Lana POV
The gossip eased by evening but didn’t die. Nothing dies on the internet; it only mutates. Clips of the kiss proliferated—an endless Russian doll of the same scene from a dozen angles, each captioned like it knew us better than we knew ourselves. In one, my hair caught the flash so it looked like a halo. The comments devoured that version fastest.
Julian texted, Come home when you can. I’ll be here. Then: I’m proud of you. Three words that shouldn’t have gutted me and did.
I didn’t go home. Not immediately. I rode the elevator up to the floor no one went to unless summoned—a quiet corridor hung with art that cost so much it stopped being art and became an argument. I sat in a conference room where the lights had a dimmer and the table was matte oak and no one would find me unl
