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Yeah… I’m speaking in past tense.

Because now that I think about it, it’s been a while since anything happened between us.

Every time she tried, I shut it down—one excuse after another.

And I can’t even tell anymore if they were real or if I just didn’t want it bad enough to make time.

Either way, I’m not about to dissect it now.

All I know is… Thalia is free to see whoever she wants. Do whatever she wants.

Just like me.

But that doesn’t stop me from wanting her to choose this.

To choose me. No complications. No expectations.

Just the pull between us, and everything that comes with it.

The vibration of my phone cuts clean through the thread of thoughts I’ve been circling, dragging me back into reality. I reach for it, glancing at the screen, and the moment I see Antonia’s name flashing, irritation settles almost instantly.

Christ.

I can’t wait for this entire circus surrounding her to finally be over.

With zero enthusiasm, I answer and bring the phone to my ear.

“Antonia,” I say, my tone flat, giving nothing away as I wait for her to speak.

“Ethan, I won’t keep you long,” she begins.

Good. At least she’s aware enough not to test my patience today.

“I just wanted to remind you that we need to be seen together at the gala tonight,” she continues, her voice carrying a faint hesitation beneath the surface. “And…”

She trails off, the silence stretching enough to make it obvious she’s weighing her next words carefully.

“Go on, Antonia,” I prompt, my patience already thinning. I’ve never had much tolerance for hesitation, or for games disguised as uncertainty.

“I’d like…” she starts again, then finally pushes through it, explaining how she wants things to look between us tonight—how close, how convincing, how seamless the illusion needs to be.

Of course I already know about the gala.

I know I’m expected to show up with her.

But the expectations and obligation have never been the same thing in my world.

If I play along, it’s not because I have to. It’s because I decide to.

The drive to the hotel hosting the gala is short. I picked Antonia up on the way, and now we’re seconds away from stepping into a storm of flashing cameras and sharpened curiosity—hundreds of reporters waiting to dissect every look, every gesture, every breath.

I’ve gotten used to it.

Or maybe I’ve just stopped caring.

“Ready?” she asks, her smile carefully placed as her fingers slide into mine, light but with purpose.

“I was born ready,” I reply, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth.