CHAPTER 3
1089 Words
REINA'S POV
I didn't sleep well.
I'm not going to pretend that it was unrelated to him.
I lay in the dark for two hours running the conversation back like a problem I needed to solve before morning. The way he said my name. The way he leaned in the doorframe like he owned the hallway and somehow also like he'd forgotten where he was. The way he asked me to dinner was with the expression of a man who had surprised himself.
"I came here tonight expecting someone very different from you.”
I turned over. I closed my eyes. I opened them again.
The thing about Damian Harlow is that he looked at me like I was something worth looking at. Not the way men sometimes look at women, that's not what I mean. He looked at me the way I look at a chart that isn't adding up. Focused. Genuinely trying to understand. Like I was a question he actually wanted the answer to.
Nobody looks at me like that. I'm the person who handles things quietly. I'm reliable, I'm steady, I'm the nurse who stays late and doesn't complain. I am not, generally, someone who gets looked at.
I told myself it was a strategy. Rich men are good at making you feel seen. It's a tool like any other.
I almost believed it.
Marco called at eight AM Sunday like clockwork.
"Why do you sound like that?" were his first words.
"Like what. I just woke up."
"You sound like you're thinking about something you don't want to tell me."
I pulled the blanket up. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Reina."
"Marco."
Silence. Then: "Did something happen with the Harlow thing?"
I had told Marco about the marriage because I told him everything. He's the only person I trust completely, which is a short list but a solid one. His reaction was to laugh for approximately forty seconds, then get very serious and offer to drive to the corporate office himself.
"He came," I said.
Dead silence.
"In person?" Marco said.
"Yes."
"Damian Harlow came to your apartment."
"That's what I said."
"And?"
I stared at the ceiling. "I gave him the folder. He took it. He's having his team follow up this week."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Marco was quiet for three seconds, which for Marco is a very long time. "You're leaving something out."
"Goodbye, Marco."
"Reina….."
I hung up.
Then I lay there thinking about the way Damian had said “sixty dollars” — not dismissively, not as a flex, but quietly. Like it bothered him personally. Like he'd already decided it was his fault and was working out how to fix it.
I didn't want that to mean anything to me.
It meant something to me.
**************
The call came on Monday afternoon between shifts.
Not from a lawyer. Not from an assistant. From him.
I almost didn't answer. I was in the break room for twelve minutes before I had to be back on the floor, with a half-eaten sandwich in my hand, and his name on my screen made my stomach do something I immediately overruled.
I answered.
"You called me directly," I said instead of hello.
"I did." His voice was the same as I remembered — low, deliberate, like each word was chosen. "Is this a bad time?"
"I have eleven minutes."
"I'll be concise." A pause. "My legal team reviewed the documents. You're right about everything. The paperwork was filed fraudulently. We know who did it. That part is being handled separately."
I sat up straighter. "Who…."
"Separately," he said again, firm but not unkind. "What I'm calling about is the dissolution. My team can have it finalized in two weeks. Less, if you're available to sign mid-week."
"I'm available whenever. I've been available."
"I know." Something in his voice shifted. Quieter. "I'm sorry about that, Reina."
There it was again. My name is in his mouth. I pressed my back against the break room wall and looked at the ceiling.
"You don't have to apologize for your team," I said.
"I'm not apologizing to my team. I apologize for myself. I should have been reachable. What happened to you was a consequence of my organization's failure and that sits with me." A beat. "So. I'm sorry."
I didn't say anything for a moment.
"Okay," I finally said.
"Okay," he echoed. Then, carefully: "How are you?"
I laughed before I could stop it. Short, surprised. "You called to ask how I am?"
"Is that strange?"
"We're strangers who are accidentally married. Yes, it's a little strange."
"We don't have to be strangers." His voice was even but there was something underneath it, something that made me very still. "That's actually the other reason I called."
I should have said " Mr. Harlow, let's keep this professional." I had the sentence ready. I could feel it.
"You have four minutes," I said instead.
I heard what might have been a smile. "Dinner. This week. Not a negotiation, not a strategy — just two people who've accidentally shared a last name for eighteen months and never actually spoken."
"We're speaking now."
"You know what I mean."
I did. That was the problem. I knew exactly what he meant and I knew exactly why I should say no and I also knew that I was still holding my sandwich and hadn't taken a single bite in four minutes because his voice on the phone made it difficult to do two things at once.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you're the most honest person I've spoken to in years and I'm not ready to be done with that conversation."
My heart did something quiet and inconvenient.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
"I'll take it." Another pause, and when he spoke again his voice was low enough that it felt private, like something just for me. "Get back to your patients, Reina. You're good at what you do."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"How would you know that?"
"Because you're still there," he said. "Twelve months of being ignored and you stayed patient and professional and didn't burn anything down. That's nothing. That's who you are."
The break room door opened. My colleague Dani poked her head in.
"Two minutes," she said.
I nodded. I stood up. And said the thing I told myself I wouldn't say.
"Thursday," I said into the phone. "I'm free at seven."
- Writer
