This was something she would’ve jumped at before. She absolutely loved engaging with emergingstartup owners. I had lost count of how many boards she was an advisor on.
And now, I can’t seem to find the words powerful enough to entice her.
She shakes her head, sliding further down the bed that her back no longer touches the headboard. “I know the lineup,” she mumbles, exhausted. “It’s mostly series B startups. No one at seed stage.”
I know she likes to get involved at earlier phases of a startup. So she was certainly making logical sense. But this wasn’t just a networking event.
Our PR representatives had strongly advised us to make a public appearance.Together.
We need to openly present a strong case to ensure the mass perception shifts long enough not to affect the Astor board. Given that our entire reputation has been sinking since my parents’ arrests, we need this.
But who am I kidding—it’s been sinking since the moment I made the mistake of underestimating my family. The second Cece’s name was plastered across social media. Leaving her open and vulnerable to a scrutiny I should’ve anticipated.
The fucking clause.
That picture with Iris.
Jesus Christ.
“There will be walk-ins, too, baby. Not just the exhibitors,” I insist, forcing a small smile onto my face.
It disappears almost immediately when Cece squeezes her eyes shut like she’s physically hurting.
Then she groans. Angrily. “It won’t work, Levi,” she snaps. “Whatever you’re hoping we’ll achieve by playing the loving couple—holding hands, hugging, kissing—it won’t fucking work.” She pushes herselfupright on the bed, every movement stiff with frustration.
I go still.
Her voice rises before I can respond. “Hell, we could leak a sex tape of ours tomorrow, and I’d still be the placeholder.” Her laugh is hollow. “Drop it.”
I flinch, my entire body sinking under the weight of it—slumping at the harshness I never thought Cece possessed. And the painful silence that takes over only makes her drown in guilt that I don’t want her to feel.
What do I even do?
How do I even help her? Help us?
I know her well enough to see the guilt arrive almost immediately after the words leave her mouth.
The tiny flicker in her eyes.
The tension in her shoulders.
The way she turns her face away from me.
She’s hurting herself every time she lashes out. And somehow that makes it hurt more.
“There’s no… playing, Cece,” I say quietly. My voice sounds rough even to my own ears. “I’m not pretending when I hold your hand. I’m not pretending when I kiss you. I’m not pretending when I hug you.” I swallow. “I just need people to see we’re okay.”
She scoffs. The sound is completely devoid of humor. “Except we haven’t kissed in weeks—”
“Days,” I correct automatically.
Her gaze snaps toward me, and I instantly regret it.
Not because I’m wrong. Because it sounds pathetic.
Because I remember every single one. The kiss after her parents’ disaster of a dinner. The ones I leaveagainst her forehead. The soft brush of my lips against hers every morning before I leave for work, when she pretends to be asleep.
Little things.
