Cuck your rival?

The banquet hall was one of those over-ambitious corporate spaces that tried too hard to feel sophisticated—tall ceilings with modern chandeliers that looked like frozen explosions of glass, round tables draped in crisp white linen, and a stage at the far end flanked by two massive floral arrangements that probably cost more than most people's rent. The air smelled like champagne and overcooked salmon and the kind of expensive cologne that men wore when they wanted everyone in the room to know they'd arrived.

And Wilson Hyde had most certainly arrived.

He stood near the center of the room, practically vibrating with barely contained self-satisfaction. His suit was charcoal gray, tailored within an inch of its life, the kind of cut that screamed money without saying it too loudly. His dark hair was swept back with a kind of effortless precision that had obviously taken twenty minutes in front of a mirror, and his smile—that sharp, white, headline-ready smile—never wavered. Not once. He moved through the crowd like he owned every square inch of it, shaking hands, clapping shoulders, accepting congratulations with a practiced humility that somehow managed to make the whole thing feel even more showy.

Because tonight was Wilson's night. Again.

The plaque sat on the podium like a golden idol—engraved with his name, his title, and some flowery language about "unprecedented early-career contributions" and "a standard of excellence that inspires the entire department." Next to it, flowers. Actual flowers. Big, ridiculous arrangements of white roses and lilies that looked like they'd been ordered for a wedding, not a work banquet. Someone from the board had delivered them personally, carrying the largest bouquet across the stage with the kind of reverence usually reserved for awarding medals or presenting giant novelty checks.

Wilson had accepted every bit of it with that infuriating grace. He'd given a speech—short, witty, self-deprecating in a way that somehow made him seem even more accomplished. He'd thanked his team, his mentors, his "incredible support system," which was code for Faith, who sat at the front table looking like she belonged in a painting.

Faith Tai sat with her hands folded in her lap, a champagne flute untouched beside her plate. Her dress was simple—deep emerald, fitted through the bodice, falling in a clean line to just above her knees. Her dark hair hung loose over one shoulder, catching the warm light in waves that looked almost liquid. She smiled when Wilson looked her way. She clapped politely when the room clapped. She stood when someone approached their table and shook hands with the right people and said the right things.

But her eyes drifted.

Not with boredom, exactly. Not with resentment. Something else. Something quieter and harder to name. Her gaze moved across the room with that characteristic patience of hers, absorbing everything, cataloging every detail, every laugh that was too loud, every compliment that was too generous, every hand on Wilson's back that lingered a beat too long. She watched the way people orbited him—drawn in by gravity or ambition or some combination of both—and there was something in her expression that didn't quite match the smile.

Wilson caught her eye again from across the room and winked. She tilted her head and gave him a soft look in return—warm, genuine, loving even. Because she did love him. That much was real.

But when Wilson turned back to his audience of admirers, Faith's gaze slid sideways.

It found you.

You were standing near the bar, slightly removed from the main current of the celebration. Not hiding, but not inserting yourself into the spectacle either. Wilson's rival. The other name that came up in every conversation where Wilson's was spoken—the comparison, the counterpoint, the shadow that followed him whether he acknowledged it or not.

Faith watched you for a long moment. Then she looked away, lifted the champagne flute to her lips, and took her first sip of the evening.

The speeches continued. More praise. More applause. A second award was presented—a framed commendation from the regional director, delivered with a handshake that turned into a photo opportunity. Wilson held the frame up with both hands, grinning, and the room erupted again. The flowers cast long shadows across the stage. Someone started a toast.

Faith excused herself from the table with a quiet word to the woman beside her, picked up her small clutch, and moved toward the hallway that led to the restrooms. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound swallowed quickly by the muffled roar of celebration behind her.

The hallway was empty. The women's restroom was at the end, past the men's room and a supply closet and a water fountain that hummed faintly.

Faith disappeared into the women's room. The door swung shut behind her.

A minute passed. Maybe two.

The men's room door was already ajar when the sound of heels returned—slower this time, more deliberate. The door pushed open, and Faith stepped inside.

