DATES? PLUS ONES? PARTNERS IN WHITE COLLAR CRIME? SOMETHING.

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Logan had fled the country.

Not actually. But he had taken Kendall and Roman to London on a business trip, which made Dorothy's schedule even more convoluted and just generally fucked up her week. She had a gala to go to that weekend, and her plus one had just touched down in the U.K. for an indeterminate amount of time. If all else failed, she figured she would call Connor and ask for a favor. He owed her one, since she had managed to make his infamous campaign video essentially disappear.

"Remind me again why you're taking Roman as your plus one?" Lily said. "I have two other brothers who are a lot more tolerable."

"I'm being nice," Dorothy replied. "Besides, he's entertaining."

"He's a PR nightmare, Dot."

"High risk, high reward...?"

Lily just shook her head. The look on her face made up for the words she didn't say. "Sure."

"Don't give me that tone," she said, and nudged Lily. "Are you going to take another coincidental walk by the ATN offices before we head out?"

They exchanged a smile and began the walk to the elevators. Dorothy always made sure to tease Lily when they were alone. She felt like she should have been guilty for keeping such an earth-shattering secret, but she couldn't. Ever since she discovered this affair, she had noticed just how little Shiv and Tom seemed to act like an actual couple. But that was none of her business.

She settled for a lowkey night to close out a day jam-packed with meetings and phone calls. After a round of hate-stalking her ex's Instagram in bed, she tossed her phone aside. Then she rolled over, grabbed it, and called Roman.

He answered with a pointed, "What?"

"Morning, sleepyhead." Dorothy grinned. "Sorry to wake you."

"It's fine, I was gonna wake up anyway―"

"Great. So, how long are you planning on staying in London?" She asked. "Because, you know, you're supposed to be somewhere with me on Saturday."

She could hear rustling on the other end as he said, "I don't know, two days? Three?"

Dorothy nodded. "What are you doing across the pond, anyways?"

"Gotta talk to my mom."

"Seriously?"

"It's for the fuckin' shareholder's meeting, I don't―"

Dorothy had heard enough. "Oh, you are such a momma's boy," she said, and laughed.

"Well, one of us had to be the favorite," Roman replied. "I'm Mommy's favorite, you're Daddy's favorite..."

She smiled. "Tell Caroline to go fuck herself for me."

"Remind me again why you hate my mom, Dot?" He muttered.

"Take a guess," she replied. "Because your mom convinced my mom to put me in a...?"

"Nuthouse?" He offered.

"A ballet troupe. And that gave me what...?"

"Ripped calves?"

"An eating disorder."

He scoffed. "You're not special, we all had those."

"Anyways, I just wanted to call and make sure that we're on for Saturday," she said. "Have fun talking to mommy, Oedipus."

Dorothy grinned as she hung up. No, she didn't like Caroline whatsoever. She had spent one summer in London with the Roys, and that had been disastrous. Caroline and her mother were two peas in a pod. And somehow, her mother managed to influence Caroline's treatment of Dorothy from beyond the grave that summer.

She should have been asleep. She'd called Roman at one in the morning, after all. And, as expected, she had to drag herself out of bed and into work the next morning.

Being the CMO-in-training, she had a lot of shit to do. Namely, she had some strategizing to do. The Cruises scandal had created an air of distrust between the general public and Waystar, and that affected the Marketing division, too. She had been tasked with trying to find a way to sell brands like Parks and Cruises in a way that wasn't in horrifically poor taste following the scandal.

Dorothy ran into Gerri in the hall. She didn't have any intention of speaking to her, but the petty part of her won in the end.

"How's damage control doing?" She asked.

"Fine," Gerri replied. "Karolina is working on a statement for the press."

She smiled thinly. "Well, I hope it plays well."

"Are you trying to say something?" Gerri asked.

"Oh, no." Dorothy smiled and added, "I'm quoting you, actually. Argestes, right after the panel...?"

"I was de-escalating, Dorothy."

"I'm sure you were. But, you know. I thought you'd care a little more about your good friend Roman."

Then she smiled, adjusted the satchel bag on her shoulder, and made her way to her office. She had no reason to imply anything between Roman and Gerri. Gerri was Waystar's legal counsel, and knowing Roman, he desperately needed legal counsel. And he'd made one joke about jerking off with her. Still, the ugly part of her wanted to get under Gerri's skin, and that seemed to have done the trick for now.

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Dorothy practically flung open the door to her apartment on the first knock. "Hi. You look nice."

"Hi. Yes. Hello. Hi." Roman stepped inside carefully. "What are you doing?"

