[Sophie’s POV]

I don’t plan on bringing them.

That’s the lie I tell myself while I’m getting ready, while I’m smoothing my dress and fixing my hair and pretending this is just another company event. The invitation didn’t say partners welcome. It didn’t say anything about walking in with two men whose presence alone could detonate months of whispers. It just said holiday party, open bar, dress festive, attendance encouraged.

Encouraged. Not required.

I stare at my reflection and feel the weight of the last few weeks pressing against my ribs. The meetings. The sideways looks. The way my name now carries a pause before it, like people are deciding which version of me they’re allowed to acknowledge. The competent editor. The liability. The rumor.

And suddenly, when my professional reputation I’d spent three years building became secondary to speculation about my personal life. I heard fragments: unconventional, complicated, distraction. My manuscript edits were praised in the same breath as questions about my “situation.”

For weeks, I did what I’ve always done. I managed. I smiled. I deflected. I kept Adrian and Cassian in a separate compartment, something private and protected, something that belonged only to us. I told myself it was strategic. Professional. Smart.

But last Tuesday, my supervisor pulled me aside and asked—gently, carefully—if my “home life” was affecting my focus. I had just delivered the cleanest edit of my career. The question wasn’t about my work. It was about my worth.

That night, I told Adrian and Cassian everything. Adrian’s jaw tightened, that familiar storm brewing behind his eyes. He wanted to fix it—to confront, to protect, to make someone answer for the insult. That’s who he is. He spent years commanding rooms and demanding respect, and the thought of me shrinking to accommodate small minds made him furious.

Cassian was quieter. He sat beside me, his hand warm on my knee, and asked a different question: What do you want?

Not what was safe. Not what was smart. What I wanted.

I didn’t have an answer then. But I do now.

When the doorbell rings, my heart jumps anyway.

Cassian is the first thing I see when I open the door. He’s in a dark suit, clean lines, calm presence, his expression unreadable but steady. Adrian stands just behind him, jacket already slung over one shoulder like he’s ready for impact. They both look like they know exactly what this night could cost.

“You don’t have to do this,” Cassian says quietly, eyes searching my face.

“I know,” I reply. “But I want to.”

Adrian studies me for a long moment. “Once we walk in together,” he says, voice low, “there’s no unringing that bell.”

“I’m done shrinking,” I say. “I’m done pretending I don’t exist in my own life.”

Something shifts between them. Not tension. Alignment.

Adrian steps forward and holds out his hand. “Then we go in together.”

The venue is already loud when we arrive. Laughter, clinking glasses, the curated chaos of publishing people pretending they’re relaxed. I feel it immediately—the way the room registers us as a unit before anyone consciously reacts. Conversations stutter. Heads turn. Someone near the bar goes quiet mid-sentence.

I don’t let go of either of them.

Cassian’s hand is warm and grounding on my left—patient, steady, the anchor I’ve come to rely on when my thoughts spiral. Adrian’s grip on my right is firm, not possessive, just present—a silent declaration that he’s done hiding too. We don’t rush. We don’t hide. We walk in like this is where we’re supposed to be.

“Sophie,” Mark says, spotting me from across the room. His smile flickers when he sees who I’m with. “You… brought guests.”

“I did,” I say evenly. “Mark, this is Cassian. And Adrian.”

Mark’s gaze darts between them, then back to me. “Well. That’s… festive.”

“It’s honest,” I reply.

Someone laughs awkwardly nearby. Someone else pretends very hard to be fascinated by the dessert table. I can feel the ripple spreading, the silent recalculation happening in real time. The editors who once asked me about deadlines are now wondering about headlines. The assistants are clocking the scene like they’ll be recounting it tomorrow.

A woman from marketing leans in, wine glass raised. “So,” she says lightly, “is this a statement or a coincidence?”

“It’s my life,” I answer. “And I’m done pretending it’s theoretical.”

Cassian squeezes my hand, subtle but supportive. Adrian’s thumb brushes against my knuckle, steadying.

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