“Of course.” My voice lands calmly. “Come in.”
She steps inside and pauses when she sees the photo on my screen. Her eyes soften for half a heartbeat, then shift back into work mode.
“The numbers are unbelievable,” she says, tapping her screen. “The board is thrilled. Donations are up.Sentiment is up. Engagement is through the roof. You should be proud.”
The words hit like they’re traveling through glass. Pride can’t reach past the ache sitting under my ribs.
“That’s good. We can draft a mid-campaign recap and send it to the foundation this afternoon.”
She studies my face longer than I want her to. “Alycia, people are speculating.”
“About what, exactly?”
“The dance and the way you two looked at each other.” She hesitates. “I need to know if what I’m defending is just a narrative or if there’s more I should be braced for.”
A part of me wants to laugh at the idea that I’d let feelings interfere with my job. That I would let myself want something I can’t control. But in the back of my mind, I hear Kyle’s voice:Tell me that was real tonight, sweetheart.And my answer, the lie wrapped in logic:It can’t be real.
“It’s a successful campaign,” I say, each word clean and practiced. “We built a story, and it landed. That’s what you’re defending.”
“Are you sure about that?” she asks quietly.
Absolutely not.“Yes.”
She holds my gaze for another second, then nods. “All right, but if something changes, I want to hear it from you first.”
“I understand.”
She leaves, closing the door behind her. The room feels smaller as soon as she is gone. Every inch of airpressing inward. I stare at the photo until the edges blur and my breath goes unsteady. It doesn’t matter how many headlines call it a fairy tale. Nothing in that picture looks fake. And if it was real, even for a second, then I’m the one who ruined it. I pinch the bridge of my nose until pain blooms there. It does nothing to chase away the feeling that I’m still falling.
The sharp ring of my desk phone cuts through the quiet. I clear my throat, straighten even though no one can see me, and slip on my headset. “PR, this is Alycia.”
“Ay, mija… suenas cansada.” My mother’s voice pours through the line, warm and familiar. “Are they working you too hard again?”
I close my eyes for half a breath. Her concern usually feels like comfort. Today, it hits the exact spot I’ve been avoiding. “Hi,Mamá. It has just been a long week.”
“I saw you on TV at the gala,” she says, ignoring the deflection. “You looked like a movie star. I told you that green is a good color for you. He looks at you like you’re the sun.”
The air catches in my throat, but I sit perfectly composed because I trained myself to.
“It’s good optics,” I manage, the words rough. “People respond to emotional storytelling.”
“Eso no es de lo que estoy hablando.I’m talking about you,mija. You look happy.”
It’s incredible how one word can unravel everything you are holding together.
“I was doing my job,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “That’s what you saw.”
“Mm.” She doesn’t buy it. She never does when it matters. “I know when you what your lying smile looks like.Ese no fue un‘presentation smile.’”
I turn in my chair and angle my head so the overhead lights blur. If I look directly at anything, I’m afraid something inside me will split.
“There’s something between the two of you. you two.Puedo verlo.”
“Fue un acuerdo mutuamente beneficioso,” I say, fingers digging into the edge of my desk. “It wasn’t… it isn’t a real relationship.”
“Not even a small part of it is real?”
The memory slams into me so hard I have to lay my palm flat on the desk. The car. The quiet. His voice when he asked if it had been real. The way I handed him a half-truth and then hid behind it.