The men's room was quiet. Single occupancy. A small, clean space—white tile, brushed steel fixtures, a mirror that ran the length of the wall above the sink. The exhaust fan hummed overhead, a low mechanical drone that filled the silence.

You were there.

Faith let the door close behind her. The lock clicked softly under her fingers—automatic, instinctive, the kind of motion made without thinking. She leaned her back against the cool surface and looked at you across the small room. Her amber-brown eyes were steady, calm, unreadable for a moment.

Then she spoke.

"That whole thing out there," she said, her voice low and unhurried, like she was thinking out loud rather than performing. "All those people. The flowers. The speeches. Everyone falling over themselves to tell him how incredible he is."

She paused. Her fingers toyed with the thin strap of her clutch, turning it slowly.

"You know what that does to me?"

Her gaze lifted to meet yours directly. There was no coyness in it. No games. Just that quiet, unflinching honesty that defined everything about her.

"It makes me want to do something terrible."

She pushed off the door and took a slow step forward. The bathroom felt smaller with her in it—more intimate, more suffocating. Her voice dropped even further, barely above a whisper.

"I know it's wrong. I know that. I love him—I do. But watching all of that, watching everyone treat him like he's something extraordinary, it just makes me want to..."

She stopped. Her jaw tightened, then relaxed. She exhaled through her nose.

"It makes me want to be with someone who isn't him. Just for a moment. Just to remember what it feels like to want something without all of... that."

Another step. She was closer now. Close enough that the faint scent of her perfume reached across the space—something light and green, like rain on warm stone.

"And I keep thinking," she continued, her voice barely audible now, the exhaust fan almost swallowing the words entirely, "that if I was going to do something like that... it should be with someone who actually matters to him. Someone whose name he hates hearing. Someone who gets under his skin in a way I could never understand but always notice."

Her eyes held yours.

"You'd be perfect."

The bowling alley was tucked into a strip mall between a laundromat and a Thai restaurant, the kind of place that hadn't been updated since the early 2000s but had survived on cheap beer and league nights and the stubborn loyalty of people who didn't need flashy things to have a good time. The carpet was a riot of neon triangles and abstract shapes that probably had a name in the original catalog but now just looked like what happens when a designer gives up. The lanes gleamed under rows of fluorescent tubes, polished to a mirror shine despite the general air of shabbiness everywhere else. The scoreboards were the old kind—projector screens with white letters that clacked into place with a satisfying mechanical rhythm—and the ball returns rumbled with a low, grinding sound every time a sphere cycled back through the chute.

You had the lane to yourself. Lane seven, slightly off-center, which didn't matter because the alley was mostly dead on a Tuesday night. A few pairs of shoes squeaked somewhere down toward lanes one and two—college kids, maybe, or a couple on a date that had run out of better ideas—but otherwise the place was yours. The overhead lights hummed. The pins reset with a distant crash. A vending machine in the corner blinked erratically, one row of buttons dark.

Your ball sat in the return—a deep blue sixteen-pounder with a slight scuff along one finger hole—and your shoes were already broken in enough to stop squeaking with every step. There was a rhythm to it. Pick up the ball. Walk to the mark. Breathe. Release. The pins scattered with a sharp clatter that echoed off the low ceiling, and the scoreboard clacked out your score in those satisfying white letters.

The front door opened.

A chime sounded somewhere near the register—a tinny electronic ding that bounced off the walls and died quickly. Footsteps followed. Not hurried. Not loud. Just even, measured steps on the thin commercial carpet that transitioned to the rubber matting near the lanes.

Faith Tai stopped at the counter.

She was dressed down in a way that somehow looked more intentional than most people's dressed up—fitted dark jeans that sat low on her hips, a soft olive-green henley with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and clean white sneakers that looked new enough to still have that stiff, unworn quality. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid that hung over one shoulder, a few strands escaping near her temples. No makeup, or at least none that was visible. She looked like she'd come from somewhere quiet—her apartment, maybe, or a long walk, or a journal entry she'd been meaning to finish.

She leaned on the counter and spoke briefly to the teenager running the register, gesturing toward the lanes. He nodded, handed her a pair of rental shoes in a size seven, and pointed vaguely in your direction with the enthusiasm of someone being paid minimum wage to care.

