For three years, I kept my relationship with Grayson a secret to protect his tech career, playing the role of his strict, single coworker. But I opened our company internal software today to find hundreds of colleagues enthusiastically betting on when he would propose to my best friend, Kloe. I screenshotted it and sent it to Grayson, asking for an explanation. His reply was dismissive: "Just office banter. Can you not be such a prude about it? It's embarrassing." Instead of shutting the rumors down, Grayson basked in the attention. "Jealousy is a career killer, Blair," my coworkers sneered, plastering my desk with sticky notes. I had paid half his mortgage and sacrificed my youth for his success, only to be thrown away for twenty minutes of cheap office applause. I stared at the word "embarrassing," my nails digging into my palm to keep the tears from falling. I took a deep breath and peeled the mocking sticky notes off my desk one by one, tucking them into my bag—they wanted to see me break, but I was going to walk out of this with my head held high. I signed my transfer papers to Denver, dialed the best defamation lawyer in Seattle, and prepared to tear down their perfect facade. Chapter 1 Blair POV: Today, two hundred coworkers launched a poll on our internal company software, betting on whether Grayson would propose to my best friend, Kloe, at tonight's rooftop mixer. And Grayson Guzman and I have been secretly dating for three years. For three years he told me company policy would ruin us, made me play the role of his strict, single coworker, and had us enter through different revolving doors seven minutes apart every morning. Until today, when the campus social channel pushed a poll to the front page—"Team GrayKloe: Official Rooftop Mixer Countdown!" Below the banner, sixty-eight photos: Grayson handing Kloe her iced oat milk latte at eight in the morning; Kloe wearing his Arc'teryx jacket in the breakroom; Grayson leaning over her desk in the design bay while she whispered in his ear. "Blair, have you seen the thread?" Marcus rolled his chair over, phone shoved in my face. "Everyone on floor four is placing bets. Ten bucks says Gray makes it official tonight. Look at this one—he saved her a seat next to him and swept your client proposal into the trash along with the folder, said the desk was too messy and it was giving him a headache." That was the proposal I'd been working on for next week's pitch—the printed draft still had my red-pen edits from three in the morning. I asked Grayson about it. He said the conference table was crowded and I was being overly sensitive. "They look compatible," I said, keeping my voice level. "Compatible is an understatement! Matching ceramic mugs in the kitchen, Kloe brings him homemade muffins every Tuesday, they take two o'clock walks around South Lake Union. The thread has almost five hundred comments." My chest tightened, but I kept my face still. We'd been living together for three years—while I worked late until nine, eating a cold convenience store sandwich alone, he was sitting at Kloe's desk sharing a box of strawberries. He'd text me: "Gotta monitor things a bit longer tonight, go ahead and eat without me." I asked him about it. He said, "She just transferred in, I'm showing her the ropes, don't overthink it." "Showing her the ropes" had been going on for six months. From her first day to now, it had produced matching mugs, Tuesday muffins, and South Lake Union walks. And my explanation was always "don't overthink it." I had believed him completely. I declined every team dinner where he was present, never dared to take his arm in the hallways. Six months ago, when Kloe transferred from Austin, I was the one who introduced her to Grayson—she was my college roommate. On her first day, I told her: Grayson is my boyfriend. She'd hooked her arm through mine and laughed: "Relax, I don't touch my friends' men." I didn't lash out immediately. First I long-pressed and saved the poll page and the sixty-eight photos, screenshotted the account that posted it, the comments, and the repost chain, then sent it to Grayson: "What is this?" Five minutes. Ten minutes. Grayson: "Just office banter. Can you not be such a prude about it? It's embarrassing." I closed my laptop, grabbed my bag, and walked toward the glass skybridge. At five o'clock, the transit concourse was packed with the after-work crowd. Ahead of me were Grayson and Kloe. She wore a pastel pink knit sweater, shivering in the cold. He had his briefcase on his left shoulder, her canvas tote on his right. Around his neck was the charcoal cashmere scarf I'd bought him for his thirty-second birthday in Paris. I stepped forward and blocked their path. "Grayson." His pupils contracted slightly, then he switched