Chapter 19 #2
“And yet, you kissed him.” Tiff hums quietly, not buying it.
“That was… before, and it was a mistake.”
“Pretty sure you said it wasn’t a mistake about ten minutes ago. I think you said you wanted to,” Maria says gently.
“I did,” I admit, the words barely audible. “I wanted to. And it was stupid, selfish, and completely unprofessional. I can’t afford to do that again.”
“Why not? You’re human, Alycia. You’re allowed to want things.” Tiff asks.
“Not him, not when everyone’s watching, and one wrong headline could ruin everything I’ve built.”
There’s a real, heavy silence this time. The kind that means they get it but hate it.
“Then what are you going to do?” Maria sighs.
I stare down at the counter, the cool stone grounding me just enough to lie again. “I won’t lose my job.”
“That is not the same as okay,” Tiff says.
“It’s the only okay I have today.”
Another breath of silence, and Maria changes directions the way she always does when she hears me start to calcify. “Fine. Tell us the logistics. What are you wearing?”
“I don’t know. A dress that photographs well and doesn’t read as thirsty. Neutral. A good neckline for a necklace but not a bruise. Something that says professional but not frigid.”
“Beige,” Maria guffaws. “You’re going to wear beige and call it a personality.”
“Beige is safe.”
“Red is honest.”
“Red photographs beautifully under warm light.” Tiff hums. “What does the gala ballroom look like?”
“White marble and gold accents. The lighting will skew warm because of the chandeliers. The photo wall will be navy.”
“Then go with jewel tones. If you won’t wear red, wear something that doesn’t let the room swallow you.”
“I could do emerald,” I say, despite myself. “Hair down. Minimal jewelry. Classic. Feminine without reading ornamental.”
Maria makes a sound I can only call reverent. “She is planning her own fairy tale and swearing it is for the camera. I hate you. And I’m proud of you. Tell me everything.”
“Talking points,” I say, because the part of my brain that survives by bullet lists is louder than every other part.
“We keep it clean and lean on mutual respect, long conversations, and learning from one another. We don’t say anything about fate or destiny.
We do not use words that make me want to crawl under a table and hide.
We confirm nothing about our supposed relationship, and we keep the story focused on the work. ”
“So, no kissing,” Maria says.
“No kissing,” I say, and something in my chest flinches at the lie. “Not in front of cameras.”
That’s the rule I set. No kissing. Not on cue, not for the cameras, not for optics. Kissing is dangerous and leads to feelings. And I can’t have feelings for Kyle Hendrix.
The kitchen clock ticks, someone laughs in the hallway, and the world keeps spinning like I didn’t just agree to rearrange my entire emotional life for a storyline I wrote myself. There’s a pause on the line, the kind that hums with everything my friends aren’t saying.
Tiff breaks it first, her voice soft but pointed, the way she talks when she’s trying to make me look at something I’d rather not see. “What’s he like when there are no cameras?”
It’s like I’m back at my mom’s house months ago, the kiss that I can still feel on my lips, the way he said my name like I had to hear it to remember who I was.
I see him in the office with his hands balled into fists at his side and his jaw set, ready to stand in front of me and take the hit if it meant I didn’t have to.
“He is… a lot.” I press the heel of my hand against my chest like I can push the answer back down. “Loud. Charming. He jokes when he’s scared. He is more careful with me than he is with anything else. He is inexperienced at pretending he doesn’t care.”
“Why did I picture his mouth when you said inexperienced?” Maria sighs a low, filthy sigh.
“Because you are feral.”
“Correct.”
Tiff does not let me escape the question. “And you? What are you like with him?”
I walk to the window and rest my forehead on the cool glass. “I am a professional. I am good at my job.”
“That is not you as a person. That’s a performance.”
“Performance buys me time,” I respond, turning from the glass and sitting back down at the table. “I can’t talk about what this is to me because it isn’t allowed to be anything. So, this is what I will talk about: the plan.”
“The plan,” Maria repeats.
“Yes. Schedule. Wardrobe. Talking points. Approved angles. Crisis contingencies. I can hold that in both hands and carry it without dropping the rest of my life.”
“What if you didn’t have to carry it alone?” Tiff’s breath rustles the line.
