FALLING FOR MY MOM'S FIANCÉ

Maya

The toast knife slips from my fingers, clattering against the ceramic plate hard enough to leave a white chip in the glaze. My thumb finds the crack before my brain processes why I'm staring at my phone like I've just been slapped.

BILLIONAIRE CEO PHILIP DAVENPORT TO WED SOCIETY DESIGNER MONICA WILSON – TWO MONTHS AFTER HER DIVORCE.

The photo below is my mom. Head tilted back, laughing like she hasn't shed a tear in her life. Standing next to a man with silver-streaked black hair and shoulders broad enough to block out half the skyline behind them. I've never seen him before.

My chest tightens... hot sharp, like I've swallowed broken glass. The screen blurs at the edges as I scroll down, reading how they'd "been planning this for months," how he's "the rock she needed after a difficult split."

Difficult split. That's what they're calling it? My dad spent three weeks sleeping on our old couch after she moved out. I found him there one morning, staring at a photo of her in her wedding dress, his hands shaking so bad he couldn't pour his coffee.

Buzz.

A text from Chloe pops up at the bottom of the screen: U up? Just saw the news OMG r u ok??? Did she tell u or did u find out like the rest of us???

I type back with one hand, the other still pressed to my chest like that'll keep the anger from spilling over: No. She didn't tell me. Found out from a damn tabloid. I can't believe she'd do this. Three months ago she was crying about how much she missed Dad.

Chloe: Come over. Right now. I'll pick up bagels and mimosas. We'll get drunk before noon and forget all about it.

I glance at the clock, it's 7:47 AM. Too early for liquor, but too late for pretending this isn't happening. I punch in my mom's number without thinking. It rings twice before she picks up, background noise loud enough to make me pull the phone from my ear-clinking glasses, distant music, someone laughing.

"Maya! Perfect timing... I was just picking out linens for the reception with my planner. You remember Janet? She did your cousin's wedding last year-"

"Are you serious?" My voice cracks on the last word. "You're engaged and you didn't call me? I had to see it on Twitter, some random account with two hundred thousand followers broke the story before my own mother thought to text me."

A pause on her end. The noise fades, like she's stepped into another room. "I was going to tell you. I swear I was. I just... wanted to make sure it was real first. Things move fast sometimes, baby."

"Real? Mom, you've been divorced for two months. How is this real?" My hands are shaking now, gripping the phone so tight my knuckles ache. "Who even is he? Philip Davenport... like something out of a bad romance novel."

"He's CEO of Apex Innovations, you've probably seen their buildings downtown. The glass one on Third Avenue? He built that from scratch." She sounds proud, almost giddy. "He's wonderful, Maya. Kind. Stable. He makes me feel like I can breathe again."

Stable. The word lands like a slap. She'd used the same word to describe my dad twenty-five years ago, when they'd bought their first house together.

"I don't care if he's the king of England. You owed me a phone call. You owed Dad a phone call, wait, did you even tell him, or is he going to find out from the news too?"

"I'll tell Robert when the time is right. He needs to move on too." Her voice softens, the way it always does when she's trying to get her way. "That's why I'm calling now, we're having a small engagement party this weekend. At the Plaza. I want you there. Please."

The Plaza. Where she and my dad had their wedding reception. Where I'd danced with them on the same ballroom floor when I was seven years old, wearing a tiny white dress she'd made just for me. The anger in my chest twists into something colder, sharper.

"I'm not coming. I can't be in that place, watching you celebrate with some man who probably doesn't even know your favorite flower is peonies."

"He knows," she says quickly. "I told him. Maya, please... he wants to meet you. He knows how important family is to you. To us."

Important family. The words taste like ash. "I said no, Mom. I'm not going to pretend this is okay."

I hang up before she can say more, throwing the phone onto the couch hard enough to make the cushions bounce. It lands face up, the photo of her and Philip staring back at me.

Chloe texts again: I'm outside. Let's go. We're not moping in here all day. I already got the bagels, everything you like, plus cream cheese with lox.

Twenty minutes later, we're in her beat-up Prius, windows down, music loud enough to rattle the dashboard. She glances over at me every few seconds, her bright pink lipstick a stark contrast to her worried eyes.

"Okay, let's make a plan," she says, switching lanes without looking-something she knows drives me crazy. "We go to that boutique in SoHo, the one with the leather dresses and the crazy prices. I just got paid for that campaign, so my treat. Then we hit up that new rooftop bar in Brooklyn... you know, the one with the fire pits and the signature cocktails. By the end of the night, you'll have forgotten all about Mr. Silver Fox and his stupid engagement."

