I capture her lips again, desperate now, pouring everything I can't say into the kiss. She tastes like promises, like homecoming, and when her arms wind around my neck, I'm lost.

"I'd love nothing more than to take you home right now."

She laughs softly against my mouth. "Your mom would murder us if we bailed."

"Fine," I sigh, resting my forehead against hers. "I'll behave. Torture myself with admiring you from afar."

Her grin turns wicked. "Let's see about that."

"I've had eleven years of practice," I smirk. "What's one more night?"

Then she gives me that smile—the one that stops time, that makes my chest ache with possibility. The smile I'd spend a lifetime chasing.

"Ready for this?" she asks softly. "Everyone's going to be staring."

I squeeze her hand. "Let them."

We step inside together, and the room hushes. I catch Jake's gaze—his jaw tight, eyes dark—before he looks away. The guilt twists briefly in my chest, but I made my choice. It's her. It's always been her.

I press my lips to her temple.

"No more hiding. It's you and me."

Her fingers tighten in mine, and we move forward, together at last.

70. Mic Drops And Bombshells

CHAPTER 70

MIC DROPS AND BOMBSHELLS

NORA

The hall unfolds like a fever dream, each detail shimmering with Gatsby-esque grandeur. Art deco archways soar overhead, draped in cascading gold and black, while crