Page 50 of For the Plot

“It should,” she agrees gently. “But does it?”

I press my lips together.

Maya leans across the table, her voice lower now. “Listen. If this thing keeps going, you have to talk about it. You can’t just be some secret he’s ashamed to admit, especially not when it’s this messy. And trust me—keeping you from his son? That’s not neutral. That’s intentional.”

Her words slide under my skin and settle somewhere I don’t want to examine.

“I hear you,” I say quietly.

She sits back and exhales, then brightens. “Okay. Enough serious shit. Youarestill coming to the gallery show this weekend, right?”

“Oh God, yes,” I breathe. “I need something that isn’t tied to work. Or Reece. Or my increasingly unstable libido.”

She grins. “Perfect. My friend’s finally getting her piece displayed, and we’re celebrating after. There will be drinks and art and weirdos. You’ll love it.”

“I plan to drink something out of a paper cup and stand in front of abstract nudes, pretending not to think about being bent over a terrace railing.”

Maya raises her glass. “To bestie time and no billionaires.”

I clink my glass against hers, even as a voice inside me whispers that fate’s not done playing games with me yet.

Chapter 10

Reece

The scent hits first—perfume, sweat, wine. Too many people packed into a white-walled space, pretending to care about brushstrokes and themes.

I don’t do gallery openings. I don’t do small talk or art analysis or standing around with a drink, waiting to be cornered by someone pitching a nonprofit.

But Elliot, one of my only friends, asked. “Just an hour,” he said. “Kacey finally got a solo wall. We need people like you in the room.”

People like me translates to people with money.

I step farther in. The lights are low, the noise too bright. I run a hand over my jaw and tug at my open collar. No tie, but I still feel strangled.

I stay near the door, scanning the room. Modern art, glass sculptures, too many oversized canvas pieces that look like someone spilled a box of crayons and called it commentary. I pretend to study one as I count the minutes until I can leave.

Then I see her…You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

She’s across the gallery near one of the smaller exhibits. Her head’s tilted as she studies a painting. She doesn’t see me. And I— I forget how to fucking breathe.

Her hair’s twisted up, loose at the neck. There’s a smudge of something shimmery on her shoulders. But it’s the dress that does it.

Black. Silk. Short. Backless. No bra.

It clings. Moves when she moves. Every inch of her is on display, and none of it is for me. But I feel it like a hit to the chest anyway. I’ve seen her in blouses and blazers. I’ve seen her in leggings and hoodies. But this? This isn’t a version of her I’m ready for.

She shifts, laughing at something Maya says beside her. Her mouth curves and her fingers tap the base of her wineglass. My stomach tightens. My jaw locks.

She’s relaxed. Lit up. Like she belongs here. I don’t. And I shouldn’t be here watching her like this. I shouldn’t be thinking about how her skin would taste, how easy it would be to walk over and press her against that wall behind her. Slide my hand up the back of that dress and see how far she’d let me go before she told me to stop.

If she told me to stop.I take a step back. I need to leave.

It’s the only move that makes sense. I’ll text Elliot, tell him something came up. I’ve done my part by showing up. Staying isn’t a good idea. Not now. Not like this. But before I can turn, before I can disappear, he spots me.

“Reece!” Elliot’s grin stretches across the room as he lifts his glass. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

Fuck.