A Reunion Worse Than Seeing a Ghost

No one warns you that New York has two seasons: work and war. Tonight, unfortunately, was both. The annual Metronome Fashion & Culture Charity Gala—the type of place where the champagne is older than most TikTok stars and the smiles are so polished you can see your own funeral reflection in them. I shouldn’t have been nervous. I’d attended enough of these events to know how to play the game: Head high. Dress crisp. Mind sharper. But the minute the ballroom doors opened and the noise swallowed me whole, I felt it—the familiar pressure of judgment sliding across my skin like sequins against bare shoulders. Let them stare. Harper Collins didn’t spend six years clawing her way up the fashion industry ladder to crumble under one chandelier. Ava, my stylist-turned-unofficial-therapist, leaned close. Her red curls brushed my arm as she whispered, “Smile like you own the room. Not like you’re here to pitch your whole life on sale.” I shot her a sideways glance. “Ava, I literally own the presentation they’re showcasing tonight.” “Exactly. So pretend you own the building too.” She tapped her phone. “And stop checking the press predictions. You’ll jinx your own glow.” Fine. I unclenched my hands and followed her even though the ballroom felt like stepping into a mouth full of glittering teeth. Camera flashes burst near the entrance like tiny explosions. Reporters murmured into mics. Fashion critics circled like sharks who wore Valentino. All normal. What wasn’t normal was the sudden hush. That kind of silence only happens when something—or someone—dangerous walks in. I didn’t have to turn around. Every molecule in my body recognized the shift. But I did. Slowly. Stupidly. And then the air left my lungs in a single, violent exhale. Ethan Hale. Seven years evaporated like smoke from a blown-out match. He stood there in a tailored charcoal suit that hugged his shoulders with surgical precision, dark hair pushed back just enough to be careless, deep-blue eyes sweeping the room with the same cold focus that used to… ruin me. He looked older. Sharper. A man carved out of decisions and consequences. And he was looking right at me. No—through me. Like he’d rehearsed this moment and still wasn’t ready. Ava followed my stare and froze. “Oh. Oh no. The Devil rebranded as a tech CEO.” “I’m leaving,” I whispered, already turning. “Like hell you are.” She grabbed my wrist. “We’re professionals. We don’t run from exes—we outshine them so brightly they go blind.” “I would genuinely prefer actual blindness.” But it was too late to escape. Someone from PR spotted me and waved us forward toward the photo backdrop. And then the worst thing that could have happened… happened. Ethan stepped into the same line. We were headed for the same spot. Ava’s fingers dug into my arm. “Act natural.” “My heart just tried to crawl out through my ribcage.” “Well push it back in, babe. Camera on the left.” I forced my posture straight, expression neutral, pulse aggressively suicidal. The photographer gestured for me to move forward. I did. And then Ethan was beside me. Close enough that I smelled the faint mix of cedar, clean linen, and the kind of cologne you only buy after your first billion-dollar valuation. Close enough that memories I’d duct-taped shut started banging from the inside. He cleared his throat once, softly. “Harper.” I didn’t look at him. “Don’t speak to me.” The photographer waved again. “Closer, please! Need both of you in frame!” Of course he did. It was a charity event—not a peace treaty signing. But Ethan moved anyway, stepping nearer until the heat of his body brushed my arm. I inhaled sharply. The cameras started flashing. Three seconds. That was all it took. Three seconds for the photographers to erupt in excitement. Three seconds for the whispers to spread across the ballroom like gasoline meeting open flame. Three seconds for someone to shout: “Harper Collins and Ethan Hale—back together?” I jerked away, but the damage was done. A reporter sprinted forward. Another aimed their mic. Phones lifted everywhere. Ava hissed, “Don’t react! If you deny or run, it looks guilty.” But I couldn’t stay frozen. Ethan’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t