Sophia paused with one hand on the apartment door and looked directly at me.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Tomorrow will be easy.”
I should have believed her.
Everything about her suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.
I was the nervous one.
My name is Trevor.
I was twenty-nine, living in Boston, and working as a software developer for a company that made the kind of backend systems almost nobody noticed unless they broke.
Most days, my life was predictable.
Coffee.
Commute.
Code.
Meetings.
More code.
Go home.
Repeat.
I was good at the work.
I just never knew what to say when people asked whether I loved it.
It paid well enough.
It gave me stability.
After my last relationship ended eight months earlier, stability had seemed more useful than excitement.
Then my boss announced the gala.
Huge networking event.
Executives.
Clients.
Potential partners.
People who remembered names and noticed who arrived with whom.
My boss told me casually that bringing someone would “help me look more socially engaged.”
That sentence stayed with me because I had no idea how my relationship status had become part of professional branding.
I complained about it to Jake from my team.
Jake laughed.
“Hire someone.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“A professional date.”
“No.”
“I’m serious.”
“That sounds insane.”
“It sounds efficient.”
He explained what he meant.
Not sex.
Not anything shady.
An escort service that provided companions for formal events.
Someone polished.
Good at conversation.
Able to survive three hours of executives pretending not to network while obviously networking.
I rejected the idea immediately.
Then thought about it for two days.
Then booked one.
That was how Sophia ended up in my apartment the night before the gala, asking questions about my life so we could pretend we had been dating for six months.
The strange part was how quickly it stopped feeling strange.
At first, Sophia was completely professional.
Notebook open.
Pen ready.
“How did we meet?”
“Mutual friends?”
“Good. Where?”
“Barbecue.”
“Whose?”
I stared at her.
“We need a fictional host?”
“If someone asks.”
“People ask that?”
“People ask everything when they think a relationship is new enough to be interesting but old enough to be serious.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
She smiled.
“Barbecue at Jake’s.”
“Jake will enjoy being promoted into our fake love story.”
“Will he be there?”
“Yes.”
“Then warn him.”
Good point.
We decided six months.
Casual.
No engagement talk.
No elaborate vacation stories.
Nothing difficult to remember.
Then she asked about my family.
“Parents?”
“Both alive. New Hampshire.”
“Siblings?”
“Older sister. Married. Two kids.”
“What does she do?”
“Occupational therapist.”
Sophia wrote it down.
“You see them often?”
“Couple times a month.”
“That’s good.”
“Is that relevant?”
“Maybe.”
“How?”
“If somebody asks whether I’ve met your family.”
I leaned back.
“This is more complicated than software architecture.”
“It’s actually very similar.”
“How?”
“Too many dependencies.”
I laughed.
Her smile changed.
That was when I first noticed the difference between her professional expression and a real one.
The professional smile was smooth.
Confident.
Pleasant.
The real one arrived slower and made her eyes narrow slightly at the corners.
I started noticing everything after that.
The way she stopped crossing her arms after about fifteen minutes.
The way she tapped her pen against the notebook when thinking.
The faint vanilla scent that followed when she moved past me.
The small scar on her wrist.
I noticed that one when she mentioned being divorced.
She touched it unconsciously.
I looked away.
She caught me anyway.
“My marriage ended three years ago.”
I nodded.
She waited.
Maybe she expected a question.
I did not ask.
Finally she said:
“You’re not curious?”
“Of course I am.”
That made her laugh softly.
“But?”
“It doesn’t sound like something I’m entitled to ask.”
Her expression shifted.
Less guarded.
“Most men ask.”
“I’m not most men.”
The second the sentence left my mouth, I regretted it.
It sounded like something a guy said when desperately trying to prove he was different.
Sophia seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.
“That sounded better in your head?”
“Much.”
She smiled.
“I know what you meant.”
We finished the meeting.
She explained the plan.
She would arrive at six.
We would drive together.
At the gala, she would stay close enough to sell the relationship but not so close that it looked forced.
She would touch my arm occasionally.
Laugh when appropriate.
Help move conversations along when I got trapped talking to someone who believed quarterly strategy was exciting.
If I wanted to leave, we left.
