“Fake dating,” I mutter.
“Temporary PR relationship,” Vivienne clarifies. “We lean into the heart-warming angle: touring crew meets librarian, sparks fly duringplanning, yadda yadda. The public loves a meet-cute. Sponsors stay. Armstrong gets no dirt beyond what we feed him.”
I imagine Nora’s expression if I propose this fake-dating scheme. She’d cut me apart with that librarian glare. “She’s furious, Vee. I lied to her.”
“Angry or not, she cares about the library. Pitch it as a shield for her programs, not a favor to you.”
I grip the curtains, knuckles whitening. “And if she says no?”
“Then Armstrong publishes and we scramble. Your reputation we can repair; hers will be collateral damage.”
The words land like a bass drop in dead silence.
“Then you’ll have to play mediator,” I tell her.
“Alright. We have until noon tomorrow. I promised Armstrong a statement by one.”
The call ends. The glass city stares back: a million windows, none offering answers.
I set the phone down, delete Karina’s contact for good measure, and pour the bourbon down the sink. No more numb-and-run fixes. If I want Nora to trust me—even on paper—I have to show up sober, honest, and holding something better than excuses.
The guitar leaning on its stand beside the sofa catches my eye. I pick it up, fingers sliding into a C minor shape, and let the strings ring. The chords feel raw, unfinished—exactly like the apology I’ll offer Nora in the morning.
***
I hover half-hidden beneath the awning of La Lune, a modest French bistro where Nora and Vivienne are meeting right now. Thefrost-etched glass gives me only silhouettes—Vivienne’s precise angles, Nora’s softer outline—but even those blur every second I wait.
Pacing helps until it doesn’t. I count flagstones, tap lyrics against my thigh, rehearse apologies that keep crumbling under their own weight. Truth, not charm—that’s the brief.Hi, I’m Max Donovan, storm-tattooed fraud, and I’m begging you to pretend we’re dating so a tabloid hyena doesn’t torch your funding.Yeah, smooth.
Through the door’s brass grid I see Vivienne lean in, hands steepled: the “I can fix this” posture. Nora sits back, arms folded, expression unreadable. My pulse slams like a kick-drum reverb. If she walks out now, Armstrong publishes tonight, the library loses donors, and I become the headline villain twice over.
A delivery van idles at the curb; exhaust ghosts around my boots. I resist the stupid urge to text VivienneStatus?She’ll wave me in when—if—the ground is safe.
Inside, Nora’s silhouette shifts. She pinches the bridge of her nose, then—slowly—uncrosses her arms. Vivienne slides a printed contract across the table. Nora’s head dips to read. Every muscle in my body braces.
Thirty agonizing seconds later Vivienne looks toward the door and gives the slightest nod.
The steel band around my ribs loosens—but only a notch. I draw one long breath, square my shoulders, and push into the bistro’s warmth.
Showtime!
7
NORA
Reputation at Stake
La Lune looks different in the daylight. I usually come here with Emily in the evenings, when it’s all flickering candlelight and clinking wine glasses. But now, sunlight pours through the windows, catching on terracotta pots of rosemary and casting soft shadows across the reclaimed-wood tables. It feels quieter like this—like the whole place is pausing mid-breath.
I arrive three minutes early and spot a woman who can only be Vivienne Clark: sleek blazer the color of merlot, black bob that angles like a blade, tablet already open. She radiates the serene intensity of someone who’s already solved the problem and is now waiting for the rest of us to catch up. She stands as I reach the table.
“Nora Davidson,” she greets, handshake cool and assured. “Thank you for meeting on short notice.”
“Vivienne?” I confirm, sliding into the seat opposite her. A waiter brings water; she waves away a menu—business first, apparently.
Vivienne rests her palms on the table, no rings, nails manicured to a professional blunt edge. “Let me be direct. We have a situation thatcould damage both the literacy benefit and your personal reputation. I’m here to offer a solution.”
My pulse stutters. “I don’t understand—how is my reputation suddenly on the line?”
