The next wrong move

Fiona didn't mean to say yes.

She just… couldn't say no.

The email came at 2:47 a.m.—one of those glossy Kingswood opportunities that everyone in her program would kill for. A last-minute spot had opened in the International Arts Symposium in New York. Only five undergraduates would be invited. It was prestigious. High-pressure. Career-defining.

And it fell on the same weekend George had asked her to go to his family's foundation gala in D.C.

She reread the message three times, heart pounding.

You have 24 hours to confirm. Travel stipend included. Portfolio review required by Friday.

Fiona stared at her sketchpad. Unfinished pieces. Nothing ready. No sleep. No time. But if she didn't take this shot, would she always wonder?

She thought about telling George.

Then she thought about his mother—the way she watched Fiona at every event like she was a step below what George deserved. Fiona still remembered how she'd introduced her at a donor dinner as "George's friend, Fiona… she's an artist."

An artist, like it was a hobby.

And this symposium? It was a chance to prove she was more than a girl in George Preston's orbit.

She hit Reply.

I'm in.

She didn't tell George.

George's mistake started with an invitation, too.

But his came with strings. Heavy ones.

The Preston Institute—a tech and innovation incubator started by his father—was expanding into global markets. The board wanted George to step up early, take on a "mentorship shadow" role over winter break, and begin transitioning into an executive position.

He hadn't told Fiona yet. He didn't want to stress her out.

She had enough on her plate. Finals. Studio critiques. Everyone watching her every move since the Red Dress Party.

He told himself he'd bring it up after the foundation gala. After things were more stable between them. After she trusted him again.

But then came the real twist.

The Institute board didn't want him in D.C. that weekend.

They wanted him in Geneva.

Switzerland.

Same dates. Same weekend. Same promise he'd made to Fiona—that they'd get away from all the noise, just for once.

George stared at the calendar on his laptop. He could reschedule. Push back. Refuse.

But then his phone rang.

Mom.

He answered, reluctantly.

"Darling, I heard the Geneva offer came through," she said briskly. "Your father is thrilled."

"I haven't said yes."

"You will. You don't say no to legacy, George."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "What about the gala? Fiona—"

"Fiona will understand," his mother said coolly. "If she doesn't, then maybe it's time you reconsidered which future you're building. Don't throw away a kingdom over a campus crush."

He hung up without replying.

An hour later, he emailed the board:

Confirmed. I'll be there.

He didn't tell Fiona.

By Friday, the cracks were invisible, but growing.

Fiona was holed up in her dorm studio, trying to finish a last-minute portfolio. Her eyes burned from hours of sketching. She hadn't slept in almost two days. She hadn't even told Lila about the symposium—if she said it out loud, maybe it would become too real to handle.

George, meanwhile, was coordinating flights and fending off reporters about his "unexpected early leap into leadership."

They both said they were fine.

Neither of them was.

They met that evening on the roof of George's building—something they hadn't done in weeks. It had always been their place. Where things slowed down. Where they could be just George and Fiona, not Preston heir and scholarship girl.

The city lights glittered beneath them.

Fiona leaned against the railing, exhausted. "You ever feel like you're becoming someone else… and you can't stop it?"

George looked at her. "All the time."

She glanced at him. "What are you not telling me?"

He looked away. "What are you not telling me?"

She hesitated.

Then she smiled—forced. "I missed you."

He smiled back, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I missed you too."

They didn't talk about the weekend.

They didn't talk about how they'd both be gone.

They didn't talk at all.

The next morning, the truth exploded.

A Kingswood newsletter announced the symposium finalists—and Fiona's name was front and center.

"Fiona King, sophomore visual arts major, will represent Kingswood at the 2025 International Arts Symposium in New York this weekend."

George stared at the email on his phone like it had betrayed him.

Lila was the one who found Fiona in the print lab.

"Girl. George knows."

Fiona froze mid-print. "What?"

"It's in the newsletter. The whole school knows."

Fiona's heart dropped. She hadn't told him yet. She thought she still had time.

Lila gave her a look. "You have to talk to him. Now."

George didn't answer her call.

Or her text.

Or the second text.

She showed up at his penthouse, heart pounding.

He opened the door, jaw tense.

"I was going to tell you," she said quickly.

"So was I," he replied.

They stared at each other.

"You're going to New York," he said. "Same weekend."

"You're going to Geneva," she countered.

He blinked. "How did you—?"

"It's in the tech news. Your dad's name was on the article."

They both laughed bitterly.

Two people trying to hold hands… while walking in opposite directions.

"You didn't trust me," George said finally. "You didn't tell me about the symposium because you thought I'd talk you out of it."

"You didn't tell me about Geneva because you knew I wouldn't want you to go."

