Updated Nov 23, 2025 • ~9 min read
Monday morning arrived with the inevitability of a funeral.
I dressed carefully—power suit, hair in a severe bun, minimal makeup. Armor for facing Jeremy in my workspace.
Julie intercepted me at the elevator. “Tell me it’s not true.”
“Which part?”
“The part where Jeremy Patterson is consulting on our biggest account and will be here every single day.”
“Unfortunately true.”
“And Eric approved this?”
“Jeremy offered to work for free. Eric couldn’t say no.” I stepped into the elevator. “Client relations gala tonight is mandatory. Jeremy will be there.”
Julie’s eyes widened. “The gala? Rose, that’s couples. You were supposed to bring Charlie.”
I’d forgotten about the couples requirement. Morrison Creative’s annual client appreciation event, where senior staff brought significant others to schmooze donors.
“I’ll figure something out.”
Conference Room B was already set up when I arrived. Jeremy sat at the head of the table, laptop open, looking like he owned the place.
Which, given his net worth, he probably could.
“Roselyn. Right on time.” His eyes traveled down my suit with appreciation that made my skin heat. “Professional. I like it.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. This is my account, my office, my rules. You’re here to consult. Not take over.”
“Understood.” He gestured to the chair beside him. Not across. Beside. “Shall we begin?”
The next hour was torturous.
Jeremy was brilliant. His suggestions for the Henderson campaign were insightful, creative, exactly what the pitch needed. And he was close—leaning over to point at my laptop, his shoulder brushing mine, his cologne invading my senses.
Every casual touch felt deliberate.
“This section needs stronger emotional appeal,” he said, his hand covering mine on the mouse. “May I?”
His fingers were warm. I snatched my hand back. “Go ahead.”
He revised the copy with quick, efficient keystrokes. The new version was better. Significantly better.
I hated it.
“The gala tonight,” he said casually. “I assume you’re bringing Charlie?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is if I’m your plus-one.”
I stared. “Excuse me?”
“Eric mentioned the couples requirement. I offered to escort you, given Charlie’s… hesitance about our working arrangement.” His expression was innocent. Too innocent. “He seemed relieved.”
“You manipulative—”
“I’m solving a problem. You need a date. I’m available. Unless you’d prefer to explain to Eric why you can’t attend your own company’s mandatory event?”
He had me. We both knew it.
“Fine. But we’re not arriving together. And this is strictly professional.”
“Of course. Strictly professional.” The smirk said otherwise.
The rest of the week followed the same pattern. Daily meetings where Jeremy was helpful and infuriating in equal measure. Where he sat too close, touched too casually, looked at me too intensely.
By Friday, I was wound tight as a spring.
The Henderson presentation went perfectly. The client loved Jeremy’s revisions. They signed a two-year contract extension on the spot.
Eric was ecstatic. “Drinks tonight! Everyone’s invited. Jeremy, you too.”
“I’d be honored.”
We all went to a bar near the office. Eric bought rounds. Julie glared daggers at Jeremy, who ignored her completely.
Hayley leaned in, wine-flushed. “Your consultant is hot. If you’re not interested, I might be.”
Something sharp twisted in my chest. “He’s married.”
“To you,” Hayley giggled. “Which you keep forgetting to mention. Office gossip’s been brutal.”
Of course it had.
Jeremy materialized beside us. “Mind if I borrow Roselyn?”
Before I could protest, his hand was on my lower back, guiding me to a quieter corner.
“You’re causing gossip,” I hissed.
“Let them talk.” He handed me a glass of wine. “Your favorite. The bartender tried to give you Pinot Grigio, but I corrected him.”
“How do you still remember what wine I like?”
“I remember everything about you, Rose.” His eyes were serious. “Every preference. Every tell. The way you bite your lip when you’re nervous. Like now.”
I stopped biting my lip.
“The gala’s tomorrow,” he continued. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“I said separate arrivals.”
“And I’m saying you’ll arrive in my car, on my arm, looking stunning in whatever dress you’re panicking about choosing.” His smile was knowing. “It’s the black one with the slit, isn’t it? The one you’re worried is too revealing?”
My skin prickled. “Have you been in my apartment?”
“No. But I know you. You’re nervous about tomorrow, so you’re overthinking your outfit. The black dress is gorgeous but makes you self-conscious. You’ll probably wear the navy instead.”
He was right. I hated that he was right.
“Stop profiling me.”
“Stop being so predictable.” He leaned in, breath ghosting my ear. “Wear the black one. Trust me.”
Then he left me standing there, wine in hand, pulse racing.
Saturday evening, I wore the black dress.
I told myself it was coincidence. That I’d already decided before Jeremy’s comment.
I was lying.
The dress was elegant but dangerous—fitted bodice, thigh-high slit, enough neckline to be interesting. The kind of dress that demanded confidence.