to a polite, distant corporate smile. "Hey, Blair. Heading home?" "It's freezing out here," I said, looking him straight in the eye. "Give me back my scarf." His jaw tightened, and he took half a step back. "What are you talking about? Don't make a scene here." "That scarf is mine. I want it back." Kloe gasped and hugged her arms. "Oh, Blair, it's Gray's scarf. He was just about to lend it to me." Grayson immediately unwound the scarf. But he didn't hand it to me—he draped it around Kloe's shoulders and tucked the ends neatly into her collar. "Wear it. You caught a chill at last week's launch. You can't afford to lose your voice before tomorrow's review." Three engineers by the turnstiles stopped, and one called out loudly, "Look at that! Guzman, put a ring on her already!" Laughter rippled through the crowd. Kloe buried half her face in the scarf—it still carried the cedar scent of my favorite laundry detergent. She glanced at me through her lashes, the corner of her mouth twitching almost imperceptibly, then lowered her head. In that moment, I saw it clearly: he wasn't protecting our relationship. He was protecting his license to be adored. The secrecy had only ever applied to me. Grayson glanced at his watch, his brow furrowing with impatience. "We're heading to the parking garage. You coming with us, or are you going to stand here blocking the way?" I looked at Kloe wrapped in my gift. I took one step back, putting a clear distance between us. A calm smile settled on my lips. "No," I said. "You two go ahead." I didn't wait for his answer. I turned and walked toward the up escalator. Back on the eighth floor, I opened the HR system and pulled up the Denver transfer intent form I'd left sitting for three days. Last month the regional director had asked if I'd consider leading the new Midwest expansion hub. I'd hesitated because of Grayson's "I could never leave the Pacific Northwest." Now, in the feedback box, I typed: "I request an immediate transfer to the Denver regional office. Please expedite."

Blair POV: I went down to the underground parking garage. My phone buzzed—the "Lunch Trio" group chat Kloe had created three months ago. Grayson: "Blair, what is wrong with you lately? Demanding clothes back in public? Kloe was freezing and you made her feel terrible." He didn't mention our relationship. His only concern was Kloe's comfort and his carefully curated image. I replied: "I was just taking back what belongs to me." Kloe immediately flooded the chat: "Blair, please don't be mad at Gray! It's all my fault! I had no idea that scarf meant so much to you. I'll wash it tonight and put it on your desk first thing tomorrow morning! Gray is just like a big brother to me!" Big brother. Last Friday at midnight, this "big brother" spent three hours massaging her ankle on our couch because she'd twisted it during pilates. I ignored her and sent Grayson a separate message: "Enjoy your ride." The group chat went dead. When the elevator reached the parking garage, cheers erupted from the adjacent corridor. A dozen people from Grayson's project team and Kloe's design group were gathered at the exit. Marcus spotted me immediately: "Blair! Dave's SUV has a seat saved for you! We're heading to the waterfront seafood restaurant for Kloe's celebration!" "I have plans tonight." I pulled my arm free from his grip. "Come on, Blair!" Kloe stood at the front of the group, pressed close to Grayson, still clutching the edge of that scarf, her voice pitiful. "If you don't come, I'll think you're still mad at me. Please, just for my celebration dinner, do me this favor?" Grayson stood beside her, hands in his pockets, his eyes shooting me a cold warning—go ahead, refuse in front of twenty-some people, earn yourself a petty reputation. "Get in the car," he said flatly. "Don't hold everyone up." I scanned the expectant faces. In their eyes, I was the stiff, serious marketing manager; Kloe was the delicate little darling who deserved to be pampered. "Fine," I said calmly. "Let's go." Twenty minutes later, we were at an upscale seafood restaurant on the Seattle pier. Grayson sat across from me, Kloe on his right, their shoulders brushing every time she reached for her water glass. Dave raised his beer mug and leaned forward. "Grayson, when are you going to come clean with us? What exactly are you two?" The table went quiet. A few people clinked their forks against their glasses. I stared straight at Grayson. He smiled slightly, picked up his cider, and took a sip. "Kloe and I have great synergy at work. She's a very special colleague to me." "Special colleague?" Dave laughed. "Come on, man! Last Sunday you drove halfway across the city at six in the morning to jump-start her Mini! Who does that for a 'special colleague' in