The Intern's Latin Dance

On the drive home, Sandra and I didn't exchange a single word.

The silence clung to us, thick and unrelenting, until we passed a flower shop and she suddenly stirred.

"Randy, pull over. I need to go in."

I didn't ask why. Just eased the car to a stop by the curb and watched as Sandra, lips tightly pressed together, slipped out and walked into the shop.

She came back moments later, holding a wrapped bouquet. She offered them to me.

"Randy," she said, "you used to give me flowers all the time. This time, let me be the one to give them to you. The florist said they're called Black Knight. To me, you've always been like a knight—always protecting me."

She was good at this. Uncannily good. If I hadn't already seen past her act, I might have fallen for it again. I might have believed she truly loved me—might have believed that the last three years of playing the supporting role were worth something.

But this bouquet, this symbolic gesture, was just her way of apologizing—for another man.

I could see the guilt in her eyes. Still, I reached out and took the flowers. She let out a small breath of relief, as if something tight inside her had just uncoiled.

"You accepted them," she said quickly. "So you're not mad anymore, right?"

"About Brian," she added, voice laced with a mix of exasperation and coaxing, as though humoring a child. "It really was an accident. He's just a kid—I couldn't be too harsh with him, right?"

I didn't argue. Instead, I told her calmly, "It's not about Brian. And it's not about whether it was an accident. What bothers me is that someone intruded on our personal space. You let it happen once. What about next time? There's ambition in his eyes—you saw that, didn't you?"

She glanced away, dodging the blow. "Isn't it a good thing for young people to be ambitious?"

But then her voice softened, tried to thread its way back to me. "You're right. I didn't think it through today. I ignored your feelings. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

And then, with a practiced smile and a knowing wink, she said, "Randy, I swear, what happened today won't happen again."

I nodded.

That night, we went home together. It wasn't perfect, but we managed something close to peace.

A few days later, I returned from a business trip to rumors floating through the office like pollen on a breeze.

"Did you hear? Ms. Kinsey fast-tracked that intern, Brian. Made him a permanent staff early—and she assigned him under the executive assistant, of all people."

"No way. The assistant's been here since the previous director's days. What's she trying to pull?"

"What else could it be?" someone muttered, checking over their shoulder before leaning in. "These rich types, they get bored. Keep a few pretty boys around for fun."

The words landed like a thorn in my chest.

Another voice chimed in, "But isn't Ms. Kinsey close with Mr. Laurent? Would she really do something like that behind his back? She's not worried he'll find out?"

"You're too naive," came the reply. "These arranged marriages? They look good on the surface, but underneath, everyone's doing their own thing. They know how to keep it hidden."

The voices faded as I stood frozen, their words echoing long after they were gone.

The memory of Sandra's promise suddenly seemed laughable.

I drew a deep breath to steady myself, then turned stiffly and made my way to her office. I needed answers. But before I could reach the door, her assistant, Dennis Parker, hurried over, hesitating.

"Mr. Laurent…"

I assumed he had work for me and nodded. "Wait a moment."

But he didn't move.

"Ms. Kinsey said… she's busy," he finally said. "No one is allowed inside."

"No one?" I asked, pointing at myself. "That includes me?"

He gave a reluctant nod.

A soft laugh escaped me. It felt like a bitter wind passing through.

What was Sandra doing in there that her own husband wasn't allowed to see?

Despite the churn in my chest, I forced myself to nod and turn back toward my office. I kept my tone level as I asked, "Do you know what she's busy with?"

Dennis hesitated again. "No," he said slowly, "but I know Brian is in there."

Brian—again.

I trusted Dennis. He wasn't the type to lie.

And the rumors—they hadn't come out of nowhere.

I thought of the private dance studio. It wasn't hard to guess what kind of "busy" this was.

I had underestimated Brian. In just a few days, he'd once again gained access to Sandra's most private spaces.

After dismissing Dennis, I sat alone, thinking. Then I picked up my phone and dialed her number.

The ringtone looped several times before she finally answered.

"Randy? What is it?" Her voice was breathy, cheerful. "I was dancing—didn't hear the phone."

When she was stressed or upset, she liked to dance behind closed doors.

But this didn't sound like stress. It sounded like elation.

I asked, "Are you alone?"

A beat of silence. Then, "Of course I'm alone. You're out of town—who else would be here?"

She was lying. The certainty hit me immediately.

The disappointment curled inside me, spreading like ink in water.

I ended the call after a few polite sentences and left early for the evening's business meeting.

And there, I saw Sandra and Brian.