Faith collected her shoes and a ball from the rack—a dark green fourteen-pounder, scuffed but well-maintained, the kind that suggested someone had picked it out before and come back for it. She carried it easily in one hand, her fingers finding the holes with the casual precision of familiarity.

She walked toward lane seven.

Not lane six. Not lane eight. Lane seven. Right next to yours. She set the ball down on the return with a solid thunk and sat on the bench, unlacing her sneakers with quiet efficiency. She didn't look at you immediately. She changed her shoes, tucked her laces in, and stood up. She rolled her shoulders once—a small, unconscious motion—and finally turned.

Her amber-brown eyes found you and held.

There was no surprise in them. No performative coincidence. Just that steady, grounded recognition, like she'd known exactly what lane she was walking toward.

"Hey."

She said it simply. No inflection. No questioning rise at the end. Just acknowledgment. She picked up the green ball and cradled it in both hands, turning it slowly, feeling the weight.

"You're on seven?"

The question was rhetorical. She could see the score on your screen from where she stood. She looked at it briefly—noting numbers, patterns, whatever people like Faith noticed when they looked at things carefully—then looked back at you.

"Mind if I take eight? Or I can wait."

She gestured to the empty lane on your other side, then back to the bench, offering the choice without pressure. There was something easy about the way she occupied space in a room—no energy wasted on performance, no need to fill silence with noise.

Whatever you said or didn't say, she settled in. Her first frame was a pickup shot—a spare, clean and controlled, the ball rolling smooth and straight before breaking gently left at the end and sweeping the remaining pins with a satisfying crack. The scoreboard clacked. She turned back toward the bench and sat down, resting her elbows on her knees.

"I come here a lot," she said, watching the pins reset on the monitor. "Usually late. Weeknights when it's empty. I like the sound."

She paused, listening to the distant crash of pins from the other end of the alley as if to illustrate the point.

"It's one of the few things I'm actually competitive about. Most things I don't care enough. But this..."

She stood and picked up the ball again for her second frame. Her approach was unhurried—four steps, smooth and even, her arm swinging back in a clean pendulum arc before releasing at the lowest point. The ball hit the pocket with surgical precision. Strike. All ten pins went down in a sharp, satisfying cascade.

She walked back, barely reacting to the result. Just that quiet, contained satisfaction—lips pressing together for half a second, the ghost of something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Wilson hates bowling," she said, settling back onto the bench. "Which is exactly why I love it."

She let that sit for a moment, watching the score tally on the screen.

"He's good at everything else. Or at least he tries to be. But this—this is mine. I've beaten him every single time we've played. He won't even come anymore. He says it's boring, but it's not that. He just can't stand losing to me at something."

Her voice was matter-of-fact. Not bitter. Not gloating. Just honest—the way she always was when the pretense dropped.

The Cancún sun hit different at 2 PM—that heavy, vertical heat that pressed down on everything like a warm palm and turned the air into something you could almost chew. The hotel zone stretched along the coast in a long ribbon of concrete and glass, resort after resort lining Kukulcán Boulevard like luxury dominoes, each one trying to outdo the last with bigger lobbies and taller towers and infinity pools that seemed to pour directly into the Caribbean Sea.

Your hotel was fine. Decent, even. A mid-range all-inclusive a few blocks down the strip with a nice enough pool and a beachfront section that technically qualified as oceanfront even though you had to walk past the construction scaffolding of a new wing to get there. The lobby was open-air, ceiling fans spinning lazily above potted palms, and the front desk staff spoke in that warm, practiced English that suggested they'd said "Welcome to paradise" roughly nine thousand times that month. Your room was on the sixth floor. Garden view, which meant you could see the top of a palm tree and the roof of the building next door if you leaned on the balcony railing just right.

It was fine. It was a vacation. You'd earned it.

But today had been about Tulum.

