90 Days With the Man I Can't Have

Yes," I whispered, the word tasting like ash in the back of my throat. "I'd love to."

​My voice sounded small, a fragile thing that threatened to shatter under the weight of the chandelier light. I hated it. I hated the way I sounded, like a woman reciting her own eulogy.

Vanessa's face lit up with that bright, predatory joy, the kind of smile she reserved for her conquests.

She looked at me, then at Josh, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, I saw a flicker of something in her eyes not suspicion, but a chilling, clinical triumph. She had me exactly where she wanted me: trapped in the orbit of her upcoming wedding, forced to curate the spectacle of my own heartbreak.

​The music in the gallery shifted, turning from a soft, sophisticated jazz into a dull, rhythmic thrumming that seemed to vibrate through my marrow. I looked at Josh. He was still holding my hand beneath the table, his grip so fierce it felt like he was trying to crush the bones of my fingers. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and terrifyingly intense. He wasn't looking at Vanessa. He wasn't looking at the crowd of onlookers. He was staring at me with a savage, possessive hunger that defied everything he was doing by standing next to his bride-to-be.

​I felt the silver key burning against my skin, tucked beneath the lace of my dress, a cold, hard reminder of the secret war we were fighting.

​A moment later, the spell was broken. Vanessa leaned in, her perfume a sharp, expensive floral that made my nose itch filling the air between us. She squeezed Josh's arm, an act of punctuation.

"Wonderful! We simply cannot have a wedding without the perspective of his oldest friend, can we, darling?"

​Josh finally let go of my hand, but the ghost of his touch remained, searing and electric. He didn't answer her. He didn't even look at her. He stood there, the picture of the Sterling legacy, his back straight as a blade, his expression impenetrable.

"Of course," he said, his voice flat, a hollow imitation of the man who had been tearing my clothes off just hours ago. "It is only fitting."

​The evening devolved into a blur of champagne, hollow laughter, and the relentless, suffocating pressure of being trapped in the spotlight. I moved through the room like a ghost, an observer of my own demise.

I watched Josh navigate the room, shaking hands, making deals, and playing the part of the perfect, gilded heir. Every time his eyes swept the room and found me, I felt a jolt of electricity that left me breathless. It was a game of cat and mouse played in the middle of a crowded ballroom, a secret language composed of glances and hidden intentions.

​Finally, the moment arrived. The organizer of the gala tapped a glass, signaling for silence. The room fell into a hush as Josh stepped up to the podium.

This was it. The public image. The legacy.

​He gripped the edges of the microphone stand, his knuckles white. He looked out over the crowd, his gaze passing over investors, socialites, and politicians, until it landed on me. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. He didn't look away.

​"Tonight is about the future," he began, his voice deep, resonant, and practiced. "It is about the legacy we build, the unions we forge, and the promises we keep to our history."

​I stood in the shadows of a large pillar, my drink forgotten in my hand. His words were a masterpiece of corporate double-speak, but his eyes were telling a different story entirely. He was speaking to me. He was talking about promises, about the things we had built, about the history that no one else in this room could possibly understand. He talked about "true love" with a voice so steady that even I almost believed him, even though I knew the hollow center of those words.

​I was the only one who saw the slight tightening of his jaw when he spoke of the future. I was the only one who saw the way he shifted his weight, his discomfort bleeding through the veneer of his perfection. As he finished his speech, his eyes stayed locked on mine, a silent, burning testament to the secrets we held.

The applause that followed was thunderous, a roar of approval for the man who was sacrificing everything to keep the Sterling empire alive.

​But in the quiet corners of the room, the silence between us felt heavier than the roar of the crowd. It was a vacuum, a space where nothing could exist but the unspoken truth of what we were, and the terrifying, inevitable reality of what we could never be.

​Vanessa drifted back toward me, her smile still wide, her eyes still sharp. "You'll be busy, Viv. There is so much to do. So many choices to make. I'm sure your artistic eye will be invaluable for the invitations, the floral arrangements, the seating chart. We want everything to be absolutely perfect."

​"I'm sure it will be," I managed, my voice steady, though my heart was weeping.

​I looked at Josh, who was being pulled away by his father. He glanced back one last time, a look of profound, agonizing regret flashing across his face before he allowed the mask to slam back into place.

He was gone, pulled back into the golden cage of his own making, and I was left standing in the wreckage of the evening, surrounded by the remnants of a life I no longer recognized.

​The weight of the silver key felt heavier than ever, a reminder that I was tethered to a man who was already lost. I had said yes to the role of a lifetime, the Maid of Honor at the wedding of the man I loved. I was the architect of my own ruin, and as I watched the lights of the gallery shimmer and blur, I knew that the next eighty-nine days would be the longest, most agonizing stretch of my life.

​I found my coat, my fingers trembling as I fastened the buttons, needing to escape the suffocating air of the gallery.

I walked out into the cold, crisp air of the city, the wind biting at my skin. Every step away from the gallery felt like a step further into the abyss.

I reached into my bag for my phone, but my hands were shaking too hard to unlock it.

​I needed to be alone. I needed to breathe. I needed to forget the way he looked at me when he said my name, the way he held my hand under the table, the way he had promised me that for ninety days, I would belong to him. But those ninety days were shrinking, slipping away like sand through my fingers.

​I looked up at the towering silhouette of the Sterling skyscraper, its lights piercing the dark Newark skyline.

Somewhere up there, behind the thick glass and the locked doors, the life he had chosen was waiting.

And here I was, standing on the sidewalk, caught in the middle of a war I never wanted to fight, for a prize I would never get to keep.

​The city moved around me, indifferent and cold. I walked toward the train station, the rhythm of my own footsteps the only sound in the night. The weight of the secret key was a constant, searing presence against my skin, a silent promise of the darkness to come.

I was ready to play my part. I was ready to stand by his side, to bear the weight of his future, and to watch the man I loved walk away from me toward a life I couldn't touch. It was the bargain I had made, and I would honor it until the bitter end.

​The ash in my mouth was the only thing that felt real. I had promised to be his Maid of Honor, and I would keep that promise, no matter how much it burned.

I would be the silent witness to his surrender, the keeper of his darkest secrets, and the one who would stand by him, until the very last moment of the very last day of our stolen, secret life.