Alex lets out a short laugh. Not amused. “Man, you love that sentence.”
“It’s called respect.”
“It’s called insulation,” Alex fires back.
Mark steps closer now. Not aggressive. Just inevitable. “So who are you asking?”
I frown. “What.”
“The gala,” Mark says. “You’re not skipping it. So who are you taking.”
The question lands hard. Sudden.
I don’t answer immediately.
Alex’s mouth curves. “You could ask the girl from the other night.”
My spine stiffens. “Don’t.”
Alex tilts his head, taps his chin with a forefinger, eyes sharp now. “Oh—wait. You can’t.”
Silence snaps tight.
“Because,” Alex continues, almost conversational, “you never got her name.”
The words hang there.
Ugly. Exposed.
I feel it then—the discomfort, sharp and physical, like my skin doesn’t fit right. Like the walls of my office have shifted inward by an inch.
Something I've never felt before: Shame.
Mark doesn’t look away. “That true.”
I don’t answer.
Alex exhales slowly. “Jesus.”
“That’s not relevant,” I say finally.
“It’s the only thing that’s relevant,” Alex shoots back. “Because Audra knows her name mattered.”
Mark nods once. “And now she knows whose didn’t.”
My chest tightens. “You’re reaching.”
“No,” Mark says. “We’re observing.”
Alex pushes off the desk and paces once, agitated. “You slept with someone whose name you didn’t bother to learn, then took Audra to dinner like the night before didn’t exist.”
“I didn’t lie to her.”
“No,” Alex agrees. “You just let her believe she was different without proving it.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “I didn’t want to rush her.”
“You didn’t rush her,” Mark says evenly. “You cooled her.”