Simple.
Transactional.
Very clear.
At the door, she told me not to worry.
Then she left.
And for the next two hours, I found myself thinking about a woman I had literally paid to make people believe she liked me.
That felt like a warning.
The next evening, Sophia arrived at exactly six.
When I opened the door, I forgot whatever greeting I had planned.
She wore a dark green dress.
Elegant.
Simple.
Nothing flashy.
Her auburn hair fell around her shoulders instead of being tied back.
She carried a small clutch.
“That bad?”
she asked.
I realized I had been staring.
“No.”
“Trevor.”
“You look…”
I stopped.
“Professional?”
“Not the word I was going to use.”
Her eyebrow lifted.
I cleared my throat.
“You look amazing.”
“Thank you.”
She stepped inside.
“You clean up well too.”
I looked down at my suit.
“I rented confidence.”
“Is that included with the jacket?”
“Extra fee.”
She laughed.
There was the real smile again.
We left ten minutes later.
The gala was being held at a hotel ballroom downtown.
Even before we walked inside, I knew Jake would never let me forget any of this.
He spotted us near registration.
His mouth fell open.
Then his face transformed into the most annoying grin I had ever seen.
“Trevor.”
I gave him a warning look.
Sophia extended her hand.
“You must be Jake.”
His grin grew wider.
“You know about me?”
“Apparently you hosted the barbecue where we met.”
Jake almost ruined everything in the first thirty seconds.
He recovered.
“Right.”
I stared at him.
“Great barbecue.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Legendary.”
Sophia squeezed my arm.
Her fingers rested there just long enough.
I knew it was part of the act.
My nervous system did not seem interested in that distinction.
We entered the ballroom.
Hundreds of people.
Wine glasses.
Soft lighting.
Waiters moving between clusters.
Name tags everywhere.
Within five minutes, Sophia proved why people hired professionals like her.
She remembered names immediately.
Asked questions without sounding nosy.
Turned boring conversations into something almost enjoyable.
When my boss joined us, Sophia did not overperform.
That impressed me.
“This is Sophia,” I said.
My boss smiled.
“So you’re the woman we’ve heard nothing about.”
I wanted to die.
Sophia did not blink.
“Trevor is private.”
My boss laughed.
“That he is.”
Sophia touched my arm.
“He makes up for it once you get him talking about systems nobody else understands.”
I looked at her.
That detail came from our conversation the night before.
She remembered.
My boss said:
“You actually let him talk about backend architecture socially?”
“I made one terrible mistake.”
Everyone laughed.
Including me.
For the next hour, I forgot Sophia was working.
That was dangerous.
At one point, we stood near the edge of the ballroom while I drank sparkling water.
Sophia leaned closer.
“You’re doing fine.”
“I’m hiding behind you.”
“I noticed.”
“Is that allowed?”
“For an additional fee.”
I looked at her.
She smiled.
“Joke.”
“Good.”
“You’re very literal.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She studied me for a second.
“You’re also less nervous now.”
“That’s because nobody has asked about the fake barbecue recently.”
“Jake almost killed us.”
“He enjoyed it.”
“Too much.”
I laughed.
A photographer moved through the room taking pictures.
Sophia saw him before I did.
“Arm.”
“What?”
“Put your arm around me.”
I did.
My hand settled carefully at her waist.
Professional.
Normal.
Except Sophia’s body went slightly still.
Only for a second.
Then she relaxed.
The photographer took the picture.
Flash.
Done.
I should have removed my hand immediately.
I did not.
Sophia looked up at me.
Then down at my hand.
I moved it.
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine.”
She sounded normal.
Still, something had changed.
Not publicly.
Internally.
I could feel it.
We moved toward another group.
A woman from finance asked how long we had been together.
“Six months,” Sophia said.
“Already serious?”
The woman smiled.
Sophia glanced at me.
“Ask him.”
I nearly choked.
Everyone laughed.
I realized she had rescued me by turning it into humor.
Again.
Later, when we were alone near the hallway, I said:
“You’re really good at this.”
Sophia leaned against the wall.
“That sounded like a review.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Then she looked toward the ballroom.
