Faking Ever After

Six months ago

Sophie had every reason to stay at the flower shop until closing.

There was still plenty to do. A wedding order for Saturday needed final approval, the delivery guy was running late with the afternoon bouquets, and the cooler had started making a noise Sophie had decided, for her own peace, not to investigate until tomorrow. But today was her and Dean’s two-year anniversary, and Sophie had a plan.

Besides, Valentina, her best friend and right hand at the shop, had sworn she could handle one afternoon alone without anything catching fire.

On the train home, Sophie caught herself smiling at nothing twice, which was embarrassing, considering she was alone and one of the men across from her had definitely noticed. She had a bottle of champagne in one hand, a bunch of red roses in the other, and a small wrapped gift tucked carefully in her purse. Inside was a pair of silver cuff links, engraved with his initials.

Dean had probably forgotten what day it was. Not because he didn’t care, Sophie told herself, but because he had been buried in work for weeks, coming home late, answering emails through dinner, kissing her absently while his mind stayed somewhere between court filings and client calls.

So she would remind him.

She would cook, set the table properly, put the roses in the middle, light the candles they almost never used, and pour champagne into the good glasses Dean insisted were only for company. Dinner would be warm by the time he got home, his gift would be waiting beside his plate, and for one night, maybe, work could stay outside the door.

Because that was what Sophie did.

Sophie was a hopeless romantic, despite common sense, bad dating experiences, and several group chats begging her to please be less forgiving. She cried at proposal videos from strangers, believed flowers were basically feelings with stems, and still thought handwritten love notes could fix at least half the world’s problems. She liked it when someone remembered the smallest thing you once mentioned in passing. She liked thoughtful gifts and people making an effort, even badly. Especially badly, sometimes, because trying counted. To Sophie, love did not have to be perfect, but it did have to show up.

By the time she reached their apartment, her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Dean wouldn’t be home for another two hours, which gave her plenty of time to set everything up.

Sophie unlocked the door and stepped inside, only to be met with a loud noise coming from the bedroom.

She stopped with one hand still on the door.

A second sound followed, higher this time. A voice, breathless and dramatic, rising into something that might have been a cry if it hadn’t sounded so oddly enthusiastic.

Sophie frowned.

For one second, her brain offered her the only explanation it could apparently manage. Dean was hurt, or choking, or he had been attacked, though none of that made sense because, again, he was not supposed to be home.

She set the champagne and roses down slowly on the entry table.

“Dean?”

No answer.

Another sound came from the bedroom, louder now, followed by a low groan that made Sophie’s skin go cold before her brain had fully caught up.

She hesitated, then started slowly down the hall.

She wasn’t really sure at what point she knew what the noises were, or knew what she was going to see when she opened the door. But she just knew.

Unfortunately, knowing did not prepare her.

Because walking in on your boyfriend with another woman was one thing.

Walking in on him at the exact moment the other woman was coming was an entirely different thing.

She was facing the door, straddling him, giving Sophie a view that immediately burned itself into a permanent corner of her brain. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped back, her spine arched, and a high, ridiculous cry tore out of her, loud enough to give Sophie the insane thought that someone should probably tip her for the performance.

And if that wasn’t enough, the woman had apparently decided the moment needed dialogue.

“Yes, Dean, yes, just like that, I swear I’m seeing the inside of the Supreme Court!”

Several things were obviously wrong with that picture.

Aside from, you know, the boyfriend having sex with someone who was not his girlfriend.

First, who screamed about the Supreme Court during sex?

Second, what the hell was she wearing? Because it was not lingerie. Lingerie Sophie could have understood. This was a black lace courtroom fantasy situation, complete with thigh-high stockings, a tiny garter belt, a sheer little robe hanging off one shoulder, and, most upsettingly, a small wooden gavel in one hand that made Sophie wonder whether the woman had come here to sleep with Dean or call the court to order.

And third, who was this woman?

This perfect, terrifying, drop-dead gorgeous woman currently astride Dean in their bed, with her dark hair falling over one shoulder and her red mouth still parted from all that judicial enthusiasm.

Then the answer hit her.

Vanessa.

Dean’s work “colleague.” The one he kept missing dinner for because a brief needed revising, or a client was panicking, or Vanessa had found one more precedent they absolutely had to go over together.

Vanessa, who, according to Dean, had a boyfriend.

God, Sophie had been so stupid.

She stayed frozen in the doorway, because really, what else was a person supposed to do after walking in on her boyfriend having sex with another woman on their two-year anniversary?

Clap?

Offer hydration?

Ask if the Supreme Court had issued a ruling?