Jeremy’s car arrived at seven exactly. Not a driver—him, personally, in a sleek Audi that probably cost more than my annual salary.
He got out, came to my door, and his expression when he saw me made my knees weak.
“Rose.” His voice was rough. “You’re stunning.”
“It’s just a dress.”
“It’s not the dress.” His eyes traveled slowly, deliberately. “Though the dress is doing incredible work.”
“Can we just go?”
The drive to the venue was charged silence. Chicago lights blurred past. Jeremy’s hand rested on the gearshift, close enough to touch but not touching.
“You’re nervous,” he observed.
“Client events always make me nervous.”
“This isn’t about clients. This is about us being seen together. As a couple.”
“We’re not a couple.”
“We’re married. Attending a couples event. The distinction seems semantic.”
The venue was a converted warehouse in River North—exposed brick, string lights, elegant without being stuffy. Perfect for Morrison Creative’s brand.
Jeremy’s hand found my lower back as we entered. The touch sent electricity up my spine.
“Smile,” he murmured. “We’re being watched.”
He was right. Heads turned. Whispers started.
Eric approached with his wife. “Jeremy! So glad you could make it. And Roselyn, you look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll steal Jeremy for introductions,” Eric said. “He needs to meet some potential clients.”
Jeremy’s hand slid from my back. “Save me a dance?”
It wasn’t really a question.
I found Julie by the bar. “Don’t start.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything about you showing up with your husband looking like sin in a tux.”
“He’s helping with clients.”
“He’s marking territory.” Julie sipped her drink. “Every man here is looking at you in that dress. And Jeremy’s making sure they all know you’re taken.”
“I’m not—”
“Taken. You’re legally married, Rose. And whether you admit it or not, you’re letting him act like it.”
Before I could argue, Jeremy was back. “Dance with me.”
“I don’t—”
He took my hand, leading me to the floor where other couples swayed to soft jazz.
His hand settled on my waist. Mine on his shoulder. The proper distance for strangers.
Then he pulled me closer.
“Jeremy—”
“Relax. It’s just a dance.”
It wasn’t just a dance. Not with the way he was looking at me. Not with the way our bodies fit together like they remembered.
“You wore the dress,” he said quietly.
“You were right about it.”
“I’m right about a lot of things.” His hand spread across my lower back, warm through the thin fabric. “Like the fact that you’re not as unaffected by me as you pretend.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” He spun me, pulled me back closer than before. “Your pulse is racing. I can see it. Right here.” His eyes dropped to my throat. “And you keep biting your lip when I get too close.”
“That’s nervousness, not attraction.”
“Is there a difference?” His lips curved. “When was the last time Charlie made you nervous?”
“Don’t bring him into this.”
“He’s already in this. Somewhere. Presumably at home, not fighting for you.” Jeremy’s expression hardened. “If you were mine—really mine—I’d be here. Fighting. Making sure every man in this room knew you were taken.”
“I’m not a possession.”
“No. You’re a choice. One I made wrong before and regret every day.” The song changed. Slower. He didn’t let go. “Let me get it right this time.”
“Jeremy—”
“Just tonight. Let me be your husband tonight. Tomorrow you can go back to pretending we’re strangers. But tonight—” His hand tightened on my waist. “Let me have this.”
I should say no. Should step away. Should remember I was engaged to someone else.
Instead, I let myself lean in.
Just for tonight.
We danced through three songs. His arms around me. My head against his chest. His heartbeat steady under my ear.
It felt like coming home.
“Rose,” he murmured. “Look at me.”
I lifted my head. His eyes were dark, intense, full of things I couldn’t let myself think about.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said. “And you’re going to let me.”
“No—”
“If you don’t want this, walk away. Right now. But if you stay—” His hand cupped my face. “If you stay, I’m kissing you.”
I should walk away.
I stayed.
His lips met mine, soft and sure and devastating. The world fell away—the music, the crowd, everything except Jeremy and five years of wanting.
I kissed him back.
His hand tangled in my hair. Mine fisted in his shirt. The kiss deepened, desperate and familiar and everything I’d been denying I wanted.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, I saw Julie watching from across the room.
Her expression said: I told you so.
“Come home with me,” Jeremy said against my lips.
Reality crashed back.
“No.” I stepped away. “This was a mistake.”
“Rose—”
“Take me home. Now. My home.”
His jaw clenched. But he nodded.
The drive back was silent. Charged. Dangerous.
He walked me to my door. “I’m not apologizing.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I meant what I said. About getting it right. About choosing you.” He caught my hand before I could unlock the door. “I’ll wait. However long it takes. But Rose?”
“What?”
“You kissed me back. Remember that when you’re trying to convince yourself you don’t feel this.”
He left me standing on my doorstep, lips still tingling, life still in chaos.
Inside, my phone showed seventeen missed calls.
All from Charlie.
I’d just kissed my husband in front of half of Chicago’s creative industry.
And I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
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