They were quiet.

Fiona's voice cracked. "Are we even trying anymore, George? Or are we just pretending not to be afraid of losing?"

"I don't know."

She looked at him. "We keep saying we love each other. But maybe love isn't enough if we keep choosing everything but each other."

George looked like he was breaking. But he didn't say no.

He didn't say yes, either.

That night, they both packed bags.

Different flights. Different cities.

Different futures—if they weren't careful.

Absolutely—let's continue Chapter 6: The Next Wrong Move, deepening the emotional weight as Fiona and George go through the weekend apart, each consumed by pressure, distraction, and the growing ache of being without the other. We'll see how their decisions haunt them even while they try to succeed.

Saturday, 9:12 a.m. — New York City

Fiona stood in the glass lobby of the hotel downtown, clutching her sketch portfolio like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground.

The symposium was buzzing—people in suits, lanyards, important faces she'd only ever seen in magazine features. Some were collectors. Some were critics. All of them were watching.

She had never felt so small.

"Fiona King?" a tall woman with sharp eyes called.

"Yes," Fiona stepped forward.

"You're presenting in thirty minutes. Panel Room B. You'll need to speak for at least five minutes about your work."

Fiona's throat closed. "Speak? Like, out loud?"

The woman didn't even blink. "Yes. You were briefed on this in the confirmation email."

Right. The email she barely skimmed because she was too focused on hiding it from George.

10:47 a.m. — Panel Room B

Fiona stood at the front of a long table, her sketches projected on the wall behind her. Her hands trembled slightly.

"This piece," she said, pointing to a graphite portrait, "is called Absent. It's about… grief, but not the dramatic kind. The quiet kind. When someone leaves and never gives you a reason."

The room was silent. Watching. Measuring.

She took a breath. "A lot of my work explores what's left behind after love. The empty chair. The unanswered message. The mirror that still holds their reflection."

A pause.

Then soft applause. Respectful. Professional.

But as she stepped down from the platform, all she felt was hollow.

Saturday, 4:10 p.m. — Geneva, Switzerland

George stood on the rooftop terrace of the Preston Global campus, wearing the same suit he'd worn to his father's shareholder address. His tie felt like a noose.

The Geneva office was polished to perfection—crystal lighting, chrome edges, wine glasses even during daylight hours. Legacy was everywhere. He was standing in the empire built for him like a cage he couldn't unlock.

"You handled the media questions well," one board member told him. "Just enough polish without sounding robotic. You're a natural."

George nodded, offering a tight smile.

But his thoughts weren't in Geneva.

They were in New York.

With a girl who once brought him a smoothie with the wrong protein shot, who knew how to draw heartbreak like it was a living thing.

He checked his phone again.

No texts.

No updates.

Just silence.

Sunday morning — Both cities

Fiona sat on the edge of her hotel bed, staring out at the skyline.

George sat in the back of a black car, on his way to the airport.

Neither of them said it out loud, but the silence between them had become louder than words.

Monday — Kingswood Campus

It had rained.

The kind of grey, steady rain that soaked through jackets and moods. Fiona returned with her portfolio, soaked sneakers squelching against the tile in the student art building. Her shoulders sagged—not just from exhaustion, but from a feeling she hadn't named yet.

Not regret.

Not exactly.

Something closer to distance she hadn't meant to create.

At the same time, George stepped onto campus straight from the tarmac. No sleep. Just back-to-back decisions. His blazer hung over one shoulder, and the usual sharpness in his expression had dulled to something quieter. Like he'd seen too much in too little time.

They met—unintentionally—outside the café near the student quad.

No one else around.

Just rain. And them.

Fiona's voice broke the silence. "Hey."

George nodded. "Hey."

She stepped closer. "I heard the board loved you."

"I heard you stole the whole symposium."

A small smile flickered. Faded.

Another silence.

Then George said, "I missed you. But I don't know if we know how to hold each other up… without falling apart."

Fiona looked at him, eyes glassy. "I know. I felt it, too."

"You were brilliant," he said, voice soft. "But I needed you that weekend."

"I needed you too," she said. "But I thought maybe if I succeeded, I'd feel worthy of you again."

George's face crumpled—not with anger, but something deeper.

"You were always worthy, Fiona. It was never about that."

Tears slipped down her cheeks, blending with the rain.

"I don't want to keep choosing between my future and you," she said. "I want them to be the same thing."

He stepped closer. "Then we need to stop making these wrong moves."

Her voice cracked. "How?"

He didn't have the answer.

Neither did she.

But they stood there, in the rain, letting it wash over them—uncertain, raw, and finally honest.

For the first time in weeks, they didn't pretend to be fine.

They simply stood in the wreckage of their choices, ready—maybe—to rebuild.