She arches an eyebrow at me. “Last weekend at the party, you and I didn’t cross paths as much as we did by accident. Margo, Sula, even Christopher—they’re in on this.”

I stare at her, stunned. “Seriously?”

“Very seriously, James.”

My blood pressure spikes, a surge of rare righteous anger burning through me. I’m a chess player. I can appreciate the beauty of a winning strategy. But people aren’t pawns, and their personal lives aren’t games to be played.

“That’s it,” I tell her. “I’m in. I want blood.”

Bea snorts a laugh, glancing my way. “Wow.”

“I mean, that is, m-metaphorical blood. Emotional blood. Wait—”

Stretching her arm across the table, Bea rests her hand on mine. It doesn’t escape me that it’s our left hands, that it’s rare for someone’s touch to mirror mine. It’s unnerving to have something in common with Beatrice.

“I knew what you meant,” she says quietly.

Staring at our hands, I observe my actions as if I’m outside myself, not driving the command center. My thumb sweeps across her palm, tracing faded ink stains and calluses that are evidence of how much work art takes, how messy creating illusions can be. Bea sucks in a breath as my touch slides down to her wrist. She pulls away the same moment I release her.

“Perhaps it’s unwise.” I clear my throat and avoid her eyes. “Pursuing revenge like this. I can’t remember the last time I’ve done something so impulsive or vindictive. But, God, will it feel good.”

“Just think,” she says, “the looks on their faces when we finally break it to them. It’ll be worth it. It’ll stop this meddling matchmaking bullshit once and for all. Now, what’s our timeline? It has to be long enough to convince them, but not so long that we drive each other off the deep end.”

“Sounds wise,” I agree.

“We ‘date’ until . . . ?”

“Do you all have any traditional gatherings, where breaking up would make a real splash? Christmas perhaps? That might be too long, though.”

Bea scrunches her nose. “Oh, God, no.”

“I’m sorry,” I say frostily, “would that be an insufferably long time to fake date me?”

“Honestly, a little bit. And don’t act like you could stand fake dating me that long, either.”

Fair point. “Thanksgiving? Do your friends have a gathering around then?

Her eyes light up. “The Friendsgiving party! Oh, that’s perfect. Okay, so that gives us . . .”

“A little less than two months.”

“Two months. That’s doable.”

“Agreed.”

Leaning in, she says, “We’re going to have to sell it. I want them eating out of our hands.”

I steal another glance at the bench where our audience sits, texting their coconspirators, feasting on this elaborate joke. Soon, they’ll realize the joke’s on them. “I understand. I’m committed.”