Page 42 of Falling Off Script

And if I’m going to exorcise that confusion, I need data. Intimate data. Unfiltered.

Also, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

If I show up as me—Emily, the feminist podcast host who made a whole video about his fragile masculinity—he’ll think he won. That I cracked. That he “converted” me with pheromones and a well-placed smirk.

No. Absolutely not.

But if I show up as someone else? That would be mine.

I slip into the dress—black, low-backed, the kind of thing I’d usually pair with a blazer and a TED Talk. Tonight, no blazer. Just skin, scent, and strategy.

Lipstick next. Red, obviously. If I’m going full femme fatale, I might as well max out the trope.

I study my reflection. I don’t look like me. And that’s the point.

Tonight, I’ll be Lena. Or Val. Or some woman who laughs at all the right moments and doesn’t quote social science mid-flirt.

I don’t want to humiliate him. I just want to see.

What’s it like, being the kind of woman Adrian Zayne wants?

And would I feel anything at all?

Jessie stands and hands me my coat. “Please don’t die.”

“I’m not even going to kiss him.”

She pauses. “Okay, now I’m worried.”

I wink and leave before she can stop me.

The place is already buzzing when I arrive. Rooftop loft. Influencer gloss. Music pulsing with effortless cool. I tell the bouncer I’m “on the list.” He waves me through without looking.

Inside, I do aslow lap, acting like I’m just taking it all in—not scanning for him.

And there he is.

Leaning against the bar, laughing at something someone said, hand curled casually around a glass of something dark. Of course he looks perfect. Of course he wears black. Of course his smile makes half the room tilt on its axis.

I roll my shoulders back, walk slowly, let the heels click just enough to be heard over the bass.

He doesn’t look up until I’m almost beside him.

Then—eye contact.

Brief flicker. No recognition.

But then again, his smile shifts almost imperceptibly. Just a twitch at the corner. Like a man clocking a déjà vu he can’t quite place.

“Evening,” he says, voice smooth. Curious.

I smile. “Is this where the emotionally unavailable go to recharge?”

He chuckles. “Depends. Are you here to recharge or to deconstruct?”

Touché.

I sip the drink I haven’t yet ordered. “Neither. Just... observing the wildlife.”

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