Catherine’s POV
The second the meeting wrapped, I marched straight back to my desk and threw myself into the numbers.
I sank into the Romano Group file like it was a lifeline, and honestly, it kind of was—anything to stop thinking about the man who’d kissed me and then bolted for a couch.
Romano Group was one of the biggest names in the country, their reach spread across every industry you could name.
A few years ago they’d been all about real estate.
Now they’d pivoted hard into artificial intelligence, always chasing the next wave before anyone else even saw it coming.
This new product was a caretaker robot, built for ordinary households looking after elderly parents.
It could detect falls and fainting in real time, track blood pressure, blood sugar, oxygen, heart rate—dozens of health markers, all at once.
And it offered companionship, too.
Warm, human-sounding conversation to keep lonely seniors from feeling so alone.
Honestly?
It was kind of incredible.
It was only after clocking out that I finally dug my phone out of my pocket—dead for two solid hours—and powered it back on.
The very first thing to load was his message.
I froze.
Just for a second.
Then I did the mature, responsible, emotionally healthy thing.
I pretended I hadn’t seen it, and called my best friend to figure out what the hell I was supposed to say back.
Julia picked up on the second ring, which told me she’d been waiting.
“Okay, spill,” she said, and I could hear her kicking her heels up onto her desk.
“What do you need?
Please tell me it’s not another shopping trip for your ex’s mother’s birthday gift.”
I dropped into my chair and glanced around the empty office, just to make sure no one was left to overhear me.
“No.
It’s about the contract husband.”
“Ooh.” Her voice shot up an entire octave.
“What about him?
Tell me everything.”
“We stayed in the same hotel.Last night.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then a scream so loud I had to yank the phone away from my ear.
“The *same hotel?*” She was practically vibrating through the line.
“Same room?
Same *bed?* Catherine, oh my God, did you—did the two of you—”
“We kissed,” I said.
The silence that came back this time was flat.
Deflated.
Like I’d let all the air out of her balloon.
“That’s it?” she said.
“You kissed.
That’s the whole story.”
“That’s the whole story.”
“You’re telling me you were locked in a hotel with the man you legally married, a man who—by your own description—looks like sin poured into a three-piece suit, and all you did was kiss?”
She let out a long, disappointed groan.
For me.
As a friend.”
I laughed, but it came out thin and tired.
“It’s not funny, Julia.
He kissed me, and then he just—pulled back.
Walked off and slept on the couch like I was something he’d changed his mind about halfway through.”
“Wait.” Her voice sharpened.
“He kissed *you?*”
“Yeah.”
“And then *he* stopped.”
“Yeah.”
I hated how much it stung, saying it out loud.
I’d spent the whole night lying awake picking it apart, wondering what was wrong with me, what he’d seen in that moment that made him decide I wasn’t worth finishing what he’d started.
And now here I was, confessing it to my best friend like a teenager who’d been left at a school dance.
“That’s not rejection, you idiot,” Julia said slowly.
“A man doesn’t kiss you like that and then run unless he’s scared of something.
Trust me.
In my line of work I’ve watched a hundred men lie their faces off, and they don’t run from things they don’t care about.”
“Well, whatever it was, he apologized.” I opened the message again, staring at those two neat lines.
“This morning.
Said he crossed a line.”
“See?
So he—”
“And then he transferred me money.” I cut her off.
“Two thousand dollars.
Right under the apology.”
Julia went quiet for a second.
Then she started laughing.
“He *what?*”
“You heard me.” My face was hot all over again.
“He said sorry, and then he paid me.
Like I’m a supplier he stiffed on an invoice.
Who does that, Julia?
Who apologizes and then hands you a receipt?”
“A man who has no idea how to say what he actually feels, that’s who,” she said, still laughing.
“Oh, this is delicious.
Okay, first things first—keep the money.”
“Julia.”
“No, listen to me.
He gave it to you, it’s yours, don’t you dare send it back.
That’s not you being greedy, that’s you collecting damages for emotional distress.
I’m your lawyer, I would know.” I could practically see her grinning.
“But Catherine—and I mean this with love—do not let a pretty face turn your brain to soup.
You hear me?”
“I’m not—”
“You signed a paper marriage.
On *paper.*” Her tone dropped, all the joking gone out of it.
“That’s a business deal, honey.
Men like that don’t feel things the way we do, and even if he does, do you have any idea what kind of life comes attached to a man who signs contracts to get married?
”
“You do not want to wake up one day as somebody’s decorative wife, sitting home alone while he lives a whole other life you’re not allowed to ask about.
They are ugly.”
Something cold settled in my stomach, because she wasn’t wrong.
She was never wrong about this stuff.
“So what do I say?” I asked quietly.
“Keep it simple.
Keep it cool.
You don’t grovel, and you don’t gush.” She thought for a second.
“Type this: *Apology accepted.
Let’s not let it happen again.* Full stop.
Nothing else.
Let *him* sweat for once.”
I typed it out word for word, thumb hovering over send.
*Apology accepted.
Let’s not let it happen again.*
“Send it,” Julia ordered.
I sent it.
“Good girl.
Now go home and get some actual sleep, you sound like death.
And Catherine?” Her voice softened at the very end.
“Don’t build a whole future out of one kiss.
Promise me.”
“I promise,” I lied, and hung up.
I sat there another minute in the dark, quiet office, then grabbed my bag, shut everything down, and headed home.
I felt lighter, somehow.
Like I’d finally put the whole mess in a box and set it down.
I’d handle the marriage the way Julia said—smart, cool, at arm’s length.
No feelings.
No expectations.
Just a signature on a page and a life that was, at long last, actually mine.
I should have known better than to feel safe.
Because the second I pushed open the door to my apartment, before I could even reach for the light switch, a hand came flying out of the dark and cracked across my face.
The slap snapped my head sideways.
My bag hit the floor.
My cheek went instantly, blindingly hot, and I stumbled back against the door with my ears ringing and my eyes stinging.
“You ungrateful little *snake,*” a voice hissed out of the shadows, and my blood turned to ice, because I knew that voice.
I’d grown up under that voice.
It was my mother.