“Do we really have to walk the red carpet?”

I’m aware I sound whiny, and the reproachful look in Rafa’s eyes makes me stop any further protest. I’m trying to be pleasant, but all day I’d fought to erase the scowl from my face. Rafa’s leaving the next morning for a month-long business trip to Spain, and we still haven’t talked about our future. It hangs in the air like the heavy scent of the lilies in this grand hotel lobby. I haven’t smelled lilies since my father’s death, and I have the same pit in my stomach now as I did during Daddy’s funeral.

We’re at one of the most elegant hotels on South Beach. This building didn’t even exist when I lived here during college. I hazily recall reading about how some midcentury modern, 1950s-era motel was razed to make way for this luxurious new resort. So Florida, in every way—always changing and never acknowledging the past.

The evening’s event is a charity ball supporting at-risk kids. Rafa donated a six-figure sum and is obligated to attend.

“It’s a pain, Justi, but I have to. We have to.” He nuzzles my cheek. “I’d rather be with you alone, on the sofa, watching a movie.”

His words make me feel good for a second, but I still think the entire event is a charade.

The photographers acting like paparazzi for the minor local celebrities are inane. The way the overdressed and silicone-enhanced women strut down a makeshift red carpet seems ridiculous. The flaunting of so much wealth, some of it ill-gained through drugs or money laundering or fraud, is downright repulsive. The hotel is carefully minimalist, a trite attempt at fake class.

My mood is growing darker by the minute.

I try to smile, but I know it’s coming off as forced. It’s difficult for me not to show emotions on my face, and if I feel bitchy, I look bitchy.

“You look so fucking beautiful tonight, babe.” Rafa’s thumb trails down my spine. The fiery red Zac Posen gown Rafael bought me is stunning. The neckline plunges low, revealing cleavage, and the back’s cut low, too. A long hem flows around my gold, strappy heels. My hair tonight is long and silky straight. But as sexy as I feel, I know I’m out of place in this world. Even though St. Augustine is only five hours away by car—or thirty minutes by the private jet—it’s an entirely different planet than Miami Beach.

I’m an alien in this world.

Rafa senses my discomfort. He kisses my temple. “Mi cielo, you have nothing to worry about. You’re here with me.”

He, of course, is at ease in his black tuxedo and keeps a possessive arm around my waist as we walk to the party entrance, past giant flower sprays and women on pedestals who appear to be naked save for gold body paint.

Rafael is instantly recognized by the reporters gathered along the carpet, and he steers us to stand in front of a backdrop emblazoned with the charity’s logo. The photographers snap away.

“Miss, miss, smile right over here,” one of the photographers hollers.

“Rafa!” another yells, and I’m taken aback to see him grinning expertly. He points to one of the photographers and calls out his name.

He squeezes my waist with his hand and propels me toward one camera, then another, and finally we’re released from the vice grip of the flashbulbs.

“Was that so bad?” He leans in for a kiss.

I shrug. It’s not that it’s bad. Or good. It’s not me.

We drink champagne and circulate around the party, which is held on an outdoor terrace overlooking Miami’s glittering skyline. This is what the new rich look like, all expensive shopping and fake smiles. For some reason, this reminds me that my newspaper is failing and my mood grows even worse. I hate feeling bitter, but I am.

Rafa seems to be the only genuine person in the room, and he radiates sincerity and warmth. Which is probably why everyone gravitates to him. I’m silent as I observe him mingle.

He’s so different here than when he’s with me alone. He has the mannerisms and charm of an experienced businessman: an ability to remember people’s names and joke and glad-hand. When I observe him shoulder-to-shoulder alongside Florida richest men, it occurs to me that Rafa symbolizes the essence of Miami: self-made, filled with hustle, always changing. I admire this part of him, although it scares me, because I’m so different.

I down a glass of champagne. My roots are in St. Augustine, a city that looks to the past. Rafa has no roots and thrives in this crazy, transient city. He’s the future.

We aren’t meant to be together. My ruminations are slightly buzzed and sad. I drink another glass of bubbly, quickly, and Rafa looks at me with raised eyebrows and a conspiratorial smile.

He introduces me to everyone, and I keep quiet, smiling gracefully, tenderly, at each new person. There’s no use in being snarky now. The bitterness ebbs out of my body, and a heavy wave of weariness washes over me as I scan the room.

I can’t help but notice that many women are taking an interest in me. One, a bombshell brunette who is on the arm of an older businessman, can’t stop staring at me, to the point where I wonder if I have food between my teeth or something. Rafa and the businessman are deep in conversation.

