Page 61 of Faking the Heat

He’s wearing a suit that probably costs more than my truck, his blonde hair perfectly swept back, his green eyes scanning the loft with a proprietary ease that makes my skin crawl. He doesn't look at me. He looks straight at Mandy, a small, rehearsed smile on his face. He’s the specter of every failure she’s ever had, the physical embodiment of the 'settled' life her parents want for her. He looks at the velvet box on the counter, then back at Mandy, his smile widening into something smug and devastatingly confident.

“The charade is over, Mandy,” Derek says. His voice is smooth, professional, the cadence of a corporate lawyer delivering a closing argument. “I saw your parents’ car downstairs. I saw the way you were looking at them. You're a lot of things, but you're not a liar. Not a good one, anyway.” He walks further into the room, ignoring me as if I’m just a piece of the industrial furniture. He stops a few feet from her, his hands in his pockets. “I’m here to offer you a way out. A real future. Not this… whatever this is.”

I step forward, my shoulder brushing against the brick pillar. “Get out, Marx,” I say. My voice is low, vibrating with a violence I haven't felt since I was in the service. I want to put him through the massive windows. I want to see his expensive suit catch on the rusted fire escape. But I don't move. I stay focused on Mandy, waiting for her to tell him to leave. Waiting for her to choose the man who just told her he loves her over the man who treated her like a dented trophy.

Derek finally looks at me, his expression one of mild, clinical boredom. “Sterling, right? The firefighter. The hero. You're a feeling, Sterling. That's all you are. You're the excitement of someone safe and warm when everything is falling apart. You're the version of herself she tries on when she's avoiding the hard choices. But real life doesn't work like that. You don't build a life on a friendship that tipped sideways during a gas leak. You build it on logic. On foundation. On something that won't shift when the adrenaline wears off.”

He turns back to Mandy, his voice softening, becoming the 'caring' partner he pretended to be for years. “You're too smart for this, Mandy. You know I'm right. This was a fun distraction, a way to keep your parents off your back, but it's over now. Come home. Let's talk about New York. Let's talk about a life that actually makes sense.” He reaches out, his hand hovering near hers, a silent invitation to return to the controlled, predictable world he represents. A world where she never has to be vulnerable because she’s never truly seen.

I look at Mandy. I’m vibrating with the need for her to speak, for her to tell him he’s wrong, for her to say that I’m more than a feeling. But she stays silent. She stares at Derek, then at me, her eyes darting between us like she’s trying to calculate the risk-reward ratio of her entire existence. She hears his logic, the same logic her father uses, the same logic that tells her she’s not enough unless she’s perfect. And she doesn't fight it. She doesn't say a word.

The silence stretches, becoming a physical weight in the room, a constriction in my throat that I can’t swallow away. Every second that passes is a blow to my chest, a confirmation of the fear I’ve been trying to outrun since the fire started. She’s not choosing me. She’s not choosing the truth. She’s choosing the safety of the man who treats her like an asset because she’s too afraid of the man who treats her like a person. The realization drops through me the way a floor gives out, and I land buried under the weight of my own stupidity.

“Okay,” I say. The word is small, a puff of air in a room that’s gone cold. I look at Mandy one last time, and I see the exact moment she decides to stay in the silence. I see the woman who would rather be a trophy than a partner. I see the ghost of the girl I’ve loved for six years, and I realize she’s already gone. She’s already retreated into the shell she built to survive Derek the first time, and I can’t reach her anymore.

I walk to the counter and grab my keys. The metal is cold, biting into my palm. I don't look at Derek. I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing the wreck he just made of my life. I don't look at the ring box. I just walk toward the door, my footsteps echoing against the concrete, a hollow, rhythmic sound that marks the end of the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. I reach the door and pull it open, the heavy steel swinging wide, revealing the dark, empty hallway beyond.

“Sterling?” Mandy’s voice is a ghost of a sound, a faint, desperate reaching that comes too late. I stop, my hand on the handle, but I don't turn around. I can’t. If I see her now, I’ll stay. I’ll keep lying. I’ll keep being the emergency shelter until there’s nothing left of me but ash. And I’m done being the man who catches people who don't want to be caught. I’m done being the hero in a story that’s already been written by someone else.

“I'm not your emergency shelter anymore, Mandy,” I say. I don't look back. I step out into the hallway and pull the door shut behind me. The sound of it slamming is absolute, a final, deafening crack that echoes through the warehouse, louder than any explosion, louder than any siren. I walk toward the elevator, the city outside the windows suddenly looking like a foreign country, a place where I don't belong and never have. I hit the button and wait, the silence of the hallway pressing against my ears.