the pouring rain?" I stared at Grayson. Last Sunday morning, the kitchen faucet was leaking. I was under the sink with a wrench, called him, and he said "I'm busy, call the property manager." So that's what he was busy with—driving halfway across the city to jump-start Kloe's car. Kloe ducked her head, cheeks flushing crimson. She sneaked a glance at me, let her gaze linger for a beat, then leaned into Grayson's arm. "Dave, stop teasing us. Gray is going to get embarrassed." "I'm not embarrassed," Grayson chuckled, patting her shoulder. "Everyone, go easy on Kloe. She's shy." The table erupted in knowing laughter. Dave opened his mouth to say more, but the colleague next to him pulled him back, and he shut it with a grin. I reached under the table and texted Grayson: "Tell them you have a girlfriend." Across the table, his phone screen lit up. He glanced at the notification banner, his jaw tightening. He didn't open it. He turned the phone face down on the table, picked up the crab crackers, cracked a leg, and placed the tender white meat gently onto Kloe's appetizer plate. "Eat. You barely had anything at lunch." My phone vibrated in my palm. Grayson: "Stop creating drama in public. If I tell them now, everyone will think I was deliberately hiding you and lying to them. I'll explain when the time is right. Can you not act like a crazy person?" Crazy. Three years. I split the mortgage with him, ironed his presentation shirts every Sunday, sat on a hard plastic chair in the ER for fourteen hours when he tore his ACL during a soccer match, fed him hot soup one plastic spoonful at a time. Kloe wasn't about to let the opportunity pass. She giggled, her fingers trailing lightly along Grayson's forearm, and called across the table, "Blair, you're so quiet tonight! Aren't you going to congratulate Gray and me on finishing the Q3 roadmap?" The table went silent again. Every eye turned to me. Grayson calmly poured himself more tea, his hand steady as a rock, confident that I would swallow my humiliation like I always did. I picked up my water glass, took a sip, and set it down on the table with a sharp click. "Congratulations on finishing the roadmap." My voice was clear and strong, cutting through the restaurant jazz. Then I leaned forward, my eyes boring straight into Grayson's. "By the way, Grayson," I raised my voice so the entire table of twenty-some people could hear, "are you single?" The long table went dead silent.

Blair POV: The clinking of silverware stopped. Grayson's hand jerked violently. Boiling water from the metal teapot splashed onto the white tablecloth. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, grabbed a napkin, and dabbed at his scalded knuckles, his eyes shooting toward me, filled with the shame and fury of being publicly exposed. "Blair, what kind of question is that? What does my personal life have to do with tonight's team dinner?" Kloe immediately jumped up, fished an ice cube from her water glass, wrapped it in a napkin, and pressed it against his hand. "Gray, does it hurt?" She leaned half over him, blocking me from his view, and when she turned to look at me, her eyes were already wet. "Blair, why are you doing this? If you have a problem with my design proposal, you could tell me privately. Why do you have to interrogate Gray in front of everyone and ruin the mood?" Marcus leaned over and lowered his voice. "Cool it, will you? Everyone knows they're practically together. Why do you have to put him on the spot like an HR compliance audit?" Dave waved a hand at Kloe. "Don't take it to heart. Blair only knows how to be all business. She doesn't get romantic banter. Sit down, let's get some more ice." Grayson stood up, his face rigid and cold, one hand pressing the ice pack, the other hovering near Kloe's elbow. "We're leaving first. Kloe needs to review for tomorrow's presentation, and my hand needs burn ointment. Marcus, put this on my corporate card." He tossed his black card onto the table, never once looking at me, and guided Kloe toward the door, leaning down to murmur something that made her raise a hand to wipe her eyes and nod obediently. For the next forty minutes, no one said a word to me. When the bill came, Marcus split the tip among everyone present except me. I paid for my drink in cash, walked out into the chilly Seattle night, and called a car back to the apartment. At nine-thirty, the apartment was pitch black. I sat on the couch without even taking off my coat, watching headlights sweep across the ceiling. At ten-forty, the electronic lock beeped. Grayson stepped into the foyer, tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl. He smelled of rain and a faint trace of lavender perfume—Kloe's signature scent. He flipped on the overhead light, squinted