“It’s easier when the client isn’t horrible.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I probably wouldn’t.”
Her expression changed slightly.
For the first time that evening, I wondered what this work had actually been like for her.
People made assumptions when they heard escort.
I had too.
Even after the service had explained the arrangement.
But Sophia seemed to understand exactly how assumptions worked.
She managed rooms because she had probably spent years reading people before they decided who she was.
“You okay?”
I asked.
“Yeah.”
She touched the scar on her wrist.
Same habit.
Then stopped herself.
“Actually, can we go outside for five minutes?”
“Sure.”
We walked onto a terrace overlooking the city.
The air was cooler.
Traffic moved below in slow streams of light.
Sophia inhaled deeply.
“Better.”
“Too many people?”
“Too many performances.”
I looked at her.
“That’s ironic.”
“I know.”
She laughed without much humor.
Then she leaned on the railing.
I stood beside her.
“You don’t have to talk.”
“I know.”
We stayed quiet.
After a minute, she said:
“My ex-husband hated events like this.”
I waited.
“He said people in rooms like that always wanted something.”
“Was he wrong?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“But he was wrong about plenty of other things.”
I did not ask what.
Sophia noticed.
“You really don’t push.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here to work.”
The words sounded wrong as soon as I said them.
Sophia looked out over the city.
“Right.”
There it was.
Distance.
Immediate.
I regretted it.
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
She looked at me.
“I know exactly what you meant.”
“No.”
I took a breath.
“I mean I don’t want to confuse being interested in you with thinking you owe me something because I hired you.”
Her face changed.
I continued because stopping now would be worse.
“I like talking to you.”
She said nothing.
“And I don’t know what part of tonight is you and what part is the job.”
That was the truth.
Sophia’s shoulders lowered.
“All of it is me.”
My heart sped up.
Then she added:
“The job just decides what I do with it.”
That sentence stayed between us.
Before either of us could say more, the terrace door opened.
Jake.
Of course.
“There you are.”
He stopped.
Looked between us.
“Oh.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Jake.”
“Your boss is looking for you.”
“Why?”
“Something about introducing you to the regional CTO.”
I sighed.
Sophia straightened.
“Back to work.”
The words sounded almost like protection.
We returned inside.
The rest of the gala moved quickly.
I met the CTO.
Survived.
Sophia helped again.
She asked him about a project his team had launched, which created enough conversation for me to join naturally.
By the end of it, he handed me a card.
My boss looked pleased.
Professional success.
Exactly why I had been told to bring someone.
Except now I was increasingly uncomfortable with the idea that Sophia had been reduced to an accessory in that success.
At 10:15, I asked if she wanted to leave.
“You decide.”
“No.”
She frowned.
“I’m asking whether you want to.”
That seemed to surprise her.
“Yes.”
“Then we leave.”
We said our goodbyes.
Jake hugged me like I had survived surgery.
Sophia shook his hand.
He whispered something to her.
She laughed.
“What did he say?”
I asked as we walked toward the garage.
“Confidential.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Very.”
The drive back to my apartment was quieter.
Not awkward exactly.
Different.
The gala was over.
The fake relationship technically ended the moment we left.
Sophia no longer needed to touch my arm.
Laugh at my jokes.
Ask about work.
And yet she did.
We talked about the worst parts of the night.
The executive who spent fifteen minutes describing sailing.
The dessert that looked better than it tasted.
Jake’s inability to behave.
At a red light, Sophia said:
“Tonight was easier than I expected.”
“I thought you did this all the time.”
“I do.”
“That bad usually?”
“No.”
She looked out the window.
“Just different.”
“How?”
She hesitated.
“Most clients want the appearance.”
“Isn’t that what I wanted?”
“At first.”
“What changed?”
Sophia looked at me.
The light turned green.
I had to look back at the road.
She answered anyway.
“You forgot to perform.”
That sounded like a compliment.
“What does that mean?”
“At the beginning, you were trying to look confident.”
“Was it obvious?”
“Painfully.”
“Great.”
“Then you stopped.”
I smiled.
“When?”
“The photographer.”
My hand at her waist.
I remembered.
