The ballroom of the Vantage Collective gala glittered with a kind of money that didn’t need to shout. It simply *was*. Crystal chandeliers refracted light into a thousand soft knives. Champagne flutes caught the glow like they were drinking it. The air smelled of orchids and expensive perfume—layered over the steady, human heat of too many bodies packed into too little space.
Mira Chen had spent three hours making herself look unbothered.
She’d pinned her hair back with a minimalist silver clip, the kind that made it look like effortlessness was her hobby. Her dress—deep green silk that slid over her hips and made her shoulders look stronger than they felt—wasn’t what her boyfriend preferred.
Ethan had opinions about what made a woman “presentable.”
Tonight, Mira had decided to be *present* anyway.
At the edge of the dance floor, she smiled at someone she barely knew, nodded at a compliment she didn’t quite hear, and tried to ignore the small, persistent dread that had been needling her since she walked in.
Ethan hadn’t met her at the door.
Ethan hadn’t texted back.
Ethan—three years of Ethan—was supposedly “working the room,” which was code for *being charming at everyone except the person who knows exactly what you’re like in sweatpants.*
She took a slow sip of champagne, the bubbles stinging the back of her throat, and scanned the crowd again.
There.
By the sponsor wall, where the logo backdrop turned every conversation into a photo op.
Ethan’s hand was on a woman’s waist.
Not a polite hand. Not a passing hand.
A claiming, familiar, *I belong here* hand.
The woman tipped her head back and laughed at something he murmured into her ear. Her hair was glossy black, her dress a dangerous silver, her lipstick a red that didn’t apologize to anyone.
Mira stared so hard her vision narrowed, the edges of the room dimming until there was only that hand on that waist.
Then Ethan’s mouth touched the woman’s neck.
Not a kiss you could argue away. Not a cheek peck. Not a friendly greeting.
A slow press of lips to skin that made the woman’s eyes flutter closed like she’d practiced.
Mira’s champagne flute went weightless in her fingers.
For a second she didn’t feel anything. Not rage, not sorrow—just a strange blankness, like her body couldn’t decide which emergency to prioritize.
Then her stomach dropped with violent clarity.
Her hand shook. A little splash of champagne leapt over the rim and spotted her wrist.
Ethan’s head turned. His gaze swept the room, and Mira knew—knew with a certainty that made her teeth ache—that he would find her.
He did.
His eyes widened. Just slightly. A flicker of calculation.
And then—because this was Ethan—his expression rearranged itself into something annoyed, like she’d caught him with a messy spreadsheet instead of another woman’s throat under his mouth.
Mira’s lungs forgot how to work.
The room didn’t stop. Music kept playing. People kept laughing. A woman in a pearl dress drifted past Mira as if the world hadn’t just split in two.
Ethan started toward her.
Mira didn’t let him reach her.
She turned, skirt whispering around her knees, and walked as fast as she could without running—because running would be a spectacle, and she’d already had enough of those in her life.
She threaded through bodies and laughter and the clink of glass. Her eyes stung.
A sign for “COATROOM” pointed down a carpeted hallway lined with framed photos of old donors smiling beside plaques.
Mira followed it like a lifeline.
The coatroom door was half-ajar. Inside, the noise of the ballroom dulled into a distant throb. The air was cooler, smelling of wool and perfume and dry cleaning chemicals. A single lamp on a side table cast a warm pool of light over a row of hangers and numbered tags.
Mira stepped in and shut the door behind her.
The quiet hit her like a wave.
Her throat tightened. She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if she could physically hold her dignity in place.
*Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t—*
She made it to the corner by a rack of coats before the first sob broke free.
It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t cinematic.
It was ugly, surprised, and sharp.
Her hands shook as she tried to wipe her face. Mascara threatened. Her chest ached with the effort of trying to breathe around humiliation.
She was halfway through a second, more furious sob when a low voice said, calmly, “You’re going to want to breathe through your nose.”
Mira jerked, heart punching her ribs.
She spun around.
A man leaned against the far wall, partially in shadow. He wore a charcoal suit that fit like it was tailored for his body and his body alone—not off-the-rack perfection, but something with intention. His hair was dark and slightly too long on top, like he’d run his hands through it and then decided not to apologize. His face was arresting in a way that didn’t feel polished. Strong nose. Full mouth. Eyes that held steady—warm brown, unflinching.
And he was holding out a handkerchief.
Not a crumpled napkin. Not a paper towel.
A crisp white square folded neatly over his fingers.
Mira stared at it like it might be a trick.
