I stopped listening halfway through.
Instead, I studied him.
Not bad looking. Good suit. Good watch. The kind of guy who made sense on paper.
Max would probably like him, but he was boring. Safe. The kind of man who’d never take a risk, never bet on something unless he already knew how it ended.
He was the kind of man who’d propose in public because it made a good story. Who scheduled intimacy and penciled dates into his calendar like meetings he couldn’t afford tomiss. The kind who sent flowers on anniversaries, but never spontaneously, because spontaneity wasn’t efficient.
I leaned my elbow against the table, my eyes glazing over as he kept talking. The view was nice at least—better than the conversation.
He stopped talking eventually, probably because he’d noticed I wasn’t even pretending to listen anymore. He smiled politely, clearing his throat like he wanted me to ask a follow-up question or show even the tiniest hint of interest.
“Sounds intense,” I said finally, though my tone made it obvious I hadn’t been paying attention.
His smile fell. “It can be. High stakes, long hours, but it pays off.”
“You enjoy it though?” I asked, half-heartedly giving him one more chance to become remotely interesting.
“I do,” he said, nodding seriously. “I thrive in high-pressure environments.”
I bet he did. I bet he thrived anywhere rules were laid out clearly, where the lines never blurred and there was always a handbook for handling anything remotely complicated.
Marco would’ve eaten this guy alive.
The thought of Marco made me glance away, annoyed with myself for even thinking about him. Marco wasn’t safe. He wasn’t predictable. And he sure as hell wasn’t someone I should be comparing my dates to.
But damn if I didn’t.
Marco was the kind of man who didn’t pretend to be good, because he didn’t care what anyone thought. I liked that about him, even though I didn’t want to.
The lawyer in front of me said something else, something about “work-life balance,” but I was officially done pretending. This wasn’t going anywhere.
When the check came, I didn’t bother with the usual polite arguments about splitting it. I let him pay, flashed a fake smile, and told him I’d had a lovely evening.
I left first, heels clicking sharply against the polished floors, leaving behind another man who wasn’t nearly interesting enough to keep me around.
Safe just wasn’t for me.
For the next couple of days, I did exactly what was expected of me. Not that I wanted to, of course, but I was already on thin ice with Max ever since he found out I’d left both dates.
Which was primarily the reason I’d decided to come to the event Rosalie’s mother was hosting. I was doing my job of showing up, and I made sure Max saw me playing my part.
The Clarke estate wasobnoxious—the kind of old-money decadence people like Evelyn Clarke liked to flaunt, with its huge back yard, pruned hedges, and a pool that was almostneverused but always pristine.
The event was the same as always. An excuse for high society to sip overpriced cocktails while throwingobsceneamounts of money at art they’d never actually understand.
I wasn’t here for the art.
I had no interest in overpriced landscapes or abstract paintings intended to meansomething.
No—I preferred the view from the pool chairs, where Rosalie and Daisy sat avoiding their mother, who was currently engaged in deep conversation with Margot.
I let my drink dangle between my fingers as I exhaled, glancing toward the crowd.
Rita was here.
Cillian’s sister.
