Page 19

This was a bad idea.

Not unethical. Not dangerous. But high-risk ridiculous. The kind of plan you’d expect from a woman in a romcom with a concussion. Or unresolved issues from high school. Or both.

I stand in front of the mirror in Jessie’s apartment, applying eyeliner with the kind of concentration usually reserved for bomb defusal. Which, to be fair, this kind of is.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jessie says from the couch, where she’s aggressively not watching me. “You’re doing a field test. Of a man. Using your own body.”

I cap the eyeliner and turn to face her. “He seduces for sport. This is just... sport back.”

“You literally teach women how to avoid guys like him.”

“Exactly. Which makes this... research.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And the wig?”

I hold up the glossy red hair bob. “Controlled variable.”

Jessie mutters something about Freud and takes a sip of wine.

The logic is shaky, yes. But here’s the thing: I need to know.

It’s not just about Adrian. Okay—it’s about Adrian. But more than that, it’s about my own mind. Because lately, I can’t tell if he’s my ideological nemesis or just... incredibly inconveniently hot.

And if I’m going to exorcise that confusion, I need data. Intimate data. Unfiltered.

Also, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction .

If I show up as me—Emily, the feminist podcast host who made a whole video about his fragile masculinity—he’ll think he won. That I cracked. That he “converted” me with pheromones and a well-placed smirk.

No. Absolutely not.

But if I show up as someone else? That would be mine.

I slip into the dress—black, low-backed, the kind of thing I’d usually pair with a blazer and a TED Talk. Tonight, no blazer. Just skin, scent, and strategy.

Lipstick next. Red, obviously. If I’m going full femme fatale, I might as well max out the trope.

I study my reflection. I don’t look like me. And that’s the point.

Tonight, I’ll be Lena. Or Val. Or some woman who laughs at all the right moments and doesn’t quote social science mid-flirt.

I don’t want to humiliate him. I just want to see.

What’s it like, being the kind of woman Adrian Zayne wants?

And would I feel anything at all?

Jessie stands and hands me my coat. “Please don’t die.”

“I’m not even going to kiss him.”

She pauses. “Okay, now I’m worried.”

I wink and leave before she can stop me.

The place is already buzzing when I arrive. Rooftop loft. Influencer gloss. Music pulsing with effortless cool. I tell the bouncer I’m “on the list.” He waves me through without looking.

Inside, I do a slow lap, acting like I’m just taking it all in—not scanning for him.

And there he is.

Leaning against the bar, laughing at something someone said, hand curled casually around a glass of something dark. Of course he looks perfect. Of course he wears black. Of course his smile makes half the room tilt on its axis.

I roll my shoulders back, walk slowly, let the heels click just enough to be heard over the bass.

He doesn’t look up until I’m almost beside him.

Then—eye contact.

Brief flicker. No recognition.

But then again, his smile shifts almost imperceptibly. Just a twitch at the corner. Like a man clocking a déjà vu he can’t quite place.

“Evening,” he says, voice smooth. Curious.

I smile. “Is this where the emotionally unavailable go to recharge?”

He chuckles. “Depends. Are you here to recharge or to deconstruct?”

Touché.

I sip the drink I haven’t yet ordered. “Neither. Just... observing the wildlife.”

He looks at me again, head tilted. “You seem familiar.”

My pulse spikes. I raise an eyebrow. “We all start to blur together after enough ring lights and podcast reels.”

Another smile. This one is slower. More dangerous.

“What’s your name?”

“Lena,” I say, praying he doesn’t recognize the feminist callback.

“Well, Lena,” he says, “can I get you a drink, or are you planning to psychoanalyze me from afar all night?”

“I find proximity improves accuracy.”

That earns me a nod of approval. “Fair enough.”

I know I’m playing a game, but the rules are starting to shift under my feet.

At some point, he leans in—closer than necessary. His breath warm against my cheek. “You always this sharp?” he murmurs.

“Only when I’m undercover.”

He pulls back a fraction, eyes flickering. “Is that what this is?”

I smile, slow and deliberate. “Would it ruin the moment if it were?”

A beat.

“No,” he says softly. “Just makes it more interesting.”

My heart stutters.

For a moment, we just stand there. Sea air curling around us, the bass of the party fading behind glass.

Then, gently, he gestures toward the interior stairwell. “Come inside.”

No flourish. No smirk. Just that calm confidence, like gravity has quietly shifted and I’m already mid-fall.

I follow.

Down a short corridor, past dimly lit rooms. He opens a door, steps aside.

I walk in.

He closes it behind us.

The click of the door feels louder than it should. Or maybe everything does—his footsteps on the wood, the hush of the air between us, the sound of my own pulse trying to set a land-speed record.

He doesn’t move right away.

Just watches me.

The kind of watch that makes you forget how eyes even work. Like he’s waiting for something. A signal. A slip. A tell.

I’m supposed to be in control. This is my experiment. My mask. My move.

But now I can’t remember what I’ve been trying to prove.

His gaze drops—neck, collarbone, the low dip of the dress. Then back up.

Slow.

Unhurried.

Hungry.

“I have to admit,” he says quietly, “you’re very convincing.”

I swallow. “Convincing?”

He steps forward.

One breath.

Two.

I don’t back away.

“You planned all this,” he murmurs. “The dress. The voice. The persona.”

I say nothing.

Because somehow, it doesn’t feel like a trap anymore. It feels like gravity has shifted and I’m floating. Toward something I can’t name.

“But next time...” he says, voice brushing my skin like a secret.

He leans in.

Close enough to feel the warmth of his words .

“...just ask.”

A beat.

Then, softer—almost smiling:

“Emily.”

My breath catches.

And everything—

Goes dark.

I jolt awake. Alone. Blankets tangled. Skin flushed. A strange ache in my chest, like I’ve just missed a train I didn’t know I wanted to catch.

The laptop beside me is still open, screen dimmed. One headphone has fallen out. The video has auto-rolled to another Adrian Zayne monologue.

I stare at the ceiling.

Seriously?

Because of course. Of course it ends right there.

Not even a kiss. Just Next time, ask.

I flop back, shove a pillow over my face, and curse my subconscious for having better game than me.