The words landed, not as an insult, but as a dare.
Dean slid his phone across the table. On the screen was a post from some niche corner of the internet, one of those “romance challenge” accounts where people uploaded stories and strangers judged them like morality was a sport.
A grainy photo showed a woman at a charity bake sale, mid-laugh, her cheeks round, her hair pulled back with a simple clip, flour dusting her wrists like powdered snow. She wasn’t styled for a camera. She wasn’t trying to be anything. She just looked… present.
Her name in the caption: Tessa Hart.
Miles glanced once, then looked away. “And?”
“And,” Logan said, leaning in, “you marry her.”
The room went quieter, as if even the chandeliers were listening.
Miles stared at Logan, waiting for the punchline. “That’s not a bet. That’s a psychotic hobby.”