He watched her dart around her apartment at breakneck speed, switching out necklaces and fluffing her hair in the reflection of her sleek black refrigerator. She had changed into three separate pairs of heels before he spoke up again.

"Did you get into Ken's stash or something?"

"I'm nervous, Roman," she shot back. "How do I look? Fine?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, you look fine. Are we pregaming?"

"If we pregame, I'll puke onstage."

"Okay. Jesus."

Dorothy finally grabbed her purse and joined Roman in the front hall. He gestured for her to leave with a mocking "Ladies first," and she stepped outside.

She didn't get any less jumpy in the car. If anything, driving to whatever banquet hall the gala was being held at made her nerves worse. Roman's comments as she applied a tenth coat of lipstick didn't help.

"You're going to behave, right?" She asked. "Like, no sex jokes, no unsavory comments, limited swearing..."

Roman scoffed. "Um, yes. What are you, my mom?"

"I'm serious," she said. "A lot of my dad's friends are coming tonight, and I cannot have you fuck this up."

"You make these speeches all the time, right? Chill out."

"Great advice, Rome. At least I can be trusted to give a speech."

Dorothy stopped Roman again on the steps leading to the banquet hall, and she took in deep breaths of the cool evening air. Smiling weakly, she straightened his tie with shaking hands and patted his shoulder.

"You look good," she said. "We look good."

"Do I need to get you a Xanax or something?" He asked. "It's fuckin' fine, come on."

She kept up the smile as they walked inside to flashing lights and a handful of attendants directing them to the little red carpet/photo-op that had been set up for the guests. Roman posed nicely for most of them, but she could tell he wanted to act out.

She reluctantly gave in and let herself let go for a few pictures. Roman leaning against her, his back to her chest and his arms thrown over her shoulders. A candid shot of Dorothy laughing as she pushed him away. An impulsive kiss on his cheek, Roman touching his hands together under his chin. It was stupid. It was fun. And it was a good way to take her mind off of her speech.

"Are you happy?" She murmured as they walked away from the photographers.

"Thrilled," he replied. "Are you still having a nervous breakdown, or can we drink now?"

"Well, apart from the pictures being put out on the internet forever..."

"Oh, you fuckin' love me."

"You are objectively the worst person I've ever met," she countered. "But maybe you've got a buddy with no morals who can beat you at being completely unethical."

"You know, you're, like... Kind of my date," he said. "So that kind of makes you a celebrity. Like, this is charity work for me."

Dorothy glanced at him. "I'm already a fuckin' celebrity. You're lucky to be seen with me."

They reached the double doors that led to the banquet hall, and she grabbed his arm. Roman gave her a look, but she just smiled and led them inside. She did keep her grip extra tight, though― a not-so-gentle reminder for him to behave.

"Could you hold onto me, like, any fuckin' tighter?" He muttered.

"Most of my other dates liked being seen with me," she replied in a low whisper.

He scoffed. "Yeah, 'cause they were too scared to call for help."

"I don't hear you complaining," she shot back. "You're just a glutton for punishment, I guess."

"I'm actually signaling to all the other men in the room that I'm being held hostage and that they should call the cops―"

She pinched him. "Wait. Shut the fuck up. My dad's friends are over there."

Dorothy kept her eyes locked on the group of elderly men standing in a circle and talking nonsense over drinks. They didn't seem to notice her or Roman as they passed by, which made her breathe a sigh of relief. Still, she made sure to stick herself to Roman until they reached her table.

"So, are you still a sloppy drunk?" He asked.

"Be careful who you blackmail," Dorothy replied, and reached for her glass of wine. "Are you still scared to kiss girls?"

"I was not afraid to kiss girls."

"Oh, you so were."

"Okay, well, I'm not fuckin' fifteen anymore, so I'm pretty sure I've gotten over that," he muttered.

And so the reminiscing on their high school days ended. Things always ended that way, didn't they? They went back and forth until someone pushed things too far, and then they paid the price.

She just nodded. "Well, at any rate, I'll gladly get sloppy-drunk with you once we survive the speeches tonight."

"We'd probably have to call 911 if any of these old fucks tried it," he said. "Can you imagine?"

"Oh, they'd all have heart attacks," she said. "That's a given. But are we on for shots later?"

"Um, yes. And if my impeccable memory serves, I can absolutely outdrink you."

"Roman, you're, like, four feet tall. You're a fucking lightweight."

He elbowed her, and she, in turn, stamped on his foot underneath the table. Thankfully, most of the guests sharing their table hadn't sat down yet, so they only earned one strange look instead of five.

