Thursday night arrived like a meteor crashing into my will to live.
The corporate dinner was being held at an exclusive rooftop restaurant downtown—the kind of place with more syllables in the menu than actual food. I had stress dreams all week about Leo showing up in a crop top or reenacting a scene from Top Gun in the middle of Miranda's speech.
So I did what any sane woman would do: I pre-gamed with two glasses of wine and talked to my cat about emotional boundaries.
He yawned. Judgy little furball.
Leo showed up looking like a Hollywood scandal waiting to happen. Black suit, no tie, smirk locked and loaded.
"You look like you're attending your own engagement party," I said as I let him into my apartment.
"And you look like you're about to break some hearts. Are we sure we're not accidentally making this real?"
I snorted. "Shut up and help me zip my dress."
He obliged, his hands brushing the bare skin on my back. It was only for a second. A moment. A blip on the fake-romance radar.
And yet, my stomach did a full Olympic gymnastics routine.
The ride to the restaurant was quiet—partly because I was giving myself a mental pep talk, and partly because Leo insisted on playing a dramatic movie score playlist.
"Are you trying to manifest a car chase?"
"Only if it ends in us crashing the dinner in slow motion."
We arrived without incident, unfortunately. The rooftop sparkled with fairy lights and tiny torches, like the ambiance had been set to 'emotionally manipulative.'
Miranda was already there, looking like she'd been carved from expensive marble. She raised a glass at us.
"Isabelle. Leo. Welcome."
We made the rounds, fake-laughing our way through compliments and questions. Leo was a natural, which was both helpful and suspicious. People loved him. Miranda looked impressed. I wanted to vomit.
By the main course, things were weirdly... pleasant. Leo told a charming story about his time studying in France (he failed French, but impressed his professor by serenading her with ABBA). Everyone laughed. I laughed too.
Too hard.
After dinner, Miranda stood to make a toast. "To risk-takers, and to love—whether old, new, or just discovered."
Everyone clinked glasses.
Leo leaned in. "That's our cue."
I blinked. "Cue for what—"
And then he kissed me.
In front of everyone.
It was slow. Soft. Like we were in the middle of a rom-com montage and time had slowed down for dramatic effect.
My body forgot this was fake. Forgot it was supposed to be strategy.
Because, for a breathless moment, it felt exactly like a first kiss should.
We pulled apart and the table erupted into applause. Leo winked like he'd just nailed a magic trick. I sat there, stunned, trying to remember how to chew my dessert.
Later, when we stepped away from the crowd to get some air, I turned on him.
"What was that?"
"That, darling, was theater. You're welcome."
"You kissed me in front of my boss!"
"I'm method acting."
I shoved him lightly. He caught my wrist before I could walk away.
"You okay?"
And that was the problem.
I was okay. Too okay. Like my heart had decided to start writing fan fiction about us.
"Just... don't surprise me like that again."
He nodded. But his eyes lingered on my mouth like a question he hadn't asked yet.
On the way back down, in the glass elevator, we stood in silence.
Then he whispered, "You kissed back."
I didn't respond. I was too busy rewinding it in my mind and wondering if faking it was going to cost me the one thing I'd managed to protect all these years: my heart.
The elevator doors opened to the lobby.
Waiting there was someone I hadn't expected.
Jason.
My ex.
Holding hands with his new fiancée.
And that's when the slow burn became a four-alarm fire.