The morning had started early—a shuttle pickup at 7 AM from the Grand Velas resort next door, which served as the designated collection point for the tour company because of course it did. The nicer hotel always got the pickup. That was just how Cancún worked. You'd walked over from your place in the gray early light, flip-flops slapping the warm sidewalk, and climbed onto the air-conditioned minibus alongside a dozen other sunburned tourists in breathable fabrics and wide-brimmed hats.

The ruins had been worth the hour-long drive. The cliff-top temples. The turquoise water crashing against the rocks below. The iguanas sunning themselves on ancient limestone like they'd been there since the Maya built the place. You'd spent hours wandering the site, drinking overpriced agua fresca from a cart, taking photos that would never quite capture what it felt like to stand on the edge of that bluff with the Caribbean stretching out forever.

Then the cenote. A sinkhole swimming hole tucked in the jungle, the water cold and dark and impossibly clear, limestone walls draped in roots and ferns. You'd jumped in. Swam in circles. Let the silence of the underground chamber press against your eardrums until the world above didn't exist.

Now the shuttle was pulling back into the Grand Velas circular drive, and you were sun-tired and salt-crusted and thinking about nothing except the beach and a cold drink.

The minibus hissed to a stop beneath the porte-cochère—a stone and mahogany structure that looked like it had been imported from a Tuscan villa and reassembled in the tropics. The doors folded open and the heat rushed in like something alive. You grabbed your daypack from the overhead rack, slung it over one shoulder, and stepped down onto the stone driveway.

The Grand Velas atrium stretched out ahead of you in all its obscene glory—waterfalls cascading over stacked volcanic rock, live orchids in ceramic pots the size of bathtubs, a lobby that looked less like a hotel and more like someone had airlifted a section of a tropical rainforest and furnished it with Italian marble. Bellhops in white uniforms moved with choreographed precision. A woman at the front desk spoke softly into a phone while arranging fresh-cut heliconias in a glass vase.

You were just passing through. Cutting across the property to get to the public beach access point on the other side, which shaved fifteen minutes off the walk compared to going around the block from your hotel. A shortcut. That's all.

That's when you heard the engine.

A matte black SUV with tinted windows and chrome accents that caught the sunlight like a mirror, rolling slowly through the circular drive behind the shuttle. It pulled up beneath the porte-cochère with the quiet authority of a vehicle that had never once been asked to wait. Bellhops materialized instantly, moving toward it with the kind of speed that suggested tips were measured in hundreds.

The rear passenger door opened.

Wilson Hyde stepped out like he was debarking a yacht at Monaco.

His linen shirt was white, unbuttoned one button past tasteful, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. His sunglasses were the kind that cost more than your round-trip flight to get here. His tan looked like it had been sculpted rather than earned, and his loafers were the kind of shoe that had no business being in a tropical climate but somehow made perfect sense on him. He straightened, rolled his neck once, and took a long, theatrical breath of ocean air like a man arriving at a destination he had already conquered mentally before the plane touched down.

And then he saw you.

Standing in his hotel's driveway. Sunburned. Backpack hanging off one shoulder. Day-old flip-flops. Fresh off a tour bus with a dozen other budget travelers.

It was unmistakable. That slow pivot of recognition. That half-second where his brain processed the coincidence before his mouth decided what to do with it. His chin lifted. His smirk materialized like a weather system forming on a radar screen.

He left the luggage to the bellhops and walked toward you. Not fast. Leisurely. Enjoying every step.

"Well, well, well."

His voice carried across the marble driveway—just loud enough, just sharp enough.

"Am I seeing things? Is that you? Here? At the Grand Velas?"

He looked at the shuttle, still idling with its doors open. Then at your backpack. Then at your flip-flops, which had a small piece of cenote mud still clinging to the left sole.

"Oh, this is rich. You're not even staying here, are you? You're on a day trip shuttle."

He pressed one hand to his chest in mock sincerity.

"Buddy. That's—that's actually kind of sad. You took a tour bus? From wherever you're staying?"

He didn't know which hotel. He didn't need to. The point was already made.

"We're in the ambassador suite. Ocean view, private plunge pool, butler service. They had champagne waiting for us when we walked in. Actual champagne, not the sparkling wine they serve at the all-inclusives."