“So I got more natural while posing for a fake relationship photo?”
“Basically.”
“That feels unhealthy.”
Sophia laughed.
When we reached my apartment, I parked.
Neither of us immediately moved.
That was the first truly awkward silence of the night.
The contract ended here.
Half the payment had been made before.
The remainder would process automatically.
There was nothing left to discuss.
“Thanks,” I said.
Sophia looked at me.
“For doing your job sounds terrible.”
“Little bit.”
“I mean for making tonight easier.”
“That’s better.”
She smiled.
“You did fine.”
“I had professional support.”
“True.”
She reached for the door handle.
Then stopped.
“Trevor.”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
Her expression became different.
Not the professional smile.
Not even the relaxed one I had started recognizing.
Something more vulnerable.
“My age isn’t a problem, right?”
I stared at her.
For a second, I genuinely did not understand.
“What?”
She looked almost embarrassed.
“My age.”
“You’re…”
I stopped.
Realized something.
I had never asked.
The service said someone around my age.
That was it.
“How old are you?”
Sophia looked at me.
“Thirty-eight.”
I blinked.
Nine years older.
Not what I expected.
Apparently my face reacted before I could control it.
Sophia looked away.
“There.”
“What?”
“That.”
“No.”
“You made a face.”
“I was surprised.”
“Same difference.”
“It’s really not.”
She folded her hands in her lap.
“I should’ve told the service to be more specific.”
“Wait.”
Sophia looked at me.
“Why are you asking?”
She laughed once.
Quietly.
“Forget it.”
“No.”
“Trevor.”
“Please.”
She stared through the windshield.
Then:
“Because this didn’t feel like work at the end.”
My heart immediately stopped cooperating.
Sophia continued.
“And that makes everything complicated.”
“Yes.”
“Especially because you’re twenty-nine.”
“I am aware.”
“And I’m thirty-eight.”
“Also now aware.”
She smiled despite herself.
Then it faded.
“My marriage ended badly.”
I said nothing.
“I spent years feeling old before I was old.”
That sentence hurt in a way I did not expect.
“Then I rebuilt things.”
She touched the scar on her wrist.
“Slowly.”
I looked at the movement.
She noticed again.
This time she explained.
“Car accident.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“The scar.”
“Oh.”
“My ex was driving.”
I waited.
“We were arguing.”
Her voice stayed controlled.
“He looked away from the road.”
My chest tightened.
“Sophia.”
“We were fine eventually.”
That word.
Eventually.
She stared at the dashboard.
“The marriage wasn’t.”
I wanted to ask more.
I didn’t.
She noticed.
Again.
“I think that’s why tonight threw me.”
“How?”
“You kept not asking for things.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds like a very low standard.”
“You would be surprised.”
I looked at her.
“You don’t owe me anything now either.”
Her eyes met mine.
“I know.”
“Good.”
“And that’s why I’m asking.”
I understood then.
Not really about age.
Not entirely.
She wanted to know if whatever existed between us had a chance to exist outside the contract.
I answered carefully.
“Your age isn’t a problem.”
Sophia studied my face.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“What is the problem?”
I smiled faintly.
“The fact that I paid you to meet me.”
That made her laugh.
“Fair.”
“And I don’t know whether asking you out right now would be incredibly inappropriate.”
“It might be.”
“Helpful.”
She smiled.
I continued.
“So I won’t.”
Her expression changed.
I hated the disappointment I thought I saw.
Then I added:
“Tonight.”
She looked back at me.
“If I still want to ask tomorrow, when you’re not working, I’ll ask then.”
Sophia stared.
Then smiled.
Slowly.
Real.
“That might be the most Trevor answer possible.”
“You’ve known me twenty-four hours.”
“I’m observant.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
She opened the door.
Before stepping out, she looked back.
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re already backing out.”
“No.”
“I heard maybe.”
“I’m trying to sound casual.”
“You’re terrible at it.”
“Good night, Sophia.”
She smiled.
“Good night, Trevor.”
I watched her walk toward the waiting rideshare she had arranged.
Then I went upstairs.
I did not sleep much.
At 8:12 the next morning, my phone was already in my hand.
Too early?
