Her green eyes searched mine, questions swimming in their depths. The kiss that followed tasted of blood and desperation, and she didn't pull away. She tightened her fingers in my ruined shirt, drawing out my darkness with each press of her lips. Her fingers in my hair felt like absolution. I didn’t want to open my eyes, scared it would be another pain-induced hallucination.

Or worse, she’d finally see what Jake already knew—that I'm not good enough for her. Never have been, never will be.

But I'm selfish, and I'm addicted to how she makes me feel. She's the closest thing to heaven I'll ever know, and I'll burn in Hell for wanting her this much.

Nora's fingers ghost over my jaw, dabbing concealer on the worst of the bruises pulling me from the memory. She's precise, methodical—like she's done this a thousand times before.

"You're thinking too loud," she murmurs, tilting my chin to catch better light. Her touch is feather-light, but it burns straight through me.

I try to smile, but it pulls at my split lip. "Just remembering."

The rest of the morning is spent at Sonder with Nick, using the space to rehearse. Music has always been my escape hatch, the one place where I feel untouchable, where the noise in my head transforms into something beautiful. Summer's winding down, and if I've got no plans, I could take Nick up on his offer to go to Spain to write and maybe record an album. I don't know how, but Nick seems to have connections within the industry.

The ping of a message yanks me back to earth.

Mom

Your tux is ready—left it in your room. You're driving Nora and Camilla, they're getting ready at the house. And please don't be late for the gala. Love you x

When I get home, the house is silent as a graveyard. Jake and Ollie must've left with the moms already.

"Hello? Anyone here?" My voice echoes off empty walls, returning lonely and hollow.

I'm halfway up the stairs when Camilla bursts out of Nora's room, practically vibrating with excitement. She's got that look—the one that means she's sitting on information that could start or end wars. Her dark curls are wild from what I assume was an intense styling session, and there's a smudge of mascara above her left eye that she hasn't noticed yet.

"Wait until you see her," she stage-whispers, bouncing on her toes. "She looks like an absolute fucking queen."

I don't doubt it. Nora could wear a trash bag and still outshine anyone in any room. I try to keep my face neutral, but Camilla reads me like a billboard. She pokes my chest with one perfectly manicured finger.

"It's actually painful watching you try to play it cool right now."

"I need to talk to you about something, or someone…" She freezes mid-bounce. "Jay⁠⁠—"