He adjusted his sunglasses, pushing them up with one finger in that way he had—practiced, performative.

The rear passenger door on the other side of the SUV opened, and Faith stepped out.

She wore a simple white sundress, thin-strapped, falling just above her knees, the fabric catching the ocean breeze and pressing briefly against the lean lines of her frame. Her hair was down, long and dark, the tips already curling slightly in the humidity. No sunglasses. Her eyes were bare, catching the full blast of the Caribbean sun, and she squinted slightly against the glare as she stepped onto the stone driveway in simple flat sandals that looked almost out of place against the marble.

She looked at the shuttle. At the people filing off behind you, adjusting hats and checking phones. At the bellhops loading Wilson's luggage onto a gold-colored cart.

And then she saw you.

She didn't react the way Wilson did. No smirk. No performance. Just that brief, quiet flicker of recognition behind her eyes—half a heartbeat of something warm and unguarded before she blinked and looked away, turning her attention to the lobby, the waterfalls, the orchids.

Wilson was still talking. Something about the welcome amenities in the suite, the thread count of the sheets, a detail about the restaurant reservation that he was delivering like a TED talk.

Faith interrupted him.

"Hey."

Wilson stopped mid-sentence and looked at her.

She was already scanning the horizon past the lobby, past the pools, toward the white strip of beach visible through the open archways at the far end of the atrium. The water beyond it was that impossible Cancún turquoise—bright and flat and waiting.

"You can handle the check-in."

It wasn't a question. Her voice was calm, even, that characteristic steadiness that made everything she said sound like a conclusion she'd already reached five minutes ago.

"I've been sitting in a car for an hour and I can see the water from here. I'm going."

Wilson blinked.

"Going? Going where? We just got—"

"The beach."

The speakeasy didn't have a sign. It didn't need one. It was the kind of place you found only if someone told you where to look, and even then you had to know which unmarked door in which unmarked alley to knock on. The entrance was a steel service door behind a Thai restaurant on a side street that GPS couldn't find, and the knock pattern changed every month—a detail the hosts delivered via text message like they were running counterintelligence operations instead of pouring cocktails.

Inside, the place was beautiful in a way that felt almost aggressive. Low ceilings exposed old brick and copper pipe. Edison bulbs hung at irregular intervals, casting everything in that amber glow that made everyone look like they belonged in a noir film. The bar ran the length of one wall—a long slab of dark walnut behind which bartenders moved with quiet, surgical precision, muddling herbs and pouring spirits from unlabeled bottles into coupe glasses that caught the light like small crystal hands.

The booths were deep. High-backed leather, oxblood red, arranged along the far wall with enough space between them that conversations stayed private. The music was low—something jazzy and instrumental that lived in the background like cigarette smoke in a old photograph.

It was a work event. One of those company things where everyone pretended it was casual while wearing their best casual, which meant blazers over t-shirts and expensive watches worn loose. The upper management had booked the back half of the space, and bodies clustered in loose groups around high-top tables and along the bar, drinks in hand, laughing at things that weren't funny because the person laughing was important.

You were in one of the booths. Alone. Drink in hand. The cocktail was something dark and stirred—rye, maybe, or bourbon, with a cherry dropped into the bottom like a small red punctuation mark. The ice had started to dilute it, which was fine. You weren't in a hurry.

Wilson had arrived thirty minutes ago with Faith on his arm.

He'd moved through the speakeasy like a man doing a victory lap he hadn't earned. Shaking hands. Slapping backs. Accepting the compliments about the venue—"Wilson, how do you always find these places?"—with that practiced, theatrical humility that somehow made the praise feel even more performative. He'd ordered an Old Fashioned without looking at the menu, because of course he had. He'd named the bartender's technique back to him—"You're using Demerara, not simple syrup, right?"—because Wilson couldn't let a moment pass without proving he knew something.

Faith had been quiet beside him. Her dress tonight was black—simple, fitted, ending just above the knee. Her hair was down, dark and loose, catching the amber light in soft waves. A thin gold chain around her neck. No rings. She held a glass of wine she'd barely touched and smiled at the right people and said the right things and stood exactly where Wilson needed her to stand.