"Maybe we can use you as a bargaining chip to get booze," Roman added. "Like, if you lift up your skirt―"

"You wish," Dorothy retorted. "Being my plus one does not entitle you to that."

"You know, going to parties together comes with at least a blowjob," he said. "It's, like, the social contract of dating."

"Really?" Dorothy deadpanned. "The print on that contract must be as small as your dick, because I don't remember agreeing to that."

Roman just gave his little hyena giggle and took a long drink. Around them, the lights began to dim, and Dorothy stood. She gave him a quick, wide-eyed grimace, and then slipped away. Behind the curtain, the stage manager told her that she had a total of two acts-and/or-speeches ahead of her, and then... Showtime.

She had made a slideshow. Why the fuck did she think a slideshow would be a good idea? This wasn't a sales pitch, it was a charity event. But she had the clicker in her hand and the tech people had the slideshow all queued up, so she couldn't call it off now.

Dorothy stepped onstage to mild applause, and she smiled. "Good evening, ladies and gentleman. If you don't know me, my name is Dorothy Sinclair, and it's... Truly an honor to be here tonight."

More applause. She laughed faintly and said, "So, there's no great way to put this, but... I had cancer."

That earned her a few laughs, thankfully. She hit a button, and the screen behind her switched to a picture. Little four-year-old Dorothy Sinclair, sitting in a hospital bed, giving the camera a smile with chocolate smeared around her mouth. It was a funny picture, but not even a grainy old photo could hide the pallor in her face and the IV in her arm.

Dorothy knew that making light of having cancer would be tough, but she chose some pretty good pictures from her treatment days. Most of them included her family― a picture taken during a vacation with her heavily pregnant mother, a picture of her father reading to her in the hospital. Cute things. The crowd seemed to like them, at least.

"And..." She hit a button again, and the picture changed to little Dorothy, wearing a pink head wrap and squeezing a little boy in a hug.

Dorothy laughed. "I'm gonna preface this by saying I made this slideshow weeks ago and haven't touched it since, but the boy in that picture actually became my impromptu plus one tonight. Roman Roy, if the name is familiar to any of you."

Of course the name was familiar. Everyone at the ball had more money than they could count, of course they knew fellow billionaire Roman Roy. The blinding stage lights prevented her from finding Roman in the crowd, but she knew she'd be in for it later.

At least it gave her a chance to segue into the actual point of her speech― encouraging donations to whichever cancer fund had sponsored this event. And she got a hearty round of applause at the end of her speech, so she considered it an overall success, with one tiny bump in the middle.

Dorothy returned to an empty table, save for a young man seated across from her. She breathed a sigh of relief as she sat down, her hand already reaching for the glass of wine she'd left.

"Great speech tonight," the man said. "I've heard a lot about you."

"I..." She laughed and said, "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Dan Nielsen." He offered her a flashy smile. "I'm an investor. Hit it big a couple of years ago, and... Here we are. But we can skip over that, I'm sure it's boring―"

"Actually, I do a lot of investing," she said. "Someone has to keep Waystar afloat."

"Really? Well, you learn something new every day," he joked. "Can I ask what you're doing after this?"

"Going home. Probably going to sleep. The usual."

"Sure, sure. But... Alone, right?"

Dorothy frowned. "Of course I'm going home alone."

"Right," Dan said, and smiled again. "Well, I'm asking because I was planning on asking for your phone number... If that's alright."

She smiled thinly and said, "I don't know why it wouldn't be."

"Well, you know..."

"Actually, I don't know. But if you want my number, all you have to do is ask."

Still smiling, Dorothy reached for one of the cocktail napkins nearby. She took the pen Dan offered her and her mind went blank. She wanted to stall, but how could she? All she had to do was write her name and phone number. It would take ten seconds. There wasn't room to stall.

"Hey. Hey, bud."

She glanced up from the napkin to see Roman standing to her left, holding two glasses. He set them down, smiled at the guy, and put a hand on the back of her chair.

"Sorry, but who the fuck are you?" He asked.

Dan stiffened. "Dan Nielsen. Investor."

Roman laughed. It lasted just a little too long to be a friendly laugh, and Dorothy kept her gaze fixed on the napkin in front of her. She had managed to scrawl half of her phone number on it before Roman showed up. She tried in vain to cover the digits with Dan's pen when she set it down on the napkin.

"You ever heard of him?" He asked. Dorothy managed to shake her head, and he said, "Yeah, no. Didn't think so."

"Rome..." She murmured. A warning.

A warning that Roman didn't listen to.

"So, tell me, Dan. What the fuck are you doing here?" He turned and added, "Better yet, why don't you tell me, Dorothy?"

