Page 16 of Dead Set on You
I blink my eyes open.
Compelled by a jolt of fury, I march up to him and plant my hands on my hips. “Why didn’t you take me home after I passed out?” The words aren’t as steady as they sound in my head.
He offers no answer.
“Is it because you’re not capable of makingsounddecisions?”
Rafael groans. “Even as my hallucination, you’re a smartass.”
“Call me a hallucination one more time, and I’ll do everything in my power to make you wish you never stepped foot into Media Lab.” I tilt my head to meet his incredulous gaze. “You’ll be lucky to work in the mail room when I tell Dana how terribly you’ve messed this up.”
Dana’s face—sharp angles, shrewd eyes, and straight nose—flashes to mind. She’ll put Rafael in his place, and if I’m lucky enough, she’ll terminate him when she hears about him breaking her rules and then bringing me here to top off my humiliation.
“You might have had a fighting chance before last night,” I say, cool and clipped, “but you can kiss your golden-boy status goodbye.”
The speech I’ve been perfecting in my head for years practically writes itself.Almost five years ago, Rafael Vela pretended to be my friend. He fooled me for three years, long enough to learn my strategies, clock my weaknesses, and store away anything he could one day wield against me. We worked side by side for months to prepare a major client pitch. Long nights. Research-filled conference rooms. More coffee than sleep. And when the work was done? He convinced Dana that he could handle the account solo—and cut me out.
It tanked my shot at a loan and an apartment, pushed back my bucket list timeline, and confirmed the one rule I’ve followed since: Never trust Rafael Vela.
Some would argue he used his sweet talking and his six-month seniority over me to make it happen. That it wasn’t personal—just business.
I’d never admit it, but itwaspersonal. Almost too much so …
Since then? He’s been leaning on half-baked tactics, trying to win by throwing me off-balance. Too bad for him. I know his game.
“Last night?” he asks.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t have time for games, Raffy Taffy. You thought I’d just let you take the win this time. Head down. No fighting back.” I want to cackle with unhinged joy or rage, or maybe it’s a side effect of whatever mystery man-pills I may or may not have taken. “But this promotion’s mine,” I add. “No matter how much you want to fight it.”
“Promotion? Are you—” Rafael’s jaw works in frustration. “And now I’m talking to myself.”
“I don’t say this lightly, but I’m concerned about you.”
“How do I make it go away?” His gaze moves back to the ceiling.
“Go see someone, like normal people.”
“That’s not a terrible idea.” He pushes away from the counter. “I’ll call Dr. Diaz.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” I snap, my tone sharper than I intend. But the edge is a mask—a lame cover for a waver I hate myself for.
Because the truth is, I need him. To explain what the hell is happening. To stop pretending like I don’t exist. To tell me what kind of absurd, overpriced pills I may have ingested.
Because, right now, I don’t have all the answers, and needing him—Rafael—unearths feelings I never fully managed to bury. Just shoved into a box, taped shut, and labeledDO NOT REOPEN.
“Rafael!”
He stops midstep. His chest ripples with a deep breath. “Evie.”
Briefly, Rafael’s eyes connect with mine.
I swallow past the burn of emotions in my throat. “Tell me what happened.”
He doesn’t respond.
I’d have paid money for Rafael to be this quiet any other time.
And now? I have to beg him to saysomething.
