Viral

You wake up to sunlight, the smell of coffee, and four hundred notifications.

For a second you don't know where you are. Then you see the glass wall and the Bay Bridge and the emerald on your finger, and it all comes back. City Hall. The kiss. The text at midnight, and the conversation that followed in the dark, two people typing across a hallway eight steps wide.

You lie still and reread it. You don't know what you expected from a man they call the Glacier at midnight. Not that.

Then you open Instagram and nearly drop the phone on your face.

The photographer's picture is everywhere. Damian's hand in your hair. Your eyes closed. The gold of the City Hall dome blurred behind you like a halo. Somebody has captioned it THE GLACIER MELTED and it has two million likes.

Jess has texted eleven times. The last one is just: ARE YOU ALIVE. YOU'RE A MEME. A GOOD ONE.

You pull on a sweatshirt and pad down the hall.

Damian is at the kitchen island in a white shirt, already shaved, already dressed, reading three newspapers at once on a tablet. There is a cup of coffee on the counter beside an empty stool. Next to it is a card, heavy cream stock, his small sharp handwriting.

Schedule. Monday: stylist, 10 a.m. Tuesday: your mother's surgery, 7 a.m., St. Brennan. Investor dinner Monday night. Attendance necessary.

"Good morning," you say.

"Morning." He doesn't look up. "Your coffee is getting cold."

"You made me coffee?"

"I pressed a button on a machine. Let's not build a myth around it."

But it's made exactly how you take it, with too much milk and one sugar, and you never told him that. You sit down slowly and wrap your hands around the cup.

"About last night," you start.

"We were both tired." He scrolls. "It's forgotten."

"Is it?"

His thumb pauses on the screen. Just for a beat. Then it keeps scrolling. "Nina Cho has written about us."

He turns the tablet. The headline reads: The Glacier's Five-Day Romance: Love Story or Shareholder Strategy? The byline photo shows a woman with a sleek bob and the eyes of someone who has never once believed a press release.

"She's good," Damian says. "She took down two CEOs last year. She's going to dig."

"Then we give her nothing to find."

He looks at you then, properly, and something in his face is almost approving. "Exactly."

"What about my mom?" Your voice goes small without permission. "Tuesday. Dr. Patel said the surgical team was..."

"Dr. Patel is a fine cardiologist. He isn't doing the surgery." Damian sets the tablet down. "Dr. Amara Nwosu is. She's flying in from Houston tonight. She's done more valve replacements than anyone on this coast."

You stare at him.

"She doesn't take new patients," you say. "I read about her. I read everything. She has a two-year waiting list."

"She had one."

"Damian." You don't know what to do with your hands. "That isn't in the contract."

"Clause nine. Medical expenses at my discretion." He picks up his cup. "It's my discretion. Drink your coffee."

"Thank you," you say. It comes out smaller than you mean it to.

He nods once, eyes on the screen. But you see his thumb stop scrolling again, just for a second.

You drink your coffee so you don't do something stupid, like cry in front of him.

At noon Marcus drives you to Arclight, because apparently the wife of the CEO needs a building pass, a security briefing and a photo that doesn't look like a mugshot.

The headquarters in SoMa is a tower of black glass with the company's logo cut into the lobby floor in brushed steel: a single arc of light breaking over a line. Everything inside is cold and clean and hums faintly, like the whole building is a server. People in expensive sneakers stop talking when you walk in. You feel every eye.

"Mrs. Vance," Marcus says, with a perfectly straight face, as he hands you your badge.

"Don't call me that."

"It's on the badge, ma'am."

It is. Ava Vance. You look at it for a long time.

You're waiting for the elevator when a woman steps out of it.

She is tall and pale-haired and dressed in cream from head to foot, like a candle no one has dared to light. Her face is the kind magazines use to sell skincare to people who will never look like that. She stops when she sees you, and her lips curve slowly.

"Oh," she says. "You're her."

Marcus moves half a step closer to your side. You notice that.

"I'm sorry," you say. "Have we met?"

"Celeste Ward." She offers a hand with a ring on every finger except the one that matters. "Damian and I were engaged. For two years. I'm sure he's mentioned me."

He hasn't. He has mentioned nothing. Rule Four sits in your throat like a stone.

"He doesn't really talk about the past," you say.

"No. He never did." Celeste tilts her head, studying you like a painting she's thinking of buying and has decided is a forgery. "It was very sudden, your wedding. Five days. He used to take five days to choose a tie."

"I'm very persuasive."

"I'm sure." She smiles. It doesn't touch her eyes. "I'm here meeting Richard. Damian's uncle. Have you met Richard yet?"

"Not yet."

"You will." She steps past you, close enough that you smell her perfume, something expensive and green. Then she stops and turns back, and lowers her voice so only you can hear.

"Can I give you some advice, woman to woman?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Damian doesn't do anything without a reason. He doesn't fall in love at galas. He doesn't marry waitresses on a whim." Her pale eyes fix on yours. "I've known him for eight years, Ava. And I have one question for you."

The elevator dings behind you. Nobody moves.

"Did he tell you," Celeste asks softly, "why he really chose you?"