I slipped into Caleb’s guest room like a thief with a death wish, because apparently my survival instincts had checked out sometime between last night’s orgasm and this morning’s denial performance at breakfast.

“Dinner with Anthony tonight,” I announced, going for casual transparency like we were normal people having normal conversations instead of whatever the fuck this was. “Discussing our mutual destruction of this wedding shitshow.”

Caleb sat at his desk, probably answering emails like a responsible adult with a functioning frontal lobe.

Was sitting. Past tense. Because now he was pulling me onto his lap with the kind of purposeful intensity that made my brain short-circuit.

“Can’t let you go without a reminder,” he murmured against my throat, hands already working under my shirt like they had a PhD in bad decisions.

“A reminder of what?” My voice came out embarrassingly breathy, but honestly, who was I trying to impress? We’d already established I had zero chill where he was concerned.

“That you’re mine.” His teeth grazed my pulse point, and my entire nervous system filed for bankruptcy. “That this defiance thing you do makes me fucking insane.”

The door was unlocked. My parents were literally downstairs discussing flower arrangements with someone who probably charged more per hour than most people made in a month.

This was astronomically stupid on a scale that would make NASA jealous. Obviously we were doing it anyway.

The sex was fast, desperate, muffled-sounds-against-his-shoulder intense.

Every footstep in the hallway spiked adrenaline through my system like I was mainlining espresso. Caleb had one hand over my mouth, the other gripping my hip hard enough to leave evidence I’d have to explain away later.

“Someone’s going to catch us,” I gasped when he let me breathe, which was apparently his cue to do something with his fingers that made me see entire constellations.

“Let them,” he growled, and fuck if that didn’t make everything better and worse simultaneously.

We finished just as voices drifted up from downstairs—my mother calling for the housekeeper in that particular tone that meant someone had committed the cardinal sin of using the wrong china.

I fixed my clothes with shaking hands, kissed him once more because I was an addict now apparently, then escaped before our luck ran out and we became the most scandalous story at next month’s country club brunch.

By the time I slipped into a new dress and redrew my lipstick, the girl on Caleb’s lap felt like a fever dream. I buttoned up composure and walked into a different kind of theater.

The restaurant Anthony picked screamed “I have a Black Card and daddy issues”—all mood lighting and molecular gastronomy that turned eating into a science experiment.

He was already there, scrolling through his phone, but miracle of miracles, he actually looked up when I arrived. Progress. Maybe his therapist was worth those astronomical fees after all.

“So,” I said after we’d ordered things I couldn’t pronounce and wouldn’t remember. “Operation Wedding Destruction. We need a plan that doesn’t end with both of us disowned and living under a bridge.”

He grinned, and for the first time, I could see why people might actually date him voluntarily. “Catchy name. Very Bond villain. What’s the play?”

I laid it out clean and simple, like ripping off a bandaid made of money and expectations: “I drop the bomb on Daddy Dearest. Tell him I can’t go through with it, that I need to find myself or whatever bullshit he’ll partially believe. You play the shocked victim—heartbroken but respectful. Everyone saves face except my parents, which honestly, they deserve.”

“And my role?” He leaned forward, actually engaged in something that wasn’t his portfolio for once.

“I need you to lean into these feminist credentials. Support my choice publicly. Maybe post something about respecting women’s autonomy on Instagram. Help me control the narrative before our parents can spin it into me having a nervous breakdown or you having a secret boyfriend.”

“You want me to be the sensitive guy who respects your decision to call off our engagement?” Anthony considered this over his deconstructed Caesar salad that looked like a crime scene. “I can work with that. Honestly, my DMs will explode. Single, wealthy, and respectful? I’ll be drowning in options by midnight.”

We both laughed—genuine, not the performative bullshit we’d been doing for weeks. Turns out Anthony was actually funny when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

“Thanks for not making this harder than it needs to be,” I said, meaning it. “You could’ve been a complete dick about everything.”

“Thanks for the get-out-of-jail-free card,” he countered, raising his glass of wine that probably cost more than my shoes. “My therapist says I have commitment issues anyway. This saves me years of work and thousands in session fees.”

“To emotional unavailability,” I toasted.

“And the women who enable it,” he added with a smirk.

We split the check without any of that weird wallet dance men usually do—Anthony just Venmo’d me his half immediately like a normal person who understood how money worked. Outside, he offered a handshake that turned into a brief, surprisingly genuine hug.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, pulling back, “whoever you’re actually into is lucky as fuck. You’re a disaster, but like, an interesting disaster. Like a tornado that can discuss literature.”

My poker face held. Barely. If he knew I was fucking his future father-in-law’s best friend, he’d probably rescind that compliment.

“Stay strong when the shit hits,” I told him instead. “Our parents are going to lose their minds. Full nuclear meltdown. Text me if you need backup or an alibi.”

“Same to you.” He gave me a mock salute. “May the odds be ever in our favor, or whatever.”

We parted ways, and I realized I’d gained something unexpected from this whole disaster: an actual friend who knew my truth and didn’t judge me for it.

Well, most of my truth. The Caleb portion remained filed under “take to the grave.”

Time went liquid after that. Fourteen days of sneaking to Caleb’s apartment like a teenager with a curfew, except I was twenty-two and my curfew was self-imposed to avoid suspicion. Afternoons “shopping with Josie” that involved zero shopping and maximum Caleb.

Turns out he made killer pasta, laughed at my terrible jokes, and looked at me like I’d personally invented oxygen and graciously allowed him to breathe it.

My parents planned a wedding that was never happening, complete with tasting menus I pretended to care about and dress fittings I attended while secretly planning which jeans I’d wear when I walked away from all of it.

The money sat in my account like a patient friend—freedom with a number attached, waiting for me to be brave enough to use it.

Every stolen hour in Caleb’s bed made the upcoming explosion worth it.

He mapped my body like he was studying for the most important test of his life, and I learned that he was ticklish behind his left knee and made this specific sound when he came that I’d probably hear in my dreams until I died.

“I’m never letting you go,” he told me one afternoon, my head on his chest, both of us pretending the outside world didn’t exist.

“That’s kidnapping,” I pointed out. “Very illegal.”

“I have very good lawyers.”

I’d never been happier, which in my experience meant everything was about to go spectacularly to shit.

The universe didn’t like it when Wallaces got too comfortable. But for these two weeks? Pure, uncomplicated bliss punctuated by orgasms and overpriced takeout. Living the dream, one secret at a time.

The countdown to my wedding had become a countdown to my freedom. T-minus fourteen days until detonation. I could almost taste the explosion.