I stare out the window at the city rushing by, buildings climbing higher and higher like they're trying to escape the ground. The image of my mom's face in the photo won't leave me-happy, glowing, like she'd never loved anyone else but him.

"He ruined my family," I say, quiet enough the music almost swallows it.

Chloe cuts the volume, glancing at me again. "You don't even know him, Maya. You can't just assume..."

"I can assume whatever I want. She left Dad for him. That's all I need to know." I cross my arms over my chest, pressing my palms against my ribs to steady the shaking. "I know how she gets, she sees someone who can give her things, make her feel important, and she forgets about everyone else."

We pull up to the boutique. Black walls, spotlights, dresses that cost more than my rent hanging on velvet racks. Chloe marches straight to the back, weaving between racks until she pulls out something that makes my breath catch. It's deep red, slung low at the front with lace trim, high at the thigh, with straps thin enough to snap if you look at them wrong.

"Try this," she says, pushing it into my hands.

I hold it up against myself, looking at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I look smaller than usual-angry and sharp-edged, like I could cut something if I tried. The dress is dangerous. It makes me feel dangerous.

"Why this one?" I ask.

"Because if you're going to face him, you need to look like you could take him apart with just one look." She grins, adjusting the dress on the hanger. "Trust me on this."

I think about him- Philip Davenport standing next to my mom in that photo, looking like he owns everything he touches. I think about the way she laughed, like she'd never been hurt a day in her life.

"If he ruined my family," I say, my voice low and steady this time, "I'll ruin him first."

Chloe's eyes widen for a second before she grins-slow, dangerous, matching my own. "Now that's the Maya I know. Let's go get you fitted."

Maya

The dress sticks to my skin like a second layer-silk and something I don't really get, making me stand straighter, walk faster. Chloe's heels click against the marble steps of the hotel, each sound echoing through the quiet lobby like a countdown.

"Told you this place was nice," she says, looping her arm through mine. "Look at the chandeliers, they've got to be real crystal. I read somewhere that each one costs more than a house in Queens."

I barely hear her. My eyes are fixed on the ballroom doors at the end of the hall, decorated with gold handles, red velvet curtains pulled back to reveal flashes of gold and white inside. The air smells like champagne and roses, so strong it makes my throat close up.

"I thought we were going to the rooftop bar," I say, my voice tight. "You said it was in Brooklyn... this is the Plaza, Chloe. I'd know this lobby anywhere."

"Change of plans," she says, giving my arm a squeeze. "This client of mine you know, the one who does PR for luxury hotels? She had to bail on the event tonight. Said I could use her plus-one. Trust me, the drinks here are way better than whatever they serve in Brooklyn. They've got a sommelier who can tell you what year the grapes were stepped on by hand."

I pull my arm free, my bare shoulders prickling with cold even under the dress. "Chloe. What is this? Don't lie to me. Is this... is this her party?"

Before she can answer, a string quartet starts playing somewhere inside, and the doors swing open wider. A waiter in a black tuxedo passes by with a tray of flutes, and I catch sight of the room beyond... round tables covered in white linen, centerpieces of white peonies as tall as my head, and a stage at the far end with a banner that reads: CELEBRATING MONICA & PHILIP.

My stomach drops out from under me. The floor tilts, and I grab the door frame to keep from falling.

"Are you kidding me?" I whisper, but my voice comes out sharp enough to make a couple nearby turn their heads-they're dressed in designer gowns and tuxedos, looking at me like I'm something they found on their shoe. "You brought me to her party? After everything I said?"

Chloe's smile falters. "I thought if you saw them together, if you met him face to face you'd understand why she's doing this. She looks happy, Maya. Really happy."

"Happy?" I step back, my heels skidding on the marble. "That's all that matters? She looks happy, so we just pretend Dad isn't at home right now probably eating cereal for dinner because he can't cook for himself? We pretend she didn't leave us for some rich guy who can buy her whatever she wants?"

"Maya, wait-let's talk about this somewhere quiet..."

But I'm already moving, pushing through the crowd at the entrance, trying to find the exit before anyone sees me. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I swear everyone can hear it. I weave between couples, their laughter and chatter a wall of noise I can't break through, someone's telling a joke about golf, another couple is arguing about where to go on their honeymoon, a woman keeps talking about her new handbag.

Then I see her.

She's standing by the stage, a champagne flute in her hand, wearing a silver dress that shimmers like fish scales under the lights. Her hair is pulled back in a low bun, and she's laughing, her head tilted back the same way it was in the photo. The man beside her has his hand on the small of her back, his fingers resting just above the hem of her dress, rubbing slow circles against the fabric.

