafael Vela pretended to be my friend.
He fooled me for three years, long enough to learn my strategies, clock my weaknesses, and store away anything he could one day wield against me.
We worked side by side for months to prepare a major client pitch.
Long nights. Research-filled conference rooms. More coffee than sleep.
And when the work was done? He convinced Dana that he could handle the account solo—and cut me out.
It tanked my shot at a loan and an apartment, pushed back my bucket list timeline, and confirmed the one rule I’ve followed since: Never trust Rafael Vela.
Some would argue he used his sweet talking and his six-month seniority over me to make it happen. That it wasn’t personal—just business.
I’d never admit it, but it was personal. Almost too much so …
Since then? He’s been leaning on half-baked tactics, trying to win by throwing me off-balance. Too bad for him. I know his game.
“Last night?” he asks.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t have time for games, Raffy Taffy.
You thought I’d just let you take the win this time.
Head down. No fighting back.” I want to cackle with unhinged joy or rage, or maybe it’s a side effect of whatever mystery man-pills I may or may not have taken.
“But this promotion’s mine,” I add. “No matter how much you want to fight it.”
“Promotion? Are you—” Rafael’s jaw works in frustration. “And now I’m talking to myself.”
“I don’t say this lightly, but I’m concerned about you.”
“How do I make it go away?” His gaze moves back to the ceiling.
“Go see someone, like normal people.”
“That’s not a terrible idea.” He pushes away from the counter. “I’ll call Dr. Diaz.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” I snap, my tone sharper than I intend. But the edge is a mask—a lame cover for a waver I hate myself for.
Because the truth is, I need him. To explain what the hell is happening. To stop pretending like I don’t exist. To tell me what kind of absurd, overpriced pills I may have ingested.
Because, right now, I don’t have all the answers, and needing him—Rafael—unearths feelings I never fully managed to bury. Just shoved into a box, taped shut, and labeled DO NOT REOPEN.
“Rafael!”
He stops midstep. His chest ripples with a deep breath. “Evie.”
Briefly, Rafael’s eyes connect with mine.
I swallow past the burn of emotions in my throat. “Tell me what happened.”
He doesn’t respond.
I’d have paid money for Rafael to be this quiet any other time.
And now? I have to beg him to say something.
Even though it physically pains me, I force myself to say it. “Please.”
His jaw clenches. I see the telltale flutter of muscles in his right cheek—his tell, the one that means he’s angry or frustrated. My go-to instinct is to press his buttons, poke the bear. But I need answers more than I need to get under his skin.
“Please,” I repeat, this time harder.
He rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath, like this conversation is physically paining him.
“You can’t be here, because you were in an accident.
” His voice is strained, each word deliberate.
“You’re unconscious. In a coma … at Northwestern Memorial,” he continues, raking a frustrated hand through his hair.
“That’s why you can’t be here, and that’s why I shouldn’t be talking to a hallucination. ”