“So how do you know Rafael?” the woman asks. I’d forgotten the woman’s name about ten seconds after meeting her, flustered by her obvious wealth and aggressive sex appeal. She has that Miami sheen that comes from years of spas, surgery, and seduction—a tiny, tight black dress that makes her breasts spill everywhere, evenly tanned skin, glowing white teeth. Being around people like this annoy and fascinate me. Even though I’m from old Southern money, a fortune that’s long since run out, the overt flaunting of wealth makes me uncomfortable.

I press my lips together before I speak. “We’ve known each other since college.”

“Oh. And?” The woman cocks a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me. Her lush, ruby mouth curves into a knowing smile.

I blink. “And…?”

“Are you dating?”

I nod weakly. “Yes, I guess, yes, we are.”

The woman laughs. “Most women have the same reaction with Rafael. They’re not sure where they stand. I know. I was one of them.”

I must look shocked, because the woman touches my hand and I feel the tips of her nails on my skin. Like claws.

“It’s okay. I’m no longer interested in him. He’s a wonderful man, but super commitment shy. He can only give so much. I think a woman in his past really hurt him. That’s what he said to me. If he can get over that, he would be the perfect husband.”

I’m that woman who really hurt him, I nearly blurt.

“Who would be the perfect husband?” Rafa breaks in, grinning and sliding his arm around me. I wobble uncomfortably in my high heels. A spot near my toe is rubbed raw from where the strap cuts into my flesh. It’s been a bad month for my feet.

“You,” giggles the woman, who irons an invisible wrinkle on Rafa’s tuxedo lapel by running her hand down his chest. I’m not angry or jealous, merely incredulous that the woman is so bold.

Rafa moves a little closer to me and away from her. “I will be an excellent husband for the right woman. Justi, you look hungry. Let’s go find some appetizers for you.”

We bid the woman goodbye, and I’m relieved to get away from the awkward conversation.

“You dated her? Who is she?” I don’t really want the answer. If I thought about it too long, I’d start comparing myself to that gorgeous creature and spiral down a rabbit hole of insecurity.

“I took her out twice. I never had sex with her.” Rafa plucks two artfully arranged shrimp cocktail glasses off a waiter’s tray. “She doesn’t work. She got a huge divorce settlement from a condo developer.”

I nod and, as I pick at my shrimp, spot at least two other women staring at Rafa. And at me. A sickening realization washes over me: this is how it will always be with Rafa if I live here with him.

At least until he becomes bored with me or until I become one of them.

Hours later, we’re back at his penthouse condo. I’m in love with the camel-and-tan hues of his home and wish I could revel in the serenity. But everything about the evening has made my stomach fizz uncomfortably. I walk into the bedroom, and Rafa follows.

“I can’t. I can’t do this.” I sit on the bed gingerly, as if it hurts to move. I slip off the strappy heels that are so tight that indentations are left behind in my skin.

“You can’t do what?” Rafael asks. He stands in front of me and strips off his tuxedo jacket, looking down. He throws the jacket on the bed and undoes his bow tie. He tosses that on the bed, too.

How I love watching him remove his cufflinks. I stare at him, wanting to remember the motions of his hands rolling up his sleeves forever, wanting to imprint the sight of his muscled forearms in my brain.

“This. Miami. You asked if I would close the paper and come here to live with you. I can’t.” My voice is wistful.

Rafael kneels and rubs his thumbs over my raw feet.

“Amor. ¿Que? What? Why? You’re exhausted. I don’t think you know what you’re saying.”

“I’ve thought about it all week. I’ve been so torn. But tonight, at the fundraiser, that’s when I made up my mind. I can’t live this lifestyle, Rafa. It’s not me. I don’t belong here in Miami. I don’t like this whole scene, this glitz. I’m a small-town girl. If you want to kill me, move me here and put me in the company of all these plastic people. I’m not like this. I work. I enjoy my work. I’m not interested in charities and designer fundraisers and cocktail hour. We would hate each other after a while if I had to live like this. I know myself.”

Rafael’s eyes are wide, and I’ve never seen him look so afraid.

“And I can’t close the paper. I’m begging you not to close the paper. Take it digital, sell the building, do whatever you need to do with it. But don’t close it.”

He rests his forehead against my knees, and I stroke his hair with both hands.

“You’ve put me in the worst position, Rafa. You’ve made me choose between the two things I love the most.”

Rafa raises his head. “And once again, you’re not choosing me.”