“I do. That’s the part everyone forgets when they tell me I am strong. The reason I am strong is because I do it alone.” I close my eyes and see his, warm and stubborn. “He offered to carry the parts that belong to him. He said he’d take the noise, the blowback, the line in front of me.”
“And?” Maria prompts gently.
“And I told him no because I know what happens when women let men carry anything for them at work. The story changes even when the facts do not.”
“Do you hear the way you talk about yourself?” Tiff says softly.
“I talk the way the world taught me to survive.”
There’s a beat of heavy silence full of things I’m not ready to say. My throat tightens because a part of me remembers exactly where I learned this tone. The last internship I had, which taught me how quickly admiration could turn into ammunition.
I don’t elaborate. I’m not ready to, and they know better than to press.
“Okay,” Maria says briskly. “Send me photos of every dress in your closet and the store you will drive to if you decide none of those are acceptable. I will curate the perfect outfit, and Tiff will approve.”
“I am not driving to a store at ten o’clock,” I say, laughing despite myself.
“Then you will try on the options you have while we watch. I’m prepared to give live feedback in the language of thirst.”
“And I will translate it into respectable feedback.” Tiff laughs.
I do not want to do any of it, but I’ll do all of it because there’s a specific relief that comes from being bossed around by people who want nothing from me but my happiness.
I switch us from speaker to FaceTime, so they can see me and not just hear the panic in my voice.
The next twenty minutes are a montage that would be funny if I weren’t so close to crying.
I step into an emerald satin dress my mom bought me a few years ago and nearly twist an ankle.
I try on something navy that I found hiding in the back of my closet with a neckline that feels like a secret.
I put on a standard little black dress, and both groan before demanding that I take it off because it looks like I’m about to give a eulogy.
I land back in the emerald dress and pair it with a simple gold necklace my grandmother left me, the one that sits at the hollow of my throat like a comma.
“Bingo,” Maria says with her palm pressed to her heart.
“Turn,” Tiff instructs. “Hair down. Minimal earrings. Which shoes?”
“Gold strap,” I say, sliding them on and standing still so they can imagine the photos.
“She is going to kill him,” Maria announces.
“The goal is not homicide,” I say, my voice coming out a little higher than usual.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the girl in the mirror who looks like she knows something I don’t.
“Okay,” Maria says briskly again. “Are you meeting him there, or is he picking you up?”
“He is picking me up,” I say before I can stop the tiny pleasure that runs through me like heat. “We are going to arrive at five forty-five instead of six so we can avoid the crowd at the entrance. I told him I would send wardrobe guidelines and then immediately told myself to get a grip.”
“Send them. If control helps, use it,” Tiff says. “The goal is not to become a different person, but to be yourself with less panic.”
“Less panic,” I repeat as if it is something you can measure with a spoon. “I’ll do my best.”
“We love you,” Maria says suddenly, the joke moving aside for the feeling that always sits beneath it. “Call if you need an extraction. I will climb a hedge in stilettos.”
“She will, and I will film it for legal reasons,” Tiff responds with a giggle.
I laugh and then swallow it because there is a lump forming behind it that wants to be something else. “Thank you for staying on the phone while I moved the same shoes around the room five times.”
“Anytime,” Tiff says. “Text us when you pick a lipstick.”
“Don’t text. Send us a thirst trap. Not for him. He gets the wholesome version,” Maria says.
“Goodnight,” I say with a smile that reaches my eyes.
They both tell me goodnight and hang up, and the quiet that returns is different from the one before.
Instead of taking the dress off, I sit still for a minute and practice breathing.
In for four, hold for four, out for six, the way my therapist taught me when I said anxiety felt like a fist closing around the center of my ribs.
The dress yields under my palms. The necklace warms on my skin.
I count until my shoulders drop an inch and my jaw unhooks.
Then I move because this is what I can do.
I pull my laptop toward me and open the spreadsheet.
The tabs line up like a row of tiny doors.
Events. Wardrobe. Talking Points. Crisis.
I click on the Events tab and scroll through the timeline until I reach Date #1: Charity Gala.
Under Objective, I already wrote: Establish chemistry without scandal.
Under Risks, I added earlier: Forget it is fake.
I add a third line: Unplanned contact. Avoid closed spaces without a camera plan.
My fingers pause before adding a fourth: Obstacles.
If emotions interfere, re-center on purpose. Repeat aloud if needed.