Close Enough
888 Words
I stopped leaving my door open at night.
Not because I was afraid of him. But because I was afraid of myself.
Afraid of what I might say if I caught him in the hallway. Afraid of what I might do if I saw that look again—the one that wasn’t cold. The one that felt like almost.
It was safer with a door between us.
Safer to pretend.
---
The apartment stayed quiet for three days.
No fights. No deep talks. No looks that lasted too long.
We moved like shadows around each other—polite, distant, professional. A rhythm had settled between us. One that didn’t require honesty.
But it was exhausting.
Every time I walked into a room, I felt him watching me. Not always with his eyes. Sometimes with his silence. Like he was listening for something in me that even I didn’t know how to name.
---
Friday morning, I woke up to an email.
Charity Auction. Tonight. Formal dress required.
There was no message from him, just the forwarded invite and a time.
I stared at it for a full minute. Then shut my laptop and went back to bed.
---
Marta came back around two to prep me. She was in a mood.
“You need to start holding your chin higher,” she said, pinning curls. “You're not some little PA anymore. You're Mrs. Cross.”
I made a face. “Only on paper.”
She clicked her tongue. “That’s not how the camera sees it.”
I didn’t answer.
Mostly because I didn’t have the energy to argue.
---
He picked me up that night like it was a date.
He didn’t say much when I got into the car. Just gave me a once-over that lingered a little too long.
“Green suits you.”
“Good,” I said. “Because it cost more than my dignity.”
His lip twitched. Almost a smile. Then he went back to staring at the road.
---
The venue was all glass and marble and the kind of wealth that didn’t have to speak for itself. The kind of place that made you feel small if you didn’t know how to belong.
He stepped out first. Offered me his hand.
I hesitated a split second before taking it.
It was warm.
Steady.
He didn’t let go even after the cameras stopped flashing.
---
Inside, we did the usual rounds. Smile. Shake hands. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.
I was halfway through nodding at some senator's wife when I caught him watching me.
Not just glancing. Watching.
I turned to him. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No.”
“Then why are you staring?”
He didn’t blink. “Because you’re very good at pretending this doesn’t bother you.”
I swallowed. “Maybe I’m not pretending.”
He leaned in. Just slightly.
“But you are.”
Then he straightened and walked off to talk to someone in a tux that cost more than a year’s rent.
And I stood there, stunned.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
---
Later that night, the auction started.
Trips. Art. Cars.
Then came the part I hadn’t expected.
“Next up,” the announcer said, “we have a surprise donation—an exclusive dinner with one of New York’s most elusive CEOs and his lovely new bride. Mr. and Mrs. Cross.”
My stomach dropped.
I turned to him. “You didn’t mention this.”
“I didn’t plan it.”
“Then who—”
He leaned closer. “Probably my mother.”
And then he was on stage, taking the mic like he’d done it a thousand times.
Smile. Laugh. Applause.
I stood frozen as the bidding started.
Twenty grand.
Thirty-five.
Forty.
I wasn’t even looking at the numbers. I was watching him. Watching the way he let people believe what they wanted.
That we were in love. That we were happy. That we were real.
The auction closed at sixty-five thousand.
For one dinner.
With two liars.
---
Back in the car, I didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
Until we were almost home.
“I didn’t agree to that,” I said quietly.
“I know.”
“And you let it happen.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry.”
I turned to him. “Are you?”
He looked at me.
And in that second, he didn’t look like a billionaire. Didn’t look like someone who always had the upper hand.
He just looked…tired.
“Yes.”
---
We got home.
I kicked off my shoes. Walked straight to the kitchen. Poured a glass of water just to have something to do.
He followed.
Leaning against the counter like he belonged there.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” I asked.
He didn’t ask what I meant.
“Every day.”
I nodded. “Same.”
Then he did something unexpected.
He reached out and touched my hand.
Not a grab. Not a gesture. Just... contact.
Warm.
Real.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.
“Neither do I.”
We stood there, hand to hand, two people who weren’t supposed to feel anything.
But something cracked open in that silence.
And it felt dangerously close to real.
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