Million Dollar Devil

26.

I wake up feeling like a bag of cement with heaviness behind my eyes. A slow, creeping ache that pulses behind my temples. 

My first thought is: water. 

My second thought is: advil.

My third is: regret.

I blink against the pale morning light spilling through the hotel curtains, disoriented for half a second before it all catches up with me. I may have said some things to my boss last night that make me want to dissolve into my sheets and become one with the mattress.

I don't remember everything with perfect clarity, not the exact words, not the precise order, but but I remember enough. I said something. No, I definitely said a lot of things. I stood in front of him with citrus gin confidence and no sense of self-preservation, basically whispering "ruin me" with my eyes.

 The way I leaned in. The way I hovered on the edge. 

The way he didn't want me. Not like that.

I pull the covers up over my chest like they can somehow shield me from the memory, but it's no use. Shame simmers low in my stomach. It's not just embarrassment. It's something heavier, slower. I misread everything. God, I wanted to misread it. Because it's easier to pretend the way he looks at me means something than admit it doesn't.

I press a pillow over my face and scream into it, muffled and dramatic and deeply necessary.

My dignity is...missing, presumed dead. Please let him think I was too drunk to remember.

 I slide my legs out of bed and press my feet against the cold floor, trying to ground myself. I stagger into the bathroom, catching sight of myself in the mirror. Dear Lord.

By the time I manage to drag myself into the shower and rinse the shame from my skin (spoiler: it doesn't work), I've decided on a plan. It's simple, foolproof even:

Pretend. It. Never. Happened.

I slide on my blazer and tie my hair up, a full damage control look. It's giving "capable," it's giving "stable," it's giving "I absolutely did not whisper seductively to you while wearing four ounces of green fabric and a citrus buzz." 

I feel like a paper doll taped together at the edges.

I check my phone while sipping a too-hot coffee from the lobby café. Calendar reminders for back-to-back meetings starting in less than an hour. A message from Kyle confirming logistics. A note from Graham's assistant with the investor deck attached.

Nothing from Leo.

The ride down the elevator brings the dangerous memories back into my mind. I do everything in my power to shake them out, to push the rejection out of my mind. 

When I walk into the conference room, Leo's already seated at the head of the U-shaped table, perfectly tailored in a navy suit and a pale grey tie. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't say a word. Not even a twitch.

He might as well be carved from Italian marble.

My stomach flips, "Morning," I say, quiet but chipper , fake it 'til you make it, right?

He barely glances at me. "Morning."

That's it. That's all I get.

No smirk, no scolding, no "hey, remember when you almost threw yourself at me in a hotel hallway with desperation in your eyes".

He just sips his coffee and turns back to the papers in front of him like I'm background noise.

I take the seat at his right, flipping open my notepad, pretending to focus as other executives filter in. The air in the room is cool. The hotel's AC is blasting at what feels like arctic tundra settings. And yet I'm sweating like I'm sitting under a spotlight, pretending I don't feel his proximity like static under my skin.

 I'm sitting next to him, heart still bruised and stupid, pretending that nothing is different. Pretending that last night was just a scene I imagined, some delusion I spun from expensive gin, candlelight, and the ache of wanting something I wasn't meant to have.

Meeting one: strategic partnerships. Leo speaks. The room listens.

Meeting two: quarterly projections. I take notes like my life depends on it.

Meeting three: my slow descent into madness.

Every time Leo leans over to murmur something to me, "Note that Q3 number," "Make sure to email that to legal," "Tell Kyle we'll loop him in by Tuesday", my brain short-circuits. My pen jerks. 

He's calm. Composed.

He doesn't flinch.

And that somehow hurts worse than if he had.

The entire morning passes like a scene I'm watching from behind glass. I hand him files. I pour him coffee. I make small talk with attendees and pretend not to notice the way his jaw tightens when Alex walks in late, smiling like he owns the room. 

...but I do notice. Of course I notice. The flicker of muscle at Leo's temple. The way his eyes cut sharply to Alex, then away just as fast. As if Alex's existence is offensive to the natural order of things. As if he's trying very hard not to look at me after looking at him. 

I'm good at this. I know how to show up and disappear at the same time. But today it feels like I've lost my footing. Like I'm trapped inside a shell of myself, trying to replay the night in fragments and wondering which moment did it. Which moment did he decide I wasn't enough?

Was it the way I touched his wrist when he handed me my drink?
The way I leaned in, close enough to breathe him in, and asked something I shouldn't have?
The way I lingered in the hallway when I should've walked away?

I glance at him now, a quick flicker of my eyes. His profile is perfect in its unreadability. Focused. Sharp. Remote. His fingers rest against his temple as he listens to a finance update, and I swear he doesn't even blink.

He's made an art of avoidance. He's Picasso, the silence his paint, and I am merely a canvas. 

There's this stupid part of me that still hopes he'll say something. Anything. Even a: "About last night..." But the silence keeps growing louder.

And the longer he doesn't acknowledge it, the more I start to believe I made it all up. The glances. The tension. The pauses that lasted a second too long in the elevator.  And, boy oh boy, I feel stupid.

At lunch, I escape to the garden terrace, clutching a salad I have no intention of eating. I twist my hair tighter at the nape of my neck and blink up at the sunlight like it can burn the thoughts away. 

When I return to the conference suite, Leo is standing by the window, phone in hand, brow furrowed. He looks up when I enter.  "We're moving dinner with the Braverman group next week to five. Can you make sure the team knows?" He says cooly.

"Of course," I say, because that's what I do. Smile. Nod. Execute. Be competent. Be invisible.

I retreat to my laptop, fingers flying over the keys, syncing calendars, alerting assistants, updating the schedule with mechanical precision.

But somewhere underneath all of it, the ache behind my eyes lingers.

Not from the hangover.

From the fact that he really didn't want me at all. I recall his words: "You don't want what happens next." A bitter laugh escapes me. He was right. I didn't want this ache, this longing.