“Sorry,” she said, voice rough. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
“I’m hiding,” he replied. “From the speeches.”
Mira let out a short, humorless laugh that ended in a sniffle.
He took one step forward—slow, careful, giving her space. “Take it.”
“I’ll ruin it.”
“It’s cloth,” he said. “It can survive tears.”
Mira hesitated, then took the handkerchief with fingers that didn’t feel like her own.
The fabric was soft. Cool. Something about the simple, tangible kindness of it made her want to cry harder.
She pressed it to her eyes.
The man’s gaze flicked over her face, not lingering in a way that felt invasive, but present in a way that made her feel seen.
“Gala fight?” he asked.
Mira barked out another laugh. “Gala… betrayal.”
His brows rose slightly. “Classic.”
She wiped her cheek, angry again. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“You should have come,” he said. “You should just leave with the open bar.”
Mira looked at him. “Are you always this… calm?”
“Mostly.”
“That’s infuriating.”
He shrugged, as if that was a feature he’d stopped trying to fix. “It’s useful in emergencies.”
“This isn’t an emergency.”
His gaze dipped to her trembling hands. “Someone hurt you. That counts.”
Mira swallowed, throat raw. She tried to gather herself into something that didn’t look like a disaster. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he said, not unkindly. “But you will be.”
She stared at him, annoyance sparking through the misery. “Do you always talk like a fortune cookie?”
“Only when people are crying in closets.”
Mira’s lips twitched despite herself.
He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and drew out a small, polished flask. He held it out with the same steady patience as the handkerchief.
Mira blinked. “Is that—”
“Whiskey,” he said. “The kind that makes you feel brave and slightly reckless.”
“That’s… extremely irresponsible.”
“Probably,” he agreed.
Mira stared at the flask. Her hands itched with the urge to take it. The part of her that had been trying to be good for years—good girlfriend, good employee, good daughter—shuddered under the weight of tonight.
She took it.
The metal was cool. She unscrewed the cap and took a cautious sip.
The whiskey hit her tongue like fire—smoky and rich and unforgiving. It burned all the way down, a clean, punishing line through her chest.
Her eyes widened. “Oh my God.”
He watched her with something like amusement. “Right?”
Mira coughed, then laughed again, this time with actual sound in it. “You’re insane.”
“Sometimes.”
She took a second sip, smaller. Her hands steadied. The humiliation didn’t evaporate, but it shifted, becoming something she could look at without collapsing.
She leaned back against the coat rack, closing her eyes for a second. “I can’t believe he did it here. In public.”
“Some people enjoy the risk,” the man said.
Mira opened her eyes, anger hot. “He enjoyed humiliating me.”
The man’s expression tightened. “That’s different.”
Mira’s fingers clenched around the flask. “I want him to see me walk out with someone better.”
The words left her mouth before she could weigh them.
The man’s gaze sharpened. “Better.”
Mira’s cheeks burned. She wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey or the audacity. “I don’t even mean… I don’t know what I mean.”
“You mean you want control back,” he said, very quietly.
Mira’s breath caught.
He stepped closer again—not crowding, but closing distance in a way that made her skin go alert. He smelled like clean soap and something darker underneath, like cedar or spice.
“You don’t owe him your collapse,” he continued. “Or your quiet acceptance.”
Mira stared up at him, suddenly aware of her body in a way that had nothing to do with tears. A tightness low in her belly, a pulse of adrenaline that didn’t know whether to become anger or something else.
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
Mira’s heart kicked hard.
She didn’t have time to overthink it. Not tonight. Not when she’d spent three years overthinking herself into smaller and smaller shapes.
She grabbed his tie—yes, he was wearing one, a black strip of silk that looked like it had never been knotted by shaky hands—and yanked him down.
Her mouth met his.
It was not a sweet kiss.
It was an impulsive, furious, whiskey-lit collision of mouths.
For half a second, he stayed still, surprised.
Then his hands came up—one bracing the back of her head, the other at her waist—and he kissed her back like he’d made a decision.
Hard.
He opened his mouth and deepened it, drawing a sound from Mira that she didn’t recognize as her own. His tongue brushed hers, confident and hot, and Mira’s knees went soft.
The hand at her waist tightened, pulling her flush to him.
His body was solid—broad through the chest, firm at the hips, heat radiating through the fine fabric of his suit. Mira pressed closer, desperate for the grounding of another person’s hands.
He broke the kiss just long enough to inhale, his forehead resting against hers.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low.
Mira’s breath came in uneven pulls. “No.”