Vanessa, having apparently completed her full courtroom reenactment, finally opened her eyes.

For one second, she stared at Sophie.

Then she screamed.

A proper scream this time. Less judicial passion, more woman realizing the girlfriend had arrived with anniversary roses.

“Oh my God!”

Vanessa scrambled off Dean fast and grabbed the sheet, yanking it up over her chest.

Dean saw Sophie a second later and his face went completely white.

“Sophie.”

He got out of bed in a panic, pulling the sheet with him.

Vanessa shrieked again as the sheet disappeared from her body. “Big D!”

Of all the things Sophie had expected to learn today, Dean being called Big D had not made the list.

Vanessa lunged for a pillow and clutched it to herself, which did very little, considering Sophie had already seen enough to require professional help and possibly a memory wipe.

Dean stood there, sheet wrapped badly around his waist, hair a mess, chest bare, looking horrified in a way that made Sophie want to laugh and throw up at the same time.

“Soph,” he said quickly. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Sophie stared at him.

Was he fucking serious?

Was he actually standing in front of her, naked except for stolen bedding, while Vanessa hid behind a decorative pillow from Target, and trying to suggest there had been some kind of visual misunderstanding?

Dean lifted one hand and took a step toward her, and Sophie immediately moved back.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” he said. “I swear.”

Her eyes burned and she bit down on her bottom lip, hard, because crying in front of him felt unbearable. Crying in front of Vanessa felt even worse.

Dean dragged a hand over his face.

“Look, I know this looks bad.”

Bad? Bad was stubbing your toe. Bad was getting caught in the rain. Bad was saying “you too” when the waiter told you to enjoy your meal.

This was Dean, naked in front of her, with Vanessa clutching a pillow behind him and a tiny judge gavel still somewhere near the crime scene.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Dean said quickly. “Vanessa and I have been working late for weeks, and we started talking more, and then we got close. It just happened.”

Sophie bit down harder on her bottom lip, because if she started crying now, she was afraid she would never stop.

Dean looked down, then back at her, and somehow had the nerve to look pained.

“We fell in love.”

Fell in love.

No. That wasn’t the line.

He was supposed to say it was a mistake. He was supposed to panic, apologize, beg, say he was stupid, say he had ruined everything, say whatever men said in movies right before women threw champagne at them.

He was not supposed to stand there in a bedsheet and tell her he had fallen in love with the woman who had just screamed about the Supreme Court.

“I was going to tell you,” Dean said. “I had a plan.”

Of course he did.

He was a lawyer. Men like Dean did not destroy relationships without bullet points.

“I wanted to do it gently,” he went on, getting more frantic. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Sophie almost laughed.

Vanessa made a tiny sound from the bed, possibly agreement, possibly fear.

Dean took another step, then stopped when Sophie moved back again.

“I was going to explain everything. About me and Vanessa. About how complicated it’s been. And then I was going to give you time to pack, obviously, because I would never just throw you out of my apartment.”

Dean’s eyes widened suddenly, and his mouth stayed open for a second, searching for a better version of what he had already said.

“I mean,” he said quickly, “you know what I mean.”

No, Sophie did not know what he meant.

Yes, the apartment was technically his. He had bought it before they met, and his name was on every document that mattered. But five months into their relationship, he had asked Sophie to move in and called it their home.

Their home.

She had brought her clothes, her books, her favorite mugs, the soft throw he always stole during movies. She had cooked, cleaned, washed and folded his laundry there, and once rushed to the courthouse during a trial recess with a pair of underwear in her purse because Dean had accidentally worn his unlucky briefs and claimed he could not cross-examine a witness under those conditions.

She had made a life there.

Apparently, Dean had been thinking of it as an extended sleepover with better laundry service.

Dean was still talking.

Sophie could see his mouth moving, could hear pieces of it too. Something about timing. Something about complicated feelings. Vanessa made a small noise from behind him, as if this had all been very difficult for her as well.

Sophie looked down at the floor.

Her purse had slipped off her shoulder at some point, and the little wrapped box had fallen out onto the hardwood.

A laugh pushed up her throat, but it did not sound right, so she swallowed it.

“Soph,” Dean said, softer now.

Sophie bent, picked up the little box, and held it for a second. Then she walked past Dean and set it on the bed beside Vanessa’s wooden gavel.

“What is that?” Dean asked.

“Happy anniversary,” Sophie said, then she turned and walked back through the apartment while Dean called after her, apparently still under the impression that this evening could benefit from more of his thoughts.

Dean could relax. She would be out of his apartment before he had time to draft a polite eviction speech.

And the next time he forgot his lucky briefs before court, he could ask Vanessa to bring them over.