I woke to the smell of bacon and the disorienting realization that I wasn’t in my princess tower with its suffocating pink wallpaper and childhood trauma.

No, I was in a bed that smelled like bad decisions—except they weren’t bad. They were fucking transcendent.

My body ached in places I’d forgotten existed, each twinge a reminder of last night’s athletic performance. Gold medal worthy, if destroying your entire life plan was an Olympic sport.

I padded out of bed, naked as my ambitions, and raided Caleb’s closet.

Found a Columbia Business School t-shirt that hit mid-thigh and decided underwear was for quitters and people with their shit together. Neither category applied to me anymore.

The kitchen reveal was almost too much for my pre-coffee brain to process: Caleb in low-slung sweatpants that should be illegal in several states, spatula in hand, looking like a thirst trap that learned to cook.

My brain helpfully supplied: This is why women write fanfiction. This exact fucking moment.

“Morning,” I said, going for casual and landing somewhere around desperate housewife who just discovered her pool boy has a PhD.

Fuck it. I launched myself at him like a heat-seeking missile programmed for destruction.

The kiss was morning breath and bacon grease and zero regrets. His hands found my ass under the shirt, and suddenly breakfast was the least important meal of the day.

“Something’s burning,” I mumbled against his mouth, because apparently my survival instincts hadn’t completely died with my virginity.

“Don’t care,” he growled back, hiking me up onto the counter. But the smoke alarm had opinions—loud, shrieking opinions that suggested we evacuate immediately.

We broke apart laughing, surveying the charcoal that used to be eggs. The bacon had transcended crispy and entered carbon territory. His culinary skills clearly didn’t match his other talents.

“DoorDash?” I suggested, still perched on his counter like I belonged there.

“You’re brilliant,” he said, already reaching for his phone with one hand while the other stayed firmly on my thigh.

Nothing says “I love you” like delivery fees and pretending calories don’t count before noon.

Over delivered bagels and overpriced coffee that probably cost more than minimum wage workers made in an hour, reality started seeping in through the cracks of our morning after bubble.

“Can’t exactly walk of shame into Daddy’s house wearing last night’s ‘fuck me’ dress,” I observed, spreading cream cheese with the focus of someone avoiding bigger conversations. “Need to hit Josie’s first. Steal some clothes that don’t scream ‘just got railed by my father’s best friend.'”

Caleb nodded, zero judgment in his expression. God, I loved that about him.

No lectures about propriety or family expectations. Just practical acknowledgment that yes, showing up in yesterday’s party dress would be less than ideal for maintaining our secret.

Time for the hard part—the reality check that had been buzzing in my brain like an angry wasp since consciousness returned.

“Anthony cornered me at the party,” I started, watching his jaw tighten like someone had personally offended his ancestors. “Not like that. Jesus. Give me some credit.”

I took a breath, organized my thoughts into something resembling coherent sentences. “He wanted to warn me—our parents are fast-tracking this shit show. Want the wedding next month instead of four.”

The words landed between us like a ticking bomb. One month. Thirty days to figure out how to detonate my life without taking everyone down with me.

“Plot twist though,” I continued, going for dark humor because what else was there? “He doesn’t want it either. Doesn’t love me. Says he doesn’t want to marry until he’s thirty and his frontal lobe finishes developing.”

“Smart man,” Caleb said, but his knuckles were white around his coffee mug.

“We’re thinking of planning a mutual escape. Strategic incompatibility or whatever.” I studied his face, trying to read the twelve different emotions flickering across it. “Turns out my arranged husband has more emotional intelligence than my entire family combined.”

“You have four hundred and fifty-five thousand reasons to tell them all to fuck off,” Caleb pointed out, practical as ever. The man went from passionate to pragmatic faster than my father could say “market volatility.”

“Plus,” his voice dropped, loaded with promise and something heavier, “you have me. Whatever you need—lawyer, apartment, getaway car to Canada—I’m your guy.”

The declaration hit different in daylight, with bedhead and morning breath making everything real.

Not a hotel fantasy or wine cellar tension—just truth served with a side of cream cheese.

My chest went tight with something that might be hope or might be terror. Hard to tell the difference when your entire life was imploding in slow motion.

“You’d really do that?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded. “Blow up your friendship with my father, your business connections, everything?”

He reached across the table, fingers interlacing with mine. “Already did that last night. Might as well commit to the destruction.”

An hour later, I stood outside Josie’s apartment in last night’s dress and this morning’s shame, looking like a walking TMZ headline: “Heiress Does Walk of Shame, Capitalism Weeps.”

The hallway smelled like weed and broken dreams—standard for her building.

Josie opened the door looking like death warmed over and served with a side of regret.

Hair in seventeen directions, mascara creating modern art on her cheeks, wearing what might have been a shirt but could also have been a very ambitious belt.

“You look like shit,” I offered, because friendship meant honesty.

“You look like you’re doing the same dress twice, which is worse.” She squinted, brain cells firing despite the obvious hangover. I watched recognition dawn across her face like a fucking sunrise. “You left with a headache. That dress says you left with a dick appointment.”

Her exhaustion evaporated faster than her standards at an open bar.

She went from hungover to hawk-eyed in 0.3 seconds, taking in every detail: smudged makeup that no amount of finger-combing could fix, sex hair poorly disguised as “effortless waves,” that specific glow that screamed “multiple orgasms and no regrets.”

“Wait.” Her voice went dangerously quiet, like a prosecutor who just found the smoking gun. “You didn’t go home last night.”

Statement, not question. I tried for innocent, achieved guilty with a side of freshly fucked.

“So…” Her eyebrow reached atmospheric levels, defying physics and good sense. “Where exactly were you?”

The question hung between us like a sword over my head, because how the fuck do you explain that you spent the night with your father’s best friend in his secret apartment? That it was the best sex of your life and you might be falling in love with him? That your wedding got moved up but you’re planning a jailbreak with your arranged husband?

That everything’s on fire but in a good way, like a controlled burn that clears the ground for new growth?

You don’t. You just stand there, guilt written across your face in neon letters, while your best friend waits for an answer that’s going to blow her fucking mind.