"We were talking." She stood abruptly and turned to face him. "But I think we need to have a talk."

They never went back to the table. Dorothy stopped Roman in the entrance hall and quietly bitched him out, and after that, they decided to just leave. Neither of them wanted to be in that room any longer than they had to be.

The only upside to leaving was that they could get hammered at her apartment... Which they did. It felt good to drink until she forgot about Dan and his annoyingly flashy smile.

Roman spent the night on her couch. When Dorothy walked past to put the rum away, she ruffled his hair, and he whipped around. She just laughed and set the bottle down on the side cabinet.

"If I could walk straight, I'd totally pounce on you right now," he mumbled.

She just laughed and leaned on the door-frame. "Uh-huh."

"I'm serious. I would."

"Okay, Rome. Sure."

"What? I'm fuckin' serious―"

He sat up suddenly, then froze, and she grinned lazily. "Well, in the meantime, my bathroom is the second door on the right. Please don't throw up on my nice couch."

Dorothy laid awake for a while that night. The events of the evening replayed in her mind, from the moment Roman walked into her apartment to the moment they finally left. She kept thinking about Dan, and how he'd spoken to her.

She found it strange that he'd specified that she would go home alone that night. And he had been sort of covert about getting her number. Why? Did he have a girlfriend that he was trying to hide from her?

Or did she have a boyfriend that he wanted to find a way around?

Something inside of Dorothy went cold at the thought. Did he think Roman had been her boyfriend, or something like it? Didn't he know that Roman had a girlfriend? And if he thought that they had a thing, what had the rest of the guests thought of them? What would the world think when the red carpet pictures came out?

It wouldn't reach that many people, but she and Roman were both prominent enough in a few different circles that the pictures could gain some traction. She didn't want to check Twitter the next morning.

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They're sixteen again. Junior Prom. Dorothy's running for Prom Queen, of course, or Prom Princess― it doesn't matter. She doesn't want to win, but she really has a chance. She's got the smile for it.

She's wearing a dress. Backless. Black. Elegant. And absolutely not in dress code, considering she goes to a Catholic school. She's curled her hair, too, and wrangled it into some kind of updo. It's messy, but again, elegantly so. Like she really could be Kat out of 10 Things I Hate About You.

He's wearing a suit. Some guys― the really hardcore ones― are wearing the actual uniform, but most of the St. Andrew's guys would kill for a chance not to wear that thing. Roman follows the crowd this time around.

They're an entire hour into this four-hour event and Dorothy's been chatting it up with her girlfriends over dinner the whole time and he thinks that fuck, he really should talk to someone.

She catches his eye from across the room and stands up, and he's panicking. Only slightly, though, because this is Dorothy. She's all bark and (almost) no bite. But then he wishes that she hadn't come over, because conversation at his table stops when Dorothy Sinclair approaches Roman Roy, of all people.

"Let's talk," she says, and leaves as soon as she arrives.

Roman follows her to the punch bowl like she's got him on a leash. With a scoff, he says, "So?"

"Truce?" She asks, and hands him a cup. "Just for tonight. So we can have a nice prom."

She raises her cup in a toast to one night of peace. And like an idiot, he drinks, because even though he knows he's signed away all of his rights to insult her tonight, she's wearing shimmery pink lip gloss and it's giving him a weird feeling in his gut.

He doesn't like that feeling. He knows he shouldn't get that feeling about this girl he's known for ten years now, but he does, but he also doesn't want to accept what he's feeling, because that makes it real and then it's a problem.

"You're gonna enjoy yourself tonight, right?" Dorothy asks, and grins at him over the rim of her cup.

"Of course I am," he said. "I didn't pay fifty bucks for a ticket to shoot the shit with the white nationalists in the corner."

"Right." She grins. "Because Roman Roy is getting lucky with a girl on prom night."

"Are you saying I can't? Because I will. Totally."

Dorothy opens her mouth to speak, then pauses. "I hate this truce already. I can't even call you an asshole."

Roman shrugs and takes a drink, but she can see that he's grinning. "You made the bet."

She just turns and walks away, and he finds himself staring blankly ahead. Then it clicks, and he realizes that he's staring at her back. Her exposed back, pale white but dotted with freckles and moles, lithe with muscle he can only see when she throws her hands in the air and follows her friends to the dance floor. He takes another, shakier sip of whatever shitty Kool-Aid punch she'd given him.