come here to cause trouble.” “Well congratulations,” I whispered, “you’re doing amazing at it.” The press surged like a wave. “Ethan! Harper! Is this a reconciliation?” “Are you two officially back together after seven years?” “Why tonight? Why now?” Seven years ago, I had left him. No—been forced out. Humiliated. Accused. Unprotected. Tonight, apparently, he got to rewrite the narrative. Perfect. I turned to bolt, but Ethan’s hand caught my wrist—firm, warm, too familiar. The flashbulbs exploded harder. “Let go,” I hissed. He did. Instantly. But his voice was low, rough, too honest. “Harper, I swear I didn’t know you’d be here.” “Then your luck is as shitty as ever.” “Or maybe it’s finally changing.” I blinked at him. “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t pretend this is anything.” He opened his mouth but stopped—because the PR head rushed toward us, breathless and thrilled. “This is perfect! The internet is exploding! You two are trending already.” Kill me. Now. “Harper,” she continued, “please don’t leave yet. The donors love a good romance comeback arc. Just one more photo—” “No,” I snapped. But before I could escape, she shoved Ethan a few inches closer. “Just… look like you don’t want to murder each other.” I gave her a dead stare. “Impossible.” Yet the cameras were already aiming. And Ethan, damn him, lifted his gaze to me with something unguarded. Something cautious. Something like regret. It lasted half a heartbeat. Long enough for the internet to freeze-frame it and start writing fantasies. And that was how, by the end of the night, the world decided: Harper Collins and Ethan Hale were officially back together. A reborn power couple. Even though I wanted to strangle him with a silk tie. CHAPTER 2 — The Deal That Ruins Us Both I spent the morning after the gala answering disaster texts. Most from Ava. Some from reporters. Two from Logan, my agency director, who used only capital letters—which is never a good sign. By the time I reached the office, my phone was vibrating like a dying bee. I didn’t look at it. I didn’t have to. I already knew who was blowing up my inbox. Ethan Hale. Because last night’s “reunion” had gone viral. And not small viral. Front page of FashionWatch. Trending #2 on Twitter. The top post on DeuxMoi. And worst of all— A three-minute “relationship timeline” made by some kid on TikTok that had 6.4 million views by breakfast. I stormed into the meeting room, hair still damp from the sprint out of my apartment. Logan slammed his laptop shut. “Harper. Tell me this is fake.” “It’s fake.” “Tell that to the investors in Paris who asked if you and Ethan can appear together at next month’s campaign preview.” I dropped into a chair, head in hands. “I didn’t ask him to exist. I especially didn’t ask him to stand next to me like a six-foot billboard for catastrophe.” Logan exhaled. “Your reputation is delicate. You know clients hate unpredictability.” “I know.” “And Ethan’s is volatile. Tech CEOs can’t afford scandal during fundraising.” “I know.” “And both industries thrive on narrative—” “Logan. I know.” He paused. Then leaned forward, voice low. “So… fix the narrative.” I froze. “No.” “Harper.” “No.” “You need this project.” “I’m not doing fake PR romance with my ex.” “Actually,” he said gently, “you might not have a choice.” My stomach dropped. “Paris team wants reassurance you’re stable and focused,” Logan continued. “His investors want reassurance he’s not a playboy burning money. Combine both concerns and… you two together looks good.” I stared at him in horror. “You’re suggesting a fake relationship.” “I’m suggesting damage control.” “Logan—” But the conference room door swung open then. And in walked the last person I wanted to see in my professional place of safety. Ethan. Tall, controlled, annoyingly calm in a navy coat and white dress shirt, hair slightly mussed like even the wind worked for him. I shot to my feet. “You cannot just—” “Your receptionist let me up,” he said. “I told her I had urgent business.” “You do not have business here.” “I think I do.” Logan looked between us like we were two grenades with overlapping timers. “I’ll give you both the room,” he muttered and fled. The door closed