Yep. Trip imploded. Wine required.
Bring tissues and judgment.
I’m on my way. Don’t move.
The restaurant is small,tucked into a quiet SoHo side street, dimly lit and rich with the scent of garlic butter and aged wood. It’s a place where secrets melt into candlelight and feelings slip loose between sips of wine.
And judging by the SOS Maya texted me an hour ago, I’m about to find out what secret is bleeding all over the bread basket.
Maya’s halfway through a bottle of red when I arrive, one dainty hand curled around her glass, the other attached to her phone. She’s not scrolling. Not texting. Just sitting, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, eyes locked on the flickering flame in front of her, distracting her from whatever ache she’s feeling.
“So,” I say, sitting across from her and forcing lightness into my voice, “what are we drinking to?”
She lifts her wine, but her smile falters. “Clarity. I think.”
“I take it your business trip-slash-secret Asher escape didn’t end in rose petals and orgasms?”
“Not even close.”
“You okay?”
Maya exhales, gaze dropping to the untouched oysters. “Not really.”
I go quiet, waiting. She doesn’t rush. Maya never does. But when she finally speaks, it’s soft. Careful. Like her words might splinter if she says them too fast.
“I’m ending things with Asher.”
I blink. “Why? They’ve only just begun.”
Her fingertip swirls around the rim. “Or at least… I’m preparing to.”
My heart sinks. I’ve watched this almost-thing between them unfold for weeks now, felt that intense spark between them from across the damn room. “Maya…”
“I can’t do it, Ro.” She looks up at me, and her eyes aren’t glittering with sarcasm or confidence or even frustration. They’re just sad. “I can’t be someone’s secret.”
My heart sinks.
“You know what you got after one impulsive, arguably irresponsible dry hump, complete with a symphonic finger fuck?” she says with a dry laugh. “A galaxy.”
Her words don’t strike all at once. They seep in, sinking deeper with every heartbeat until I feel them everywhere.
Because she’s not wrong.
It was reckless. Ill-advised. Created from heat and hunger and very little forethought.
It was also one of my best.
For once, I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t run. I let myselffeelsomething wild and exciting and messy. And for a moment—just one—I existed outside the boundaries of fear.
My throat tightens. “Maya?—”
“No, I’m serious,” she interrupts gently. “You got a man who tracked the stars and memorialized the moment you met. Meanwhile, I’ve got a man who can’t even say my name in a crowded room.”
Oof. That one hits.
“I don’t want to be a hidden thing. I want to be center stage, not buried in the credits.” She lifts her chin a little. She’s trying to convince herself. “If he can’t give me that, then he doesn’t get me at all.”
The silence aches between us. I know it’s not just about Asher. It’s about everything Maya’s ever fought for—her image, her worth, her place in this industry.
