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Max

It kills me that she finally asked someone for help, and I had to be the one to prove her right about men letting her down.

The way her tone changed when I said no. The wall slamming back up behind her voice. Everything we'd built these past weeks, shattered because I couldn't explain.

"Two minutes, Max!" Tracy calls through the door.

I adjust Stanley's aviators, check my own. Time to put on the show. Time to pretend my chest isn't caving in.

The arena erupts as we enter. Stanley, perfect as always, guides me through our routine. Every turn precise. Every command flawless. My body moves on autopilot while my mind keeps replaying Morgan's words.

" Stupid me, thinking you actually cared about saving animals. "

If she only knew.

We nail the final sequence. The judges stand. Perfect scores across the board.

"Incredible!" Tracy rushes over with the PR team. "The footage is amazing. Wait until you see—"

"Great." My voice sounds hollow even to me. "When's the press conference?"

"Twenty minutes. We're announcing the donation to the Children's Leukemia Center right after they present the check."

Right. The plan. The whole reason we're here.

I should feel triumphant. This is what we worked for. What we trained for.

Instead, all I can think about is Morgan, probably speeding back to her clinic, believing I'm exactly the kind of man she always feared.

The press conference is a blur of cameras and questions. I say all the right things about the donation, about how important the cause is. Stanley sits regally beside me, ever the professional.

"Max! How does it feel to win?"

Worse than losing. "Incredible," I say, flashing my media smile. "Stanley and I couldn't be prouder."

"This means everything," the hospital director says, clutching the oversized check. "The research funding will—"

I barely hear him. Because three rows back, an empty seat mocks me. The one reserved for Morgan. The one that should have been filled with proud eyes and that smile that makes my heart stutter.

"Max?" Tracy hisses. "They’re asking about tomorrow's couples division."

I flinch. Right.

"Did you sign up without telling me?"

"I did."

"Fuck. Then who the hell are you bringing as your partner?" she demands. "Because that’s not a competition slot, Max—that’s a brand decision."

"Morgan. Morgan Bailey. She’s a vet."

Her face goes red. “Jesus Christ. You didn’t clear that with anyone. You violated the PR machine’s rules. You inserted a real woman—probably with no media profile—into a brand-controlled moment. I don’t give a shit if she’s God’s vet.”

"It’s not like I—"

"No. You don’t get to plead ignorance. You’re not just a competitor—you’re a goddamn celebrity. What you do on that stage tomorrow isn't personal. It’s public. It’s marketing. It’s optics.”

She steps in closer, voice low and livid.

“We should’ve built a whole campaign around it.

Found you a stunning model with a massive following—someone who would’ve boosted engagement, driven traffic, gotten the sponsors off—figuratively speaking.

Someone who would’ve made us money just by showing up.

Teased it as a celebrity pairing, cross-promoted it, merchandised the hell out of it. But instead you picked your—”

She stops herself.

“Jane Doe. What the fuck even is she to you?”

A week ago, I would've said my fiancée. Said it proudly, publicly, and dared her to object.

But now?

Now she’s just the woman I broke. The one who’ll be pretending beside me—same as I will.

“She’s my partner,” I say quietly.

Tracy glares. “Right. Your partner. Well, it’s too late to spin it now. Just smile, don’t say anything that’ll make us trend for the wrong reason—and pray she doesn’t screw things up.”

“We’ll be ready,” I say automatically.

"Ellen wants you both next week. And The Today Show—"

"Not now, Tracy."

"But the momentum—"

"I said not now."

A reporter asks the question I was hoping would come. “Why didn’t you announce the donation earlier? Why keep something like that quiet?”

I take a slow breath and glance at the check beside me. Then I look directly at the closest camera, hoping Morgan is watching. God, let her be watching the live transmission—wherever she is.

“Because we didn’t know if we’d win,” I say. “And we didn’t want to give false hope to families counting on that donation—only to let them down if things didn’t go our way.”

I pause. “This cause matters. These kids matter. And Stanley and I couldn’t stomach the idea of using them for PR if we couldn’t follow through.”

The room goes still.

Then I grin. “Of course, some of you thought there was no chance we’d lose…” I glance down at her, “right, girl?”

I tap two fingers against the table—our subtle cue.

Stanley throws back her head and howls.

The room erupts in laughter.