with a soft click. Leaving me alone with the man who ruined my coffee, sleep, and career in less than twelve hours. Ethan stayed by the glass wall, hands in pockets, as if afraid getting too close would set off an alarm. “Harper,” he said quietly, “we need to talk.” “No. You need to leave.” “Not until we figure this out.” “There is no we.” He flinched. Barely. But enough. “Last night blindsided me too,” he said. “The press cornered us. They assumed. Jumped to conclusions.” “You didn’t correct them.” “You didn’t either.” “Because I was too busy trying not to stab you with my heel.” His lips twitched almost—almost—into a smile. Then he stepped closer. “We’re in a bind. Both of us. And pretending we aren't won’t help.” “I can handle my career without you.” He studied my face for a long beat. “I know you can. That’s why this isn’t about capability. It’s about optics.” I laughed—sharp, humorless. “Oh, great. The same reasoning people used when they called me an ‘opportunistic climber’ seven years ago.” He inhaled slowly. “Harper…” “Don’t.” I looked away. “Don’t pretend you didn’t help them destroy me.” His voice dropped, tone rough like sandpaper dragged across old wounds. “Seven years ago I was an idiot.” “You still are.” “Let me fix this.” I stared at him. “Why?” I asked quietly. “Why do you care?” His jaw flexed. “Because I owe you.” A breath. “And because—selfishly—it helps me too.” Finally, truth. He continued, “My company’s in late-stage negotiations. I cannot be a wild card in the press right now. A fake relationship helps stabilize my image.” “So this is mutual exploitation.” His gaze didn’t waver. “No. It’s a mutually beneficial agreement.” “You practiced that in the elevator?” “Twice.” I almost laughed despite myself. Almost. “Three months,” he said. “A controlled narrative. Occasional public appearances. A few photos. One or two charity events. We set boundaries. We stay professional.” I folded my arms. “And when it ends?” “We walk away clean.” A pause. “Unless… you don’t want that.” I forced my heartbeat back into rhythm. “So this is a contract. Like a business deal.” “Exactly.” “And we hate this.” “I don’t hate—” He stopped, correcting himself. “I hate the circumstances. Not you.” That was dangerous. Too dangerous. I cut him off before he could get earnest. “Fine. Let’s see the terms.” His shoulders dropped, relief flickering through his features. He reached into his coat pocket and slid a sheet of paper onto the table. “You already drafted a contract?” I said, horrified. “I was optimistic.” “You mean desperate.” “Both,” he admitted. I scanned the document. It was… shockingly respectful. Boundaries. Expectations. Public interactions only. No off-camera contact unless work-required. No emotional exploitation. No kissing. “Wait,” I said. “Why does it explicitly say ‘no physical intimacy’?” He looked away for the first time. “Because pretending is already hard enough.” My chest tightened—sharp, sudden, unwanted. I set the paper down. “This is insane.” “Yes.” “This will backfire.” “Probably.” “This could destroy us.” “It already is.” I met his eyes. And—God help me— For the first time in seven years, I didn’t see the boy who betrayed me. I saw the man trying not to repeat the same mistake. “Three months,” I whispered. His breath caught. “Three months.” “And we keep everything professional.” “Of course.” “And this doesn’t mean anything.” Ethan hesitated. Then nodded once. Firm. Controlled. A lie he hoped would save him. “No,” he said softly. “It doesn’t mean anything.” I swallowed hard. “Fine. We have a deal.” He extended a hand. I didn’t take it. Instead, I said, “Send a digital copy. I’ll sign it after my lawyer reviews the NDAs.” Something flickered in his eyes—respect with a side of pain. “Fair.” He stepped back, turning to leave. But before he opened the door, he said quietly: “For what it’s worth… I’m glad we’re on the same side this time.” “We’re not on the same side,” I said. He gave a small, sad smile. “We will be.” Then he walked out. Leaving the faint scent of cedar and unresolved history behind. And somehow— For the first time since last night— I realized something terrifying: We were going to be very, very good at pretending. Maybe too good.