I drive for an hour, the streets of Chicago a blur of red lights and dark asphalt. I don't have a destination. I just need to move, to feel the vibration of the engine, to let the air from the vents dry the sweat on my neck. I end up back at my building, but I don’t plan on going home.

Jake’s place, the familiar, cluttered apartment a sanctuary I didn't know I needed. I don't tell him what happened. I don't have the words. I just ask if the couch is available, and he looks at my face and hands me a beer without asking a single question.

I lie on the short, lumpy couch and stare at the ceiling, the smell of Jake’s old gym shoes and cheap pizza filling the room. It’s the smell of a life that isn't a lie. It’s the smell of a future that’s empty but honest. I think about the loft. I think about the ring box. I think about Mandy standing in the center of that massive, industrial space, surrounded by the ghosts of everything we almost had. And the fire didn't end with the gas leak. It ended tonight.

Chapter twenty-seven

The Silence After

Mandy

The echo of the door clicking shut is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. It’s a final, mechanical snap that vibrates through the floorboards of the loft, traveling up through the soles of my feet until it settles like lead in my chest. I don’t move. I can’t. My lungs feel like they’ve been replaced by dry sponges, expanding painfully against my ribs with every shallow, stuttering breath. For a full minute, the warehouse is so quiet I can hear the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled siren of a city that doesn't care that my entire world just collapsed into a heap of expensive timber and broken promises.

“Mandy,” Derek says. His voice is smooth, polished, and entirely too close. It’s the sound of a man who has just seen an opening and is already calculating how to fill it. “He’s gone. It’s okay now. You don't have to keep pretending.”

I turn slowly. My auburn hair has escaped its bun, damp strands sticking to my cheeks, and I probably look like a wreck, but the sight of Derek Marx standing in Sterling’s kitchen makes my skin crawl. He looks perfect. His suit is uncreased, his blonde hair is exactly where it should be, and he’s wearing that expression of sympathetic superiority that used to make me feel small. Now, it just makes me feel tired.

“Pretending,” I repeat. The word is bitter. I look at the navy velvet box on the counter, the ring that started the final avalanche. “You think that was the part I was pretending at?”

“I think you’ve been in survival mode,” Derek says, stepping toward me with his hands held out as if he’s approaching a cornered animal. “The fire, the loss of your things, the pressure from your parents. Sterling was a convenient port in a storm, but Mandy, look at this place. Look at him. You’re a designer. You belong in a world that has… structure, beauty. Not this industrial nightmare.”

I look around the loft. I see the shelf where Sterling kept my favorite tea even though he thinks it tastes like hot grass. I see the spot on the rug where Bowie likes to stretch out in the afternoon sun. I see the stool where Sterling sat while he told my father that my work was exceptional, his voice steady and devoid of the performative fluff Derek uses to win cases. It isn't just a warehouse. It's the only place I’ve ever been allowed to be messy without being told I was a problem to be solved.

“You’re right about one thing,” I say, and my voice is colder than I expected. “I have been performing. For years. I performed for my parents, and I performed for you, and I’ve been performing this ‘stable, perfect’ version of myself because I was terrified that if I stopped, everyone would realize I’m just a collection of anxieties and charcoal dust.”

Derek’s smile falters, just a fraction. “Mandy, you’re upset. You aren't thinking clearly.”

“I’ve never thought more clearly in my life,” I say, and I take a step toward him, forcing him to give ground. “I didn't love your stability, Derek. I didn't love the life you built for me. I just loved that I didn't have to make any choices because you made them all for me. You didn't want a partner. You wanted a trophy you could curate.”

“That’s ungrateful,” he snaps, the mask of charm finally slipping to reveal the jagged edge of his ego. “I offered you a real life. Sterling offers you a guest room and a fire hazard. He’s a blue-collar fantasy, Mandy. When the adrenaline wears off, what do you have? A man who smells like smoke and a career that’s one bad shift away from a funeral?”

The air in the room suddenly feels electric. I realize I’m not afraid of Derek anymore. He’s just a man in a very expensive cage of his own making. And the one person who should be hearing this, the man who actually knows what my silence meant, is probally miles away, convinced I chose the cage over him.

“Get out,” I say. It isn't a scream. It’s a command. “Get out of his home. Get out of my life. If I see you again, I’m calling the police. And Derek? Don't ever talk about his work again. You aren't fit to carry his gear.”

He stares at me, his face flushing a mottled red, but he sees the finality in my eyes. He grabs his coat from the back of the chair, his movements jerky and ungraceful. He doesn't say another word, and when the door slams for the second time tonight, the silence that follows is even heavier than before. I am alone in the loft. I am alone with the ring, and the lies, and the absolute, devastating realization that by trying to protect my heart from the possibility of losing Sterling, I’ve managed to drive him away myself.