His lips brushed hers again, softer. “Do you want me to stop?”
Mira’s eyes fluttered closed. She felt the slick slide of her own tears cooling on her cheeks. The absurdity of kissing a stranger in a coatroom while her life imploded.
And yet—his hands were steady. His mouth was certain. The world outside the door didn’t matter for one breath.
“No,” she whispered.
His mouth returned to hers.
This time, he kissed her slower, like he was tasting the decision. Mira’s fingers fisted in his lapels. Her body lit up—nerves, skin, everything.
His hand slid from her waist to her lower back, guiding her as if he already knew how she liked to be held. The other hand moved to her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone with a tenderness that made something in her chest ache.
She pulled back enough to look at him.
Up close, she could see the faint line beside his mouth—an expression etched there by restraint. His gaze was steady, but something in it was sharp now.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
A pause. “Theo.”
“Mira,” she said, and her voice sounded like her own again—shaky, but real.
“Theo,” she repeated, testing it like a new flavor.
He dipped his head as if in acknowledgment. “Mira.”
The door handle rattled.
Mira froze.
A muffled voice outside said, “I swear she came this way.”
Ethan.
Her blood turned to ice and then to fire.
Theo’s hand tightened on her waist, not possessive—protective. He leaned close to her ear. “Do you want to be found?”
Mira swallowed. Her first instinct was to run, to hide, to avoid the scene.
Her second instinct—new and burning—was to turn the humiliation into something else.
“Open the door,” she whispered.
Theo’s eyes met hers. There was a flicker of question.
Then he nodded once, slow.
He walked to the door and pulled it open.
Ethan stood in the hallway, tie slightly loose, cheeks flushed with anger or drink. Beside him hovered a woman Mira recognized from HR, eyes wide as she took in the scene.
Ethan’s gaze locked onto Mira. “There you are.”
Then his eyes slid to Theo, and his expression shifted—uncertainty, recognition, alarm.
Theo didn’t move aside. He stood in the doorway like he belonged there.
Mira stepped forward until she was beside Theo, shoulder nearly brushing his arm.
Ethan’s jaw tightened. “Mira, we need to talk.”
Mira’s heart hammered, but her voice came out clear. “About what? Your new girlfriend?”
The HR woman made a small choking sound and vanished backward, suddenly very interested in the sponsor wall down the corridor.
Ethan’s eyes flashed. “It’s not what it looked like.”
Mira laughed. “Then you should practice looking less like a liar.”
Theo’s presence was a steady weight at her side. Ethan’s gaze darted to him again. “Who is this?”
Theo answered before Mira could. “Theo Reyes.”
Ethan went pale.
Mira’s eyes widened slightly. *That* Theo Reyes?
Founder of Reyes Systems. The man who’d been on magazine covers like he was a concept. The billionaire who made everyone else’s success look like a hobby.
Ethan swallowed. “I— didn’t realize you were—”
Theo’s smile was faint and cold. “You’re interrupting.”
Ethan’s face reddened. “Mira, are you seriously doing this?”
Mira lifted her chin. “Doing what?”
Ethan’s eyes flicked over her, judging, furious. “This. Making a scene.”
Theo’s hand slid to the small of Mira’s back, a quiet claim that sent a jolt through her.
Mira turned slightly toward Theo, letting herself lean into him.
She looked back at Ethan. “I’m leaving.”
“With him?” Ethan snapped.
“With anyone but you,” Mira said.
Theo inclined his head toward the hallway. “Shall we?”
Mira nodded, and they walked past Ethan together.
Mira could feel Ethan’s stare burning into her back like a brand.
She didn’t look back.
***
In the main lobby, the noise of the gala swelled again. People turned. Eyes followed.
Theo didn’t rush. He moved with measured confidence, like the world was obliged to make room. Mira stayed close, the handkerchief still clutched in her hand, her pulse still racing.
Outside, the night air was cold enough to sting.
Theo stopped at the curb where a black car waited, sleek and quiet. The driver stepped out immediately, opening the rear door with practiced efficiency.
Mira’s breath fogged. She looked at Theo, suddenly uncertain.
“What just happened?” she asked.
Theo’s gaze held hers. “You decided not to be small.”
Mira’s throat tightened again, but the tears didn’t fall this time.
From the glass doors behind them, she saw movement—Ethan, pushing through the crowd.
Theo saw it too.
Something in him shifted—not panic, not anger. Calculation.
He leaned closer to Mira, voice low. “I’m going to say something. You can tell me to stop.”
Mira swallowed. “Okay.”