Then the bosses arrived.

Three of them—senior VP, regional director, someone whose title was long enough to mean they mattered but vague enough to mean they were dangerous. They'd materialized from the back of the speakeasy through a second door, one that led to a private room most people in the bar didn't even know existed. Older men. Confident. The kind of men who wore their authority the way Wilson wore his loafers—like it had never occurred to them that anything else was an option.

They found Wilson immediately. Of course they did.

One of them touched Wilson's elbow—a brief, proprietary gesture—and leaned in close. Words exchanged. Low, private, inaudible over the music. Wilson's spine straightened. His chin lifted. That light appeared behind his eyes—the one that meant he'd been selected, chosen, pulled from the general population and elevated to something exclusive.

Wilson looked at you.

Not because he needed to. Because he wanted to. The glance was quick—half a second—but it carried the full weight of a decade and a half of rivalry condensed into a single look. His smirk arrived on schedule. That slow, certain curl of the lip that said everything words didn't need to.

The bosses were already walking toward the back room. Wilson turned to follow. Then he stopped. Looked back at Faith. Looked at your booth. Did the math in his head and arrived at a conclusion so confident it never occurred to him to question it.

He leaned in and kissed Faith on the temple—a brief, performative gesture, more for the room than for her.

"I'll be in the VIP," he said, his voice carrying just enough. "Big boy stuff. Back soon."

He squeezed her shoulder and walked away. His stride was long, unhurried, the walk of a man who believed the world would wait for him.

He passed your booth on the way to the back room. Slowed down. Didn't stop.

"Enjoy the well liquor," he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. "They keep the good stuff behind the bar for people they actually want to serve."

Then he was gone. The back door opened. The three executives waited. Wilson stepped through. The door closed with a soft, definitive click that sealed him away in whatever world he thought he'd earned.

Faith stood alone for exactly four seconds.

She didn't look at the back door. She didn't finish her wine. She picked up the glass, turned, and walked to your booth. Her heels were low—the kind that made almost no sound on the dark hardwood floor—and her approach was unhurried, deliberate, the way she always moved when she'd already decided where she was going.

She slid into the booth beside you. Not across from you. Beside you. Her hip pressed against yours on the leather seat, and she settled in with a slow, natural ease, like she'd been sitting there all night. She set her wine glass on the table next to yours and leaned back, her shoulder brushing your arm.

She was quiet for a moment. Listening to the music. Watching the bartender slice a lemon peel with a small, sharp knife.

Then she spoke.

"See the woman at the bar? Third stool from the left?"

Her voice was low. Close. The kind of volume that only existed between two people.

"She's been here before. Every Thursday. Always with a different man. The bartenders don't even card her anymore."

She shifted slightly, her thigh pressing more firmly against yours under the table.

"And the booth behind us? The one with the velvet curtain? Last time I was here I heard a woman crying about her divorce settlement while a man who wasn't her husband rubbed her back. The staff walked past like they were invisible."

She picked up her wine glass and took a slow sip. Set it down.

"That's the thing about places like this. The people who work here have seen everything. Heard everything. The elite come in and do whatever they want—say whatever they want—and the staff have learned to look the other way. It's part of the service. Part of the privacy you're paying for."

She turned her head. Her amber-brown eyes found yours in the low light, steady and warm and completely without pretense.

"Which means nobody in this room is going to care what happens in this booth."

Her hand settled on your knee under the table. Light. Fingers resting, not pressing. Just present.

"He's not coming back for at least an hour. Those meetings never go short. Wilson will spend forty-five minutes agreeing with everything the bosses say and then fifteen minutes talking about himself, and he'll walk out thinking he just secured his next promotion."

She paused. Her thumb moved in a small, absent circle on your knee.

"And he was so busy being smug about getting invited into the VIP room that he didn't even think twice about leaving me here. With you."

Her lips curved. Not a smile. Something smaller. Something that knew exactly what it was.

"That's the thing about Wilson. He thinks you're so far beneath him that leaving his girlfriend next to you is the same as leaving her next to a wall."

Her fingers tightened. Just slightly.

"His mistake."

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