when he saw me, and frowned. "Are you satisfied now? You humiliated me in front of my entire engineering team. What was that stunt at the dinner table?" I looked at his right hand. His knuckles were wrapped in a neat white bandage. "Did you take her home?" "She was crying!" Grayson strode toward the coffee table. "She was terrified, thinking you hated her, thinking you were trying to spread rumors at a work dinner to force her out! I spent a whole hour comforting her in her apartment lobby!" "You had to comfort her? What about me? I've lived in this apartment with you for three years, and tonight you told twenty people you were single." "I never said I was single! I said she was a 'special colleague'! It was a workplace joke! You're acting like a lunatic over a harmless comment!" "Then tell them tomorrow." Grayson froze. "What?" "At the all-hands meeting tomorrow morning, get on stage and tell everyone that you and I have been together for three years, that we live together, and that Kloe is just a coworker." He let out a bitter, mocking laugh. "Are you insane? Kloe just finished her Q3 presentation and I'm supposed to go announce my private life? Everyone will think I'm targeting her! It'll look like you forced me to publicly humiliate her to satisfy your pathetic jealousy!" "You'd rather care about her feelings than my dignity." "I care about professional boundaries!" he roared. "You're irrational, controlling, and paranoid! I will not let your insecurities destroy my career and Kloe's reputation!" He grabbed a pillow off the couch and slammed the guest bedroom door shut. The sound echoed through the hallway. I stood in the center of the living room. My hands didn't shake. My eyes didn't tear up. I walked into the master bedroom, locked the door, and pulled two black rolling suitcases from the top shelf. I packed my winter coats, my designer dresses, my shoes, my work portfolio. I left every piece of jewelry he'd ever given me on the nightstand. At seven in the morning, laughter drifted from the kitchen. I unlocked the door and walked down the hallway. The kitchen smelled of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee. Kloe stood at the marble island wearing Grayson's favorite Seattle Mariners baseball jersey from his college days, her hair in a messy bun. Grayson, in sweatpants, was flipping pancakes on the griddle. Two white plates on the island. Two steaming mugs. No third plate. "Morning, Blair!" Kloe turned with a spatula in hand. "Gray said you were stressed and in a bad mood last night, so I took the early bus over to make breakfast for everyone! Gray's hand hurts too much to hold the pan, so I'm helping out!" She giggled and dabbed at a smudge of flour on Grayson's cheek with a paper towel. He didn't pull away. He looked down at her, his eyes soft and indulgent. "Blair," he said without looking up, "grab the orange juice from the fridge and set the silverware. Kloe's been up since dawn working on this." I stood barefoot on the hardwood floor, looking at the kitchen I had designed, the griddle I had paid for, the man who was treating me like a free housekeeper in my own home. "No." My phone buzzed in my pocket. An email from Maya, my former college friend in engineering operations. A private Google Drive link. Maya: "Blair, you need to see this. Someone posted this folder on the anonymous work forum last night." I clicked the link. The folder was titled: "The Gray & Kloe Archive." Over three hundred high-resolution photos from the past six months. On our third anniversary, Grayson and Kloe had dinner at an intimate Italian bistro in Bellevue. That night he'd texted me that a major production outage had him stuck at the office. Over a long weekend in May, they were at a ski lodge in Whistler. That weekend I had acute bronchitis and a fever of nearly 104, alone in this apartment for four days, while he told me he had to attend a mandatory engineering leadership summit. One photo: a roaring fire in a stone fireplace, Kloe sitting on Grayson's lap, both holding mugs, her arms wrapped around his neck. Timestamp: May 14th, 8:15 PM. That same night at 8:12 PM, he'd texted me: "Summit is running seriously late. Go to bed, don't wait up." I stared at the screen. Every act of forbearance, every compromise, every lonely night of the past three years crystallized into one clear, piercing truth. I didn't close the folder right away. First I long-pressed, selected all, and saved the three hundred-plus photos, timestamps, and text screenshots to my private encrypted cloud drive. I replied to Maya: "Don't delete the original link. Keep it for me." Then I put my phone away, went back to the master bedroom for my purse and car keys, opened Grayson's chat, and typed three words. Me: "We're done."