"You did well tonight," he says finally.
"Thanks. You too."
"I mean it. You handled Patricia perfectly. And Cynthia. And all the others who were trying to figure out if this is real."
"Is it?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "Real, I mean?"
Victor looks at me in the dim light of the car, streetlights strobing across his face. "I don't know what it is. But it's not what I thought it would be."
"What did you think it would be?"
"Simple. Transactional. A business arrangement with clear boundaries."
"And now?"
He reaches over and takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. The gesture is simple, intimate, and completely unnecessary since no one's watching.
"Now it's complicated," he says.
We don't let go the entire ride home.
When we get back to the penthouse, we stand in the entryway, still holding hands, neither of us moving toward our separate rooms.
"Harper—" Victor starts.
"I know. You don’t want to talk about it now.”
“But we will.”
“I know.”
"But not tonight."
"No," I agree. "Not tonight."
Because tonight I'm tired and slightly drunk and my defenses are down, and if we talk now, I might say something I can't take back.
Like how much I've started to care about him.
Like how the thought of year’s end—the ending of this arrangement—makes my chest tight with something that feels suspiciously close to grief.
“Thank you for tonight, Victor."
“You’re very welcome, Harper."
He squeezes my hand once before letting go, and I watch him walk toward his room, my skin still humming from hours of his touch.
In my room, I carefully remove the lavender dress, hang it up, and change into my ridiculous cat pajamas.
Then I sit on my bed with my phone and stare at the photo someone tagged us in from tonight—Victor and me on the dance floor, looking at each other like we're the only people in the room.
It doesn't look fake.
It looks everything I’ve ever wanted.
And that scares me more than anything.
14
