Page 9 of The Fake Affair

I rise slowly, walking to the door. I hesitate there for a beat, watching her through the glass. Her mouth is set in a stubborn line, but there’s something tired in the slump of her shoulders.

“Bella.”

She glances up, face unreadable, but I catch the flicker of annoyance behind her carefully controlled expression.

“Yes, Mr. Fraser?”

“Go home.”

“But the schedule?—”

“Just go.” I return to my desk before she can say anything else. Before I change my mind and tell her the truth. “And tomorrow? Try to actually do your job instead of sabotaging mine.”

I hear the rustle of her papers, the soft sound of her chair scraping back. The elevator dings faintly in the distance.

I press my thumb to my temple and breathe out slowly.

I should fire her.

It would be easier. No more tension, no more mind games, no more memories of her mouth on mine, or the soft sounds she made when I touched her, or the way she whispered my name like it meant something.

But I don’t. I won’t.

Because the truth is I’ve never been able to stay away from Bella Levine.

Not then and most certainly not now.

THREE

MISUNDERSTANDINGS

Bella

I stumble into my apartment, kick off my heels, and collapse onto my couch. Four straight days of psychological warfare is exhausting, even if I'm winning. Each small victory feels like sweet revenge for Logan’s humiliation.

My schedule sabotage has Logan Fraser looking decidedly less polished than usual. His perfect hair has been a mess since Tuesday's triple-booked morning meetings.

That meeting with the venture capitalists was particularly satisfying—watching him rush in fifteen minutes later, slightly out of breath, his accent thicker with frustration. The great Logan Fraser, finally losing his infamous control.

Even today, he'd looked rattled after the board meeting I'd "accidentally" rescheduled to overlap with his investor lunch. His tie had been slightly crooked, and for once, that infuriating smirk was nowhere to be seen. Good. Let him feel a fraction of the humiliation I felt that morning he told me to leave.

I hear the sharp vibration of my phone from my purse. Audrey is right on schedule after her earlier office visit. She'd stopped by the office today, probably to confront her brother about his latest conquest. Me.

"Hey, you should have seen the look on his face after you left earlier," I say with a smile, settling deeper into my couch. Finally, someone else is calling him out on his behavior.

"Actually..." There's something in her tone that makes me sit up straight. "We need to talk about the morning after my wedding."

And once more, I'm unsettled. Just like I was that morning when I made that frantic call to her. A haze of melancholy settles over me as I recall the events of that Sunday.

* * *

Sunday Morning

The car glides down Lexington, the city lights blurring into long, smudged streaks on the glass. My Uber driver hums softly to himself as the sound of tires over wet asphalt fills the silence. I sit curled in the corner of the backseat, arms wrapped tightly around my middle, still wearing the dress from last night. My fingers tremble as I press my phone to my ear, hoping she picks up.

Audrey answers on the second ring. Her voice crackles through the line as I fill her in, all static and disbelief. “He did what?”

My eyes squeeze shut. “Sorry I’m calling when you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon,” I manage, but the apology sounds pathetic, even to me. I hate how weak I sound, hate the ache that’s settled in my chest like it’s taken up permanent residence. “I am so sorry. I just... I need to shower and forget this happened.”

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