He's taller than the photo made him look. Broad shoulders under a black tux, silver hair combed back from his forehead, lines around his eyes that look like they were carved there by laughter. Even from across the room, I can see the way he watches her-like she's the only person in the world who matters. It makes my chest ache.

Something hot and bitter rises in my throat. I turn to leave, but the slit of my dress catches on the edge of a tablecloth, pulling a crystal wine glass to the floor. It shatters against the marble with a crack that cuts through the music like a gunshot.

Every head turns.

My mom's eyes widen when she sees me-then soften, like she wants to run over and wrap me in her arms. She says something to the man beside her, gesturing in my direction. But before she can move, he turns too.

His gaze finds mine across the crowded room, and the air between us goes thick and still. The noise fades to a dull hum. His hand drops from my mom's back, his shoulders straightening. Even from here, I can see the way his jaw tightens just a little, but enough to make my skin prickle.

We stand like that for what feels like hours... him on one side of the room, me on the other, everyone else fading away until it's just the two of us and the broken glass at my feet.

"Maya," my mom calls out, her voice cutting through the silence. "Come here, baby. Let me introduce you properly."

Maya

The silence stretches long enough that someone clears their throat behind me. I yank my dress free from the tablecloth and take a step back, my bare feet sliding on the scattered wine stains.

"Maya." My mom's voice is closer now, she's weaving through the crowd toward me, her silver dress catching the light with every step. "I didn't think you'd come. I'm so glad you did."

"I didn't come for you." My eyes stay locked on him as he moves beside her, his steps slow and calculated. "I was tricked."

He stops just a few feet away, close enough that I can see the way his tuxedo fits perfectly, tailored to every line of his body. He's even taller up close, and the height makes me tilt my head back to meet his gaze. The angle sends a strange jolt up my spine that I push down hard.

"Monica," he says, his voice low and smooth as whiskey. "You didn't tell me your daughter was so... striking. The photos you showed me don't do her justice."

"Don't." The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave marks. "I don't need compliments from you. I don't need anything from you."

His eyebrows lift just a hair... barely noticeable, but enough to make me feel like he's looking right through me. "I wasn't aware we'd met. I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"You ruined my family." The words burst out before I can stop them, hot and raw. "You're the reason she left my dad. Don't pretend you don't know what you did. Don't stand there acting like you're some kind of hero."

My mom reaches for my arm, her fingers cool against my skin. "Maya, that's not true, you don't understand what happened..."

"Is it?" I pull away from her touch, taking a step closer to him. "Two months after the divorce and you're engaged to him. How long were you two together before she signed the papers? A week? A month? Did you take her to fancy restaurants while Dad was sitting at home wondering what he did wrong?"

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't raise his voice. Just looks at me with eyes the color of dark coffee, steady and calm in a way that makes me want to scream.

"I understand you're angry," he says, his voice even but firm. "And I understand why you'd blame me. But you're wrong about what happened. Monica and I didn't start seeing each other until after her divorce was final."

"Am I supposed to believe that?" I laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a sob. "You expect me to think you just happened to fall in love with her the day after she left my dad? That's some fairy tale you're selling."

"I don't expect you to believe anything right now." He takes a small step forward, and I can smell his cologne, something intoxicating and expensive like pine needles and rain after a hot day. "But I'd ask you to give me a chance to explain before you make up your mind about me."

"I don't need a chance. I already know what you are."

"Maya, please..." My mom starts, but a voice cuts in from behind us, warm, easy, and identical to his.

"Now, now. No need for fireworks at a party, right? Especially not when there's perfectly good champagne to be drunk."

I spin around so fast my dress twists around my legs.

Standing there is another man. Same silver-streaked hair, same sharp jawline, same height and build. The only difference is his clothes-he's in a dark velvet jacket over an open-collared white shirt instead of a tux, and there's smudges of blue paint under his fingernails. He grins as he looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on the slit of my dress before meeting mine with a spark of something I can't place.

"Wait... there are two of them?"

My mom laughs-a little nervous, a little relieved as she moves to stand between us. "Maya, this is Ethan. Philip's twin brother. Ethan, this is my daughter."

Ethan steps forward and takes my hand before I can pull away, bringing it to his lips and pressing a light kiss to my knuckles. His lips are warm against my skin, and the touch sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with anger.

"Pleasure to meet you, Maya," he says, his gaze never leaving mine. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances. My brother has a habit of making a bad first impression."

"I'm not the one causing a scene," Philip says, his voice sharp now... sharper than I've heard it yet.

"Causing a scene is better than causing silence." Ethan winks at me, still holding my hand. "Would you like a drink? I promise I'm much better company than this one."

I pull my hand back like I've been burned. When I look at Philip again, his jaw is tight.