11. Cera #2
"You do this thing, Cera. You give everything to someone and then wait for them to leave the second you let yourself need them. You did it with Cas. You are doing it with Midnight. You’re probably already setting yourself up to do it with Wells."
"Huh?"
"The whole guilt thing, you taking something good and making it dirty."
My head snaps up. "That is not what this is. I slept with my boss, bent over a desk, in the wee hours of the morning. It was dirty."
"You think you need Midnight, just like you thought you needed Shitbird. You don't need either of them. They get the privilege of having you. Don’t forget that, Cera.
"I know I don't need Midnight. I don't even know him. Sue me that I finger myself for the guy three nights a week, and somewhere in there, I started feeling something for him past the arrangement," I snap. I immediately wish I hadn't been so defensive.
"Don't give any of these men power over you. Guilt, expectations, dependency. That's you giving up your agency. Stop it."
The words hit hard. I look away, holding still, trying to parse the raw truth he just threw at me. I'm not sure why he's choosing this moment to hold the mirror up, but it is a lot to digest.
"I know I can be hard on you, Cera Beara. I just hate to see you getting hurt. This all started so good. I was happy you saw something you wanted and took it, so candidly, without shame. Let's get back to that. Wells. Hot grumpy boss. I like that space."
I smile despite myself. "He is hot. I’m not going to lie.”
"So are you going to tell me how it happened, or do I have to pull it out of you?" His grin is pure trouble. "You left me at ‘bent over a desk,’ and my brain is going haywire."
"There's truly not much to tell. It was quick, it was awkward afterward, and it’s never happening again."
"Never." He says it like the word amuses him. "Uh, huh. So when are we doing it again?"
“I just told you, never. One and done. I just hope it isn't weird on Monday."
"Don't kill all my dreams." He sighs at the sky. "Tragic."
"Locke, we work together every day. It can't happen again."
He stands and brushes cake crumbs off his yoga pants. He holds out a hand to pull me up.
"Come on. You need food that is not sugar and a drink that is not coffee."
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet. The blankets fold into messy squares, and I carry them under my arm while we walk back toward the street.
The day doesn't fix anything. If anything, I might be more jumbled than before. Tomorrow night's call with Midnight suddenly has a whole new anxiety attached to it.
The call comes late Sunday, and I am already sitting on the couch waiting, the wig brushed, the mask in place, my laptop open. I haven't stopped thinking about Friday. The desk, Wells's hands, the stretch of him inside me.
Then, of course, the guilt followed me home and has been with me all weekend, even after Locke's unconventional pep talk.
Midnight needs to be the thing that makes sense again.
The screen loads black, and his voice comes through. The green light is now on, letting me know he's with me.
"Peoria."
"Hey, you."
Silence stretches too long. I shift on the couch, pulling my T-shirt down, now more shy than I was on Thursday. I have my full disguise on, but I didn't dress up in sexy clothes tonight.
"Everything okay?" I ask him, sensing he's quieter tonight, too.
"Yes."
The word is clipped. He sounds farther away than usual, and the distance hits my stomach wrong. I wait for him to say more, but he doesn't.
"Have you had a nice weekend?"
"I worked, but that's normal."
I swallow. The coldness presses in, and it stings more than it has any right to. I try again, softer this time, giving him room to settle.
"Do you want me to..."
"Not tonight."
The words land like a slap. I blink at the screen, waiting for the explanation that does not come. My chest tightens. It's almost like he knows, like somehow he found out I "cheated" on him, even though I know that's absurd.
"Midnight."
"I wanted to log on because we had our date, but I actually have to go tonight. I wanted to see you, but I'm sorry I can't stay."
"You have to go? Now?"
He doesn't even wait for me to finish talking. The call ends, and the green light goes red.
What the hell?
I sit there staring at nothing. My hands shake. I pull the mask off and drop it on the couch beside me. The wig follows. I press my palms into my knees and try to breathe through the knot drawing tight under my breastbone.
He asked for the real me. I gave him the roof, the cars, the childhood I never tell anyone, and finally my unarmored body. And now he is pulling back.
Of course he is.
The moment the performance ends, and the real me shows up, people leave. Cas did it. Midnight is doing it now. The only difference is that Midnight didn't wait for me to become a burden first. He just saw what was underneath and decided it was not worth staying for.
I close the laptop and sit in the dark. The guilt I carried all weekend curdles into something worse. I betrayed him with Wells, and now he doesn't want me anyway.
Monday morning, I walk into the Rotterdam meeting with my notes organized and my face arranged into something professional.
Ridge sits at the head of the table, his presence pulling the room tighter without saying a word.
The partner from Rotterdam, a man named Dekker, sits across from me with his tablet out and his expectations already written on his face.
Wells is three chairs down. I don't look at him.
Ridge opens the meeting. His voice is precise, leaving no room for uncertainty.
They flip through the website Wells, which I created a few nights ago, but I don't pay attention. They all talk, occasionally ask me questions, and I answer on autopilot.
Dekker asks a question, and I don't catch that it's aimed at me until I notice everyone looking my way. I have no idea what he asked, but I don't want to out myself as not paying a lick of attention to whatever was going on around me.
I keep my face neutral and nod.
"Cera can handle the front end," Wells says, sensing my distress. His voice is flat and professional, giving nothing away. "I will feed her the data layers as they clear security review."
Ridge looks at me. "Can you rebuild it in two weeks?"
"Yes, of course." I have no idea what I'm agreeing to, but I'm sure I can do anything in two weeks.
The meeting moves on. They talk about containers, delivery schedules, and security protocols. I take notes now, making sure not to get caught in another world again.
My body is too aware of Wells three chairs away. I can feel him in the room without looking. The air between us hums with everything we aren't acknowledging. Soon we will be alone in an office, and I wonder how that will go, whether we can both pretend nothing ever happened.
When the meeting ends, Dekker leaves first. Ridge stands and gathers his tablet, his presence already shifting toward the next thing. The other attendees file out. I stay in my seat and pretend to review my notes.
Wells stays put, too. The door clicks shut. The room goes quiet. I look up to see him looking at me.
He's not watching me like he did Friday. This is something else. His mouth is set hard, and his eyes hold mine a beat too long before he speaks.
"They love what you put together on Friday. I still don't know how you pulled it off that fast. Thank you."
Any boss could have said those words. The trouble is in how he says them, low and not quite steady. It's the most human he has ever let me see him be.
My chest tightens. The smart move is to thank him for the kind words and go. Keep it clean, keep it professional, do not let it become more than it already is.
I stay in my seat anyway and bring my eyes up to meet his.
"Thank you."
He nods once. I stand first, which I guess is becoming my thing with him. I gather my notes and walk toward the door.
I leave the room with Midnight's cold silence still lodged under my ribs and the truth I cannot survive knowing breathing right beside me, hidden in the man I just decided to want anyway.