Cordia, who was the one to smash me in the nose with the door, crosses her arms over her chest and slams the door shut.
“Oh no you don’t, buddy. You’re staying right here and leaving Dove alone.”
“Get out of my way, Cordia,” I growl, the napkin muffled against my face.
“You can’t fix this right now,” she snaps, shoving me back a step. “Look at you, Shane. You’re bleeding, you’re manic, and you just humiliated her in front of everyone she respects. If you go out there right now, you’re only going to scare her.”
“I have to tell her—”
“She needs to be alone!” Cordia yells, her voice cracking. “She needs space to breathe without you sucking all the air out of the room. You’ve done enough damage for one day.”
I freeze, her words hitting me harder than a physical blow. She needs to be alone. My hand drops to my side, the bloody napkin clutched in a fist.
“I didn’t mean it,” I whisper, the fight draining out of me. “What I said... I didn’t mean it. I-I love her.”
“We know,” Theo says quietly from the dining room doorway.
“We all know,” Cordia adds, her voice softening just a fraction, though she doesn’t move from blocking the front door. “We were just waiting for you to figure it out.”
“I messed up. I messed up so badly.”
Every single one of my family members has a variation of“You think?”plastered on their faces.
Then, I remember Emily. The woman I’m using as a barrier to Dove. It’s not fair to her either, but Emily also shouldn’t have been so rude to Dove. But that’s when it hits me: Emily feels threatened by Dove. If Dad, Mom, Marabella, Cordia, and even fucking Theo are painfully aware that I’m in love with a woman who is not my girlfriend, then so does the girlfriend.
It explains everything. The jabs at Dove’s salary, the comments about her hands. Emily isn’t stupid. She’s calculated. That’s why I picked her in the first place, back at that charity gala in Chicago a year ago. I remember seeing her across the room—poised, sharp, wearing a dress that would impress even a king—and thinking she was safe.
She was a business deal, not a romance. We talked about market trends and mutual acquaintances, and I asked for her number because she spoke the language of my world without asking me to translate my emotions. She was the perfect shield against the messy, terrifying feelings I had for my sister’s best friend.
But shields aren’t supposed to have feelings, and I forgot that Emily was a person, not just a strategy.
Right on cue, Emily enters the foyer, oblivious to everything else going on. She’s checking her reflection in the hallway mirror, smoothing a stray hair, composing herself as if the scene at the table never happened.
Then, seeming to not read the room says, “Talk about drama.” Her gaze drops to my shirt. Her eyes widen at the blood, and the mask of boredom vanishes. She rushes over. “Oh my god, babe! What happened?”
Not wanting to discuss Dove with her, I say, “You need to leave.”
I’m staring straight at her, but she still asks, “Who?”
“You, Emily. I’m sorry to drag you into this mess. It was cruel of me. But we are over. I love someone else and anything else is a waste of time.”
She laughs as if I’m joking. I’m not.
“You’re not serious.” Her smile falters when she sees the dead weight in my eyes. “Shane, stop it. You’re stressed. It’s the holiday pressure. We look good together. We make sense.”
“I am serious.”
“We can talk about it. Let’s–” She takes a step forward, her voice pitching up, losing that poised tone she loves so much. “Is this about her? The teacher? Because if you think for one second that a girl like that can handle your world—can handleyou—you’re delusional. I know you, Shane. I know how you operate. You need someone who understands the stakes.”
“You don’t know me,” I say quietly. “You know my resume. You know my family name. You know the man I pretend to be so I don’t have to deal with the fact that I’m hollowed out inside.”
“Oh, Shane, honey,” Mom says.
Meanwhile, Emily snaps. Her mask fully slips, revealing the panic underneath. “I’ve invested a year of my life into this! We fit. We look right on paper. You picked me.”
“Yes,” I admit, the guilt heavy in my gut. “That was wrong of me. I used you to hide from her. I’m sorry. You deserve someone who actually sees you, not someone who’s looking past you at someone else.”
“I don’t want your apology,” she spits, tears finally pricking her eyes—not from sadness, but from the sting of losing.
