I rip my gaze from Caleb like I’m yanking off a Band-Aid—quick, painful, necessary.

The cameras keep flashing, immortalizing me and Anthony in our perfect arranged-couple cosplay. Welcome to the Wallace-Harris merger.

My brain splits in two: one half obsessing over that muscle ticking in Caleb’s jaw (jealousy? rage? indigestion?), the other half wondering if I’m just projecting my own emotional dumpster fire onto his carefully blank face.

Does he actually care that Anthony’s touching me? Or is he just pissed I left him with morning-after sheets and a hefty credit card charge?

Meanwhile, Anthony’s actually loosening up, throwing an arm around me for the photographers like we’re prom dates instead of a corporate merger.

The ease of his touch hits differently now—like maybe I’m finally the girl who can be touched without flinching.

Thanks for that life skill, Caleb. Really. A+.

“So, dinner?” Anthony asks once the photographers move on to their next society victims. “There’s this new place in Tribeca—”

“Rain check?” I cut him off with the practiced grace of someone who’s been deflecting men since puberty. “Tonight’s been… a lot.”

He takes the rejection better than expected, actually smiling instead of pouting. “Another time then. I’d like to actually get to know you when we’re not being documented for society pages.”

Sincerity catches me off-guard. Who knew Anthony had layers beyond “Instagram addict” and “trust fund brat”?

“Mikaela.”

Caleb’s voice slides down my spine like expensive whiskey. He’s materialized beside us with a man who screams hedge fund—tanned skin, too-white teeth, watch that probably cost more than most people’s cars.

“This is Paul, my business partner,” Caleb says, his voice carefully modulated. “Paul, this is Mikaela Wallace.”

“The famous daughter,” Paul says, eyes doing that creepy appraisal thing men think we don’t notice. “Gunther talks about you constantly.”

I doubt that very much, but I smile anyway, years of society training kicking in. “And this is Anthony Harris, my… fiancé.”

The word tastes like copper pennies in my mouth.

Anthony’s hand finds my waist, proprietary but not pushy. I catalog Caleb’s micro-expressions like a deranged stalker—the tightening around his eyes, the way his handshake with Anthony lasts a beat too long.

“We’re heading out,” Caleb says, voice careful as cut glass. “If you need a ride home—”

Anthony’s already stepping in, all easy confidence. “I’ve got her.”

The testosterone is thick enough to choke on. Caleb’s smile could freeze hell. “Of course you do.”

He and Paul disappear into the crowd, leaving me dizzy with the realization that two men just subtly fought over me.

Is this what normal girls feel like all the time? If so, it’s exhausting.

We stick around for Alessandra Wirth’s speech about female rage and capitalism.

Anthony actually takes notes on his phone, which is either endearing or tryhard—jury’s still out.

“The commodification of the female body as a response to patriarchal control structures,” Wirth declares from her podium, and I have to physically stop myself from laughing. If she only knew the literal price tag on my virginity.

Half a million dollars. That’s what my body was worth on the open market. Well, technically $455,000, but who’s counting?

Anthony leans close. “Is it just me or is she using a lot of words to say ‘men are trash’?”

A surprised laugh escapes before I can stop it. “That’s feminist art criticism in a nutshell.”

We exit the gallery with surprising reluctance – who knew Anthony Harris could hold a semi-intelligent conversation about something other than his stock portfolio?

The cool night air hits my face as his driver pulls up, all sleek black luxury and silent judgment.

I slide into buttery leather, my body still humming with leftover tension from seeing Caleb across that crowded room.

His driver navigates Manhattan traffic while we dissect the exhibit. The conversation is surprisingly… good? Like, actual thoughts being exchanged instead of polite society bullshit.

“The price tag sculpture was obvious,” he says, scrolling through photos he took. “But the mirror maze? That shit about fractured identity under patriarchal gaze? Genius.”

I stare at him like he’s suddenly grown a second head. “Did you just say ‘patriarchal gaze’ unironically?”

He grins, and it transforms his face from handsome-but-boring to actually interesting. “Seven sisters. You learn feminist theory or you die.”

“Seven sisters as in the colleges?”

“Seven sisters as in I have seven older sisters who would literally murder me if I ever said ‘not all men’ in their presence.”

The laugh bubbles out before I can stop it. “That explains… so much.”

“You thought I was just some finance bro douchebag, didn’t you?” He’s not wrong, but his tone is teasing rather than offended.

“Can you blame me? Our first date, you spent the first minutes scrolling Instagram.”

“Fair point.” He winces. “I was being an ass. Defense mechanism.”

“Against what? My overwhelming virginal charm?” The word slips out before I can stop it, and I freeze, waiting for him to make another crack about my inexperience.

Instead, he looks thoughtful. “Against this whole arranged marriage bullshit, actually. I’ve been fighting it for months. When we finally met, I figured being horrible would make you refuse.”

That’s… actually kind of relatable.

The gateposts loom like sentinels as the car pulls up to my parents’ estate.

I’m exhausted but somehow wired, my brain a jumbled mess of Caleb’s burning stare, Anthony’s surprising intelligence, and my own screwed-up need to feel something—anything—authentic tonight.

We step out into the night air, still wrapped in our conversation, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of how long it’s been since I actually enjoyed someone’s company without plotting my escape.

The cognitive dissonance is dizzying—my body primed for one man while my mind reluctantly admits another isn’t entirely terrible.

Maybe that’s all it takes after twenty-two years of emotional suffocation: one semi-decent conversation about art to make a girl reckless.

“Beauty as rebellion can be just as powerful as ugliness as protest,” Anthony says, voice low, rough around the edges.

There’s something in the way he says it—like he means it, like he’s felt it in his bones—that makes me lean in before I’ve even decided to.

The kiss isn’t planned. It’s impulse. Spite. Curiosity. And maybe a middle finger to the world for putting me here in the first place.

Our mouths collide, but Anthony doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t ask. He takes.

His hand fists in my hair, yanking me closer, and my back hits the cold stone pillar behind me with a dull thud that knocks the breath out of me—but I don’t pull away.

He presses in, hips flush against mine, mouth moving over mine like he’s starving for it. For me.

This isn’t soft. It isn’t sweet. It’s heat and frustration, mouths crashing and teeth grazing. His tongue forces its way past my lips, hungry and dominant, and fuck—my body responds before my mind can catch up.

My thighs clench. My nails dig into his arms. I moan into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily.

His other hand grabs my hip, the pressure makes me gasp, and he uses the opening to deepen the kiss—tongue stroking mine, fast and messy and dirty.

It’s not like Caleb. It’s not careful. It’s not reverent. It’s chaotic. Possessive. A little cruel. And I fucking like it.

A polite cough shatters the moment like a brick through glass.

We spring apart to find Caleb standing ten feet away, having just stepped out of a black business taxi.

His face is completely blank—that specific kind of blank that screams barely contained rage. His hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white against his dark pants.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he says, each word precise and cold.

The three of us stand there in the world’s most awkward triangle, the night air thick with everything no one’s willing to say out loud. Anthony’s hand is still on my hip. Caleb’s still watching. And my lipstick is definitely smudged.