Dominic:
I don’t need to. You’re predictable as fuck.
He knows me too well. It’s infuriating.
I type back.
Me:
FYI. I wasn’t doing anything.
Dominic:
Liar. Go home and sleep for a change.
I’m not going to sleep. We both know that. But I close the laptop anyway.
The lab is quiet. The servers hum. Somewhere above me, the city moves on without noticing that everything has shifted.
She’s here. Back in Chicago. And tomorrow, or the next day, or sometime soon, I’m going to have to face her.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling.
This is what you do.You stand outside while everyone else lives their lives. You watch through the glass. You’ve always been on the outside looking in.
I wait for the feeling to pass.
It doesn’t.
CHAPTER 3
Audrey
The restaurant is the kind that doesn’t have prices on the menu. I notice the moment I open it—and immediately start scanning for the cheapest-sounding item. Quail. That’s probably cheap, right? Quails are small.
This is what happens when you let Bennett Mercer decide where we eat.
I try to act unfazed. Like I’ve been to places where the specials are written in calligraphic script in a language no one at this table actually speaks. Is it French, or an extinct dialect revived for prestige? Even the water goblets are heavy—real crystal, probably hand-blown by a guy with three surnames.
“Stop reading the menu like you’re decoding nuclear launch codes,” says Layla, plucking it from my hands. “Tonight’s on us, and I already ordered for you. It’s molecular, and if you don’t like it, you can blame Bennett.”
Bennett grins at me from across the table: dark hair, white teeth, expensive watch. I get why he’s Layla’s type—he’s engineered for boardrooms, with just enough danger to keep it interesting. “You’ll love it,” he assures. “Layla has great taste.”
I don’t argue. Layla’s always had a sense for rescuing me from existential discomfort. The wrong seat at a company party. A menu so intimidating I want to run into the night. I fold my hands in my lap, focus on the condensation running down the goblet, and ignore the pit in my stomach.
The wine is poured. Serena tastes it first, nods her approval with an over-the-top sigh that almost makes me laugh. “Not bad for a Thursday, huh?” She winks at me, raising her glass. “To Audrey, recently returned from the land of the midnight sun. May Chicago treat you better than any Nordic postdoc—or anyone else who doesn’t know what they’re missing—ever could.”
“To Audrey,” everyone echoes, and I drink because it’s easier than speaking.
The wine is incredible. I can tell because it doesn’t taste like the stuff I buy at Trader Joe’s—the bottles with the cute animal labels that pair well with regret.
I look around the table. Bennett in his tailored suit, checking his phone with the casual confidence of a man who moves markets. Caleb beside Serena, one hand resting on the back of her chair like he can’t stand not to be touching her. Layla, glowing in a way that has nothing to do with the candlelight and everything to do with the diamond on her finger.
Three years ago, we were splitting cheap wine at Serena’s apartment because restaurants felt like an extravagance. Now look at them. Serena’s running her own firm, living in Caleb’s penthouse. Layla’s COO of a bio-tech company and engaged to a man who looks at her like she hung the moon.
They didn’t have to become different people to be loved. They just had to be themselves.
And I’m here. Same apartment. Same job. Same Audrey, just with blonde hair, contacts, and a fresh stamp in my passport. Itried to transform into someone worth wanting, and I came back exactly the same.