Probably.
I waited until nine.
Then 9:15.
At 9:22, Jake texted.
DID YOU SURVIVE ROMANCE-CON 2026
I ignored him.
At 9:30, I finally opened Sophia’s number.
The service had given it for event coordination.
Using it personally felt questionable.
So I did not.
Instead, I called the service.
A woman answered.
I explained badly that I wanted to contact Sophia socially, if she was comfortable with it, and I did not want to violate any rules.
There was a pause.
Then:
“We can forward your contact information. She can decide whether to respond.”
Perfect.
“Do that.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
I hesitated.
“Actually.”
“Yes?”
“Tell her I waited until morning.”
The woman laughed.
“I don’t think that is part of our standard message.”
“Fair.”
I hung up.
Then waited.
One hour.
Nothing.
Two hours.
Nothing.
By noon, I decided Sophia had changed her mind.
That was allowed.
Important to remember.
Nothing about the previous night entitled me to another conversation.
At 12:17, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
You waited until morning.
I smiled immediately.
I typed:
I said I would.
Three dots.
Then:
Coffee?
My heart sped up.
Not dinner.
Not another gala.
Coffee.
Normal.
Public.
Real.
I answered:
Yes.
No fake backstory required.
Her reply:
Good. I hated the barbecue.
I laughed out loud.
We met that afternoon at a coffee shop in Back Bay.
Sophia wore jeans.
Sweater.
Hair tied loosely.
No formal role.
No contract.
No payment.
When she sat down across from me, both of us looked more nervous than we had at the gala.
“This is weird,” she said.
“Extremely.”
“You paid someone to introduce us.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds worse.”
“It is objectively strange.”
“Can we pretend Jake introduced us?”
“He’d never let us forget it.”
“True.”
We ordered coffee.
Then started again.
Not from zero.
But close.
I asked what she liked doing when she wasn’t working.
She asked what I actually wanted from my career instead of whether software paid the bills.
I learned she loved old bookstores.
Hated crowded elevators.
Had a younger brother in Vermont.
Loved cooking but never followed recipes correctly.
She learned I played guitar badly.
That I called my sister when I needed serious advice.
That I had once written an entire game in college and deleted it because I was embarrassed to show anyone.
Nothing dramatic.
Exactly why it mattered.
Over the next month, we saw each other six times.
Coffee.
Dinner.
A walk along the Charles.
A museum visit where Sophia knew far more about one exhibit than I did and then admitted she had read the wall label while I was distracted.
We were careful.
Maybe overly careful.
Neither of us wanted to confuse loneliness with compatibility.
I had been alone eight months.
Sophia had rebuilt her life for three years.
She was especially protective of that rebuilding.
One evening after dinner, she said:
“I need you to understand something.”
We were sitting outside a restaurant while light rain fell beyond the awning.
“Okay.”
“I don’t need rescuing.”
I frowned.
“I don’t think you do.”
“Good.”
She looked at me.
“This work helped me pay debt after the divorce.”
I nodded.
“And I actually like parts of it.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not ashamed.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
That was apparently the answer she needed.
Then:
“And I’m probably not quitting tomorrow because someone I’m dating feels weird about it.”
There it was.
A real complication.
I took a breath.
“I do feel weird.”
Sophia looked disappointed.
I continued.
“But mostly because I know what it feels like to be on the client side.”
“That’s fair.”
“I also know it’s your decision.”
Her eyes stayed on mine.
“I may need time to understand what I’m comfortable with.”
“Also fair.”
“But I’m not going to turn discomfort into an order.”
Sophia smiled slightly.
“Very software developer.”
“Everything is systems.”
“I know.”
That conversation mattered more than any romantic moment we had experienced so far.
It was not glamorous.
No perfect answer.
Just boundaries.
Adult ones.
By the third month, I met her brother.
By the fourth, she met my sister.
My sister waited until Sophia went to the bathroom before leaning across the table.
“She’s older than you.”
“I know.”
“How much?”
“Nine years.”
My sister nodded.
“Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“What?”
“I expected commentary.”
“You’re twenty-nine.”
“Exactly.”