Roman wonders if Dorothy pre-gamed this dance, because she's far too happy to be the Dorothy he knows. She even approaches him at some point that night and tries to drag him into a dance circle with her friends, but he gets scared and squeaks out a "What the hell are you doing!", and she leaves him alone. He spends a solid five minutes just wondering if she really wanted to dance with him, because she looked genuinely disappointed when he brushed her off.

She wins Prom Princess. She gets up there on the little stage, wide-eyed but grinning even wider, and he can see the looks that some of the St. Margaret's chaperones shoot her. Evidently, none of them saw the back of her dress.

He's conveniently missing during her slow dance with the Prom Prince, who happened to be one of the "white nationalists," as Roman called them... Basically, one of the hyper-macho guys who took military school way too seriously.

If he had been there, he'd have seen how she held that kid at arm's length. He'd have seen how she shot "help me" looks around to her friends. He'd have realized that she had been searching for him in the crowd, so they could share a knowing look and tease each other about it later.

Dorothy sidles up to him at the end of the dance. Most people have left, but a few couples hang back, slow dancing and ultimately being grossly affectionate.

"I need a re-do," she says. "Dance with me?"

Roman freezes. He can only assume she's talking about re-doing her dance with Mr. White Nationalist, but now she wants to dance with him? He starts to mumble a suggestion about dancing with her girlfriends instead, but she cuts him off.

"I wanna dance with you, Roman."

He follows her around again, like a little lost puppy, as she leads him to a dimly-lit part of the gym. He thinks that she chose this spot so no one would see the disgrace that is a girl like Dorothy dancing with a guy like him. He's probably right.

Her hands find his shoulders. Roman snaps his head around, and he only registers that her nails are painted black and sparkly before she tugs on the lapels of his suit coat.

"I'm over here," she says, and grins. Again, he notices the shimmery pink lip gloss.

His face is burning, but his hands are blocks of ice that settle on either side of her waist. She waits for him to find his footing (hand-ing?), and she doesn't seem to care that they're wasting precious seconds of dancing time. He cares. He should be ready. This shouldn't be a big deal. He should know how to do this, because this might be the one and only time he can touch her this gently and why the fuck is he thinking like that and―

"Eyes up here, Romulus," she says, and he flushes. He's been staring at her lip gloss, and therefore her lips, this whole time.

What song is playing? It's something familiar. Goo Goo Dolls, maybe? "Iris," or something like that? He doesn't know. He can't hear anything other than the blood rushing in his ears.

His hands readjust themselves on her waist. Her backless dress serves to haunt him once more, because his palms are touching her dress but his fingertips extend to where the dress gives way to warm, smooth, beautiful skin, and he wants to throw up a little bit.

It's awful. Actually awful. Roman has two left feet and it shows as they stumble around, but Dorothy never seems to care. She loops her arms around his neck, and now they're really close, but Roman is still actively trying to hold her like she's a bomb about to go off.

"Look at you, self-proclaimed Casanova," she says, and giggles. "You can't even dance with girls, and you wanna tell me you're some crazy sex god?"

"I thought we made a bet," he mumbles. He doesn't even realize he's said it until she laughs.

"Fuck the bet. Let's talk about your utter lack of rhythm."

"Some of us aren't fucking ballet dancers, Dorky."

That makes her really laugh. She throws her head back and laughs until she has to cling to Roman for balance. She curses at how wobbly her heels are and apologizes for her nails digging into his shoulder, but he doesn't really care.

Dorky. It's a nickname from their childhood, back when they fucking hated each other and were still young enough to "accidentally" mispronounce each other's names. Roman was a vindictive little shit at eight years old and Dorothy got on his nerves all the time, so "Dorothy" became "Dorky."

Now, "Dorothy" just laughs and leans closer to plant a kiss on his cheek. It burns, but that might be all of his capillaries bursting at once. She brushes the pad of her thumb over the spot a moment later, but the lip gloss refuses to budge.

The lip gloss. Up close, it's cherry-scented. The smell of it brings back memories. Is this it? Is this the lip gloss from that party in March? The one where they both drank a little too much and got too cocky? Where Roman made a comment about not being scared of girls, and Dorothy challenged him to play spin the bottle with everyone else to prove it? The one where they got stuck in the guest room because of some stupid rule change? The one where she punched him, kissed him almost right afterwards, and proceeded to make out with him in what was only the hottest three minutes of his life?

It's that lip gloss. Dorothy doesn't seem to realize, and if she does, she doesn't say anything. It's probably for the best that she doesn't. They would never get anywhere if they tried to retrace their steps from that night.

They separate awkwardly when the next song ends, and Roman leaves after that dance. His cheek is still wet and sticky with that shimmery pink lip gloss.