After My Fiancé Publicly Claimed My Intern

Ainara came back in with her phone still warm in her hand and a smile arranged just right, the kind you practice in a mirror. She sat on the arm of the chair like she owned it and looked at me with a softness that didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm sorry about my mom," she said. "She worries."

I could have said nothing. I could have let the silence do what silence usually did in that hospital — fill up with everyone else's comfort. Instead I looked at her, at the two of them standing there in my room like I was furniture, and I felt something settle in my chest, cold and even.

"I want you to know," I said, "my ex and I broke up a while ago. It's over. Has been for a while." My voice came out steady. Steadier than I expected. "I wish you both well."

Ainara's whole face relaxed. She looked at Dawson like I'd just handed her a gift she'd been too polite to ask for. "That's so mature of you," she said, and I almost laughed, because six years ago I would have believed she meant it.

Dawson didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He just slid his hand along the small of her back the way he used to do to me in private, in the dark, in rooms with the blinds shut, and walked her out. The door clicked shut. I listened to their footsteps fade down the hall, unhurried, easy, the sound of two people who thought they'd won something.

I picked up my phone.

My thumb hovered over the HR portal icon for exactly as long as it took to open it. I typed in my credentials with hands that did not shake — I checked, I actually looked down to check, because some old part of me expected them to — and I pulled up the intern-to-full-time shortlist. Six names. Ainara Salazar sat third from the top, highlighted, flagged for review by a manager who clearly hadn't looked past her smile.

I selected her name. I hit remove.

The confirmation box popped up. *Are you sure you want to withdraw this candidate from consideration?*

Yes, I typed. I was sure.

It took four seconds. I set the phone face down on the blanket and closed my eyes, and for the first time since the fire, I slept.

It was almost seven when the door slammed open hard enough to bounce off the wall.

Dawson stood in the doorway, coat unbuttoned, jaw tight, a version of him I hadn't seen since college — since the one time a professor accused him of plagiarism and he'd nearly put his fist through a wall. His eyes found me instantly.

"What the hell did you do?"

I didn't sit up. "Close the door, Dawson. This is a hospital."

"She got an email." His voice climbed, filled the small room, bounced off the monitors. "HR pulled her off the promotion list. Today. Hours after you told her it was fine. Hours after you looked her in the eye and *lied.*"

"I didn't lie," I said. "You and I are over. That part's true."

"You're pathetic." He took a step closer, and I watched a nurse pause in the hallway, then keep walking, the way people do when they've decided a fight isn't theirs to stop. "You almost die in a fire and the first thing you do — the *first* thing — is try to destroy a twenty-three-year-old's career because you can't stand that I don't want you. That's what this is. This is jealousy. This is spite. You are so desperate to matter to someone that you'd rather burn a stranger's life down than admit nobody's ever going to choose you the way I chose her."

The words landed the way they were meant to. I felt them, distantly, like weather happening to someone else.

"She's not qualified," I said quietly. "That's not spite. That's a spreadsheet."

"You are unlovable." His voice cracked on the word, ugly and loud, and for a second I saw something underneath it — not anger, something older, something that had nothing to do with Ainara at all. "You know that? Six years, Bri. Six years and I never once wanted to tell anyone about you, and you never asked yourself why. Maybe it's this. Maybe it's exactly this."

I said nothing. There was nothing left in me to defend.

He was still breathing hard when he turned and walked out, and that's when I saw her.

Ainara stood in the corridor, three feet from the door, a gray scarf clutched in one hand like she'd come back for it and frozen halfway through reaching for the handle. Her face wasn't soft anymore. It wasn't performing anything. Her eyes moved from the closing door to Dawson's back, and something crossed her expression too fast for her to catch it and put it away — not gratitude, not triumph. A question. Small and sharp, the kind that doesn't go away once it's asked.

She didn't come in. She didn't say a word. When Dawson reached her, she looped her arm through his, tilted her face up, smiled the practiced smile.

But I saw it. Just before the elevator doors closed.

She was still looking at him like she'd never seen him before.