“You have health insurance and lower-back pain. You’re old enough to make decisions.”
I laughed.
Then she added:
“Do you like her?”
“Yes.”
“Does she like you?”
“I think so.”
“Then don’t turn arithmetic into drama.”
Useful.
Sophia worried more.
Not constantly.
But I could see it sometimes.
At restaurants where servers assumed she was older.
At a wedding where someone jokingly asked whether she was “corrupting” me.
At my thirtieth birthday, when she stood beside me and whispered:
“Still not a problem?”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“My age.”
There it was again.
The question from the car.
Different setting.
Same vulnerability.
I took her hand.
“No.”
She studied me.
“Still sure?”
“Yes.”
Then I smiled.
“Though thirty-eight sounded younger before I turned thirty.”
She punched my shoulder.
The fear broke.
That became our pattern.
Not pretending insecurity did not exist.
Not feeding it either.
A year after the gala, I found the photo the event photographer had taken.
Sophia and me.
My hand at her waist.
Both of us looking strangely convincing.
I showed it to her.
She stared for several seconds.
“That was before I asked.”
“About your age?”
“Yes.”
“You were already worried?”
“Obviously.”
“I had no idea.”
“You were pretending to understand networking.”
“I had priorities.”
She smiled.
Then looked at the picture again.
“You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“That might be the first honest photo of us.”
I laughed.
“We were literally pretending.”
“I know.”
She pointed toward my face.
“But you weren’t.”
I looked more closely.
She was right.
I looked happy.
Not polished.
Not socially engaged.
Not like an employee performing adulthood for executives.
Just happy.
Sophia looked happy too.
That was the part neither of us had planned.
The contract had created the setup.
The gala gave us the excuse.
But everything that mattered started after the arrangement ended.
The first real coffee.
The uncomfortable conversations.
The boundaries.
The questions neither of us could outsource to a professional script.
Age.
Work.
Trust.
Divorce.
Loneliness.
None had an elegant solution.
Maybe that was why it worked.
My job taught me to believe every problem had a root cause.
Find it.
Fix it.
Deploy the solution.
People were not like that.
Sometimes the flaw was not a bug.
It was history.
Sometimes a scar remained after healing.
Sometimes the real question was not whether a problem existed.
It was whether two people could live honestly beside it.
Sophia and I did not fall in love instantly.
That would make a better headline.
Reality was slower.
I noticed her instantly.
I cared faster than expected.
But love came through repetition.
Seeing her.
Listening.
Letting her see me back.
Months later, Sophia admitted that her question in the car had terrified her.
“My age isn’t a problem, right?”
She said she almost never asked men anything that directly.
“Why me?” I asked.
She thought for a moment.
“Because if you said yes, I wanted to know before I started hoping.”
That sentence stayed with me.
The gala had begun because I wanted appearances.
I wanted executives to see a man who had his life together.
Partner.
Confidence.
Social proof.
Sophia was hired to help build that picture.
Instead she was the first person in months who made me stop caring what the picture looked like.
And that was the irony.
The fake date had been entirely about appearances.
The relationship that followed worked only because eventually neither of us wanted to pretend.
Not about age.
Not about her work.
Not about my loneliness after a failed relationship.
Not about the fact that our introduction was ridiculous.
A year and a half after that first gala, another company event appeared on my calendar.
Jake messaged immediately.
Need me to recommend an escort?
I showed Sophia.
She typed the reply herself.
Too late. He got attached.
Jake sent twelve laughing emojis.
That evening, Sophia stood beside me in front of the mirror while I fixed my tie.
She was forty now.
I was thirty-one.
She caught me looking at her reflection.
“What?”
I smiled.
“Nothing.”
“That is never true.”
I turned toward her.
“Remember the car?”
Her expression softened.
“The question?”
“Yeah.”
She knew exactly which one.
“My age isn’t a problem, right?”
I took her hand.
“No.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
She smiled.
Then:
“Good.”
We left together.
No script.
No invented barbecue.
No payment waiting to clear afterward.
And for the first time, I walked into one of those ridiculous corporate events with someone beside me without thinking about how it looked.
Because the part that mattered had stopped being pretend a long time ago.
