“Of course, I’m okay. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Liar,” Tiff says softly. “You only use your PR voice when you’re lying to yourself.”
“I’m not lying. I’m… managing.”
“You don’t have to manage with us, babe,” Maria whispers.
I drag a hand through my hair as the candlelight flickers against the wall like it’s mocking me. “If I let go of managing, everything falls apart. You don’t understand. This isn’t just some workplace crush; it’s my job.My name. My credibility. I can’t afford to slip, not even once.”
“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 anecklace 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 onmutual 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.