Cameras flash. Tracy exhales behind me like she just aged in reverse.

I keep smiling.

Tracy's now thrilled. Angry, but thrilled. The donation's already making headlines. #StanleyForKids is trending.

I step back to the mic. “Time to make an announcement.”

The room hushes. Tracy goes pale behind the cameras.

“Tomorrow, Stanley Puck and I are entering the partners division. Not with a model or a celebrity or a PR-approved campaign. With a real person, just like all of you—because our care for the cause is real. We’re partnering with an unknown human who loves animals and a rescue dog named Spookie because he was found on Halloween.

And none of us is doing it for the spotlight or for followers, but because we believe in the good this contest can do. ”

I glance at the crowd. “I’ll be partnering—and winning—with someone important in my life.”

A beat of silence. Then applause. Then louder. The whole room breaks open.

I look down. Stanley nudges my hand and I know what she’s thinking. If she doesn’t show up we’re fucked.

“I know, girl. I know. But not losing her is worth the risk.”

I turn to Tracy. She’s fuming—but I catch the fire in her eyes. Not anger. Recognition.

“Happy now?” I ask, half a smile curling. “That’ll get you more views than a plastic influencer ever could.”

She exhales through her nose. “You’re an asshole,” she mutters. “But yeah. That was brilliant.”

The rest of the conference passes in a haze. #WeLoveYouSpookie is trending.

A perfect day, by all accounts.

Except.

Stanley sits closer than usual, pressing into my leg like she's trying to hold me up. Like she knows exactly why my chest feels hollow. Yeah, but still—you screwed it.

"I know, girl." I scratch behind her ears. "I miss her too."

Otto materializes from nowhere, as usual. "Ze victory party starts in one hour."

"Cancel it."

"But ze sponsors—"

"Please."

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "I will tell zem you are... preparing for tomorrow."

I head home alone, Stanley quiet beside me. The apartment feels empty now. Wrong. Like all the warmth got sucked out when Morgan left.

Even my bed betrays me, still holding the ghost of her scent on the pillows. Still echoing with the sound of her laugh when Stanley tried to join us for breakfast.

My phone buzzes with congratulations. The hospital's thank you. Sponsor messages.

Nothing from her.

Of course not.

I drop onto the couch, loosening my tie. Stanley rests her head on my knee.

"I had to say no," I whisper.

I had to. It was already promised I wouldn’t tell anybody. And what’s left of me if my word has no value? Like when I promised Emmy I’d braid her hair one more time—and didn’t. I became a nothing—and it’s taken me years to become a man.

My brain gets it. But my heart keeps whispering, It wasn’t just anybody. It was her.

It was her .

I could've told her the truth. Could’ve said the prize money was already earmarked for the Leukemia Center. That this whole damn performance—the press, the campaign, the donation—was the only thing that’s felt meaningful since Emmy died.

But I didn’t.

Because telling her in that moment would’ve felt like using my sister’s death to win sympathy. Like turning Emmy into a bargaining chip.

But knowing that doesn't make it hurt less.

Doesn't make me stop imagining her pain when she finally trusted someone enough to ask for help—and got rejected.

Doesn't make me stop wishing I could tell her everything.

Silence isn’t noble. It’s just lonely.

And now, so am I.

Like I was after Emmy left.

Like I was before Morgan.

As I lie there in the darkness, it hits me. I could have offered her the money instead. Not a loan—a gift. To the cause dear to her heart.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I’m such an imbecile. It would have taken time to pull it from my retirement account, but she would have understood.

Buying the van for her didn’t even occur to me. I heard “give me the prize” and I didn’t even think the decision was giving it to her or not, my cause or her cause—I just felt I had to choose between Emmy and her. And that paralyzed me like a fucking idiot.

I fucking froze.

Emmy wouldn’t have known.

Now I’m being an asshole. Nothing I do is for Emmy to know.

I believe I’m so smart, and when it mattered most I froze. Like a coward.

And now I’ve lost my girl—again.

Fuck.

Now it feels like life gave me a second chance and I fucked it.

Tomorrow we'll compete together. Tomorrow I'll smile and play my part. Pretend we’re still partners in more than name.

And she’ll be pretending too.

Because now she hates me.

Because I gave her every reason to.

I’m the reason her heart is broken. The reason she doesn’t believe in men like me.

And the worst part is that she’s not wrong.