Theo turned slightly so Ethan would see him clearly—Mira tucked close at his side.
When Ethan reached them, breath sharp with cold and rage, Theo spoke first.
“Mira is with me,” Theo said.
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t even know her.”
Theo didn’t blink. “I know enough.”
Ethan scoffed. “Is this some kind of—”
Theo’s hand tightened at Mira’s back. “It’s not a game.”
Mira’s heart thudded so hard she felt it in her throat.
Ethan’s gaze flicked between them. “Mira, this is ridiculous. You’re making a mistake.”
Theo’s eyes went cool. “The mistake was you.”
Ethan’s face twisted.
Theo leaned down, lips brushing Mira’s ear. “If you want him gone, you need to look like you’ve already moved on.”
Mira’s mouth went dry.
Then she lifted her chin and looked straight at Ethan.
“I’m done,” she said. “Go back inside. Tell everyone whatever version makes you feel better. I don’t care.”
Ethan’s expression fractured—hurt flickering there for the first time, quickly replaced by resentment. “Fine. Have fun with your rebound.”
He turned and stalked back toward the doors.
Mira let out a shaky breath.
Theo watched Ethan disappear into the building. Then he looked down at Mira and said, very softly, “He’s going to try to rewrite this.”
Mira frowned. “What do you mean?”
“He’s going to tell people you were unstable. Dramatic. That you overreacted.” Theo’s jaw tightened. “Men like him do that.”
Mira’s stomach knotted. She knew he was right. Ethan was already good at reshaping reality until she questioned her own memory.
Theo held her gaze. “Let me propose something.”
Mira’s brows lifted, wary. “Propose?”
Theo’s mouth curved slightly, but there was tension under it. “A solution.”
Mira hugged the handkerchief to her palm like a lifeline. “I’m listening.”
Theo glanced back at the glass doors. “My mother is inside.”
Mira blinked. “Okay?”
“She’s been trying to set me up all night,” he said. “A parade of women she considers… appropriate.”
Mira’s head tilted. “And?”
Theo’s gaze returned to hers. “And the easiest way to make her stop is to show her I’m already taken.”
Mira stared. “You want me to be—what—your date?”
“Not just tonight,” he said. “For a while.”
Mira’s breath caught. “You’re serious.”
Theo nodded once. “Fake girlfriend. Publicly convincing. Long enough that people stop asking questions.”
Mira’s brain spun, trying to catch up. “Why me?”
Theo’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Because I saw what he did to you. Because you kissed me like you meant it. And because—” His gaze dropped to her mouth again. “—I don’t think you’d be easily intimidated.”
Mira’s cheeks warmed. “You don’t know me.”
Theo’s voice went lower. “I’d like to.”
Mira’s heart stuttered. The absurdity. The danger. The sudden, electric possibility.
“And what do I get?” she asked, forcing the words out.
Theo’s smile sharpened. “Your ex will regret every life choice that led him to tonight.”
Mira’s pulse jumped.
“And,” Theo added, quieter, “you get control.”
Mira looked back at the gala, the glittering doorway that held Ethan and three years of compromise and all the ways she’d made herself smaller.
Then she looked at Theo—calm, dangerous, offering a hand like it was a contract.
She heard herself say, “What are the terms?”
Theo’s gaze warmed, approving. “Get in the car. We’ll talk.”
Mira hesitated only one breath.
Then she slid into the back seat.
Theo followed, shutting the door behind him, sealing them into quiet leather and expensive cologne and the thrum of an engine waiting to launch them into something else.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Mira’s phone buzzed with a text.
From Ethan.
*You’re embarrassing yourself.*
Mira stared at the screen until her vision sharpened with something that wasn’t tears.
Theo watched her. “Him?”
Mira nodded.
Theo held out his hand, palm up. “Give me your phone.”
Mira blinked. “Why?”
“So I can watch you decide,” Theo said. “Do you want to keep letting him speak to you like that?”
Mira’s fingers tightened around the phone.
Then she placed it in Theo’s hand.
Theo looked at the screen, expression unreadable. He tapped a few times, then handed it back.
Mira looked down.
Ethan’s number was blocked.
Her breath left her in a rush. She hadn’t realized how much power that simple act would feel like.
Theo studied her face. “Better?”
Mira swallowed. “Yes.”
His gaze lingered, steady and intent. “Good. Now—about those terms.”
The car’s tinted windows reflected the city lights as they moved, and Mira realized she’d just agreed to something she didn’t understand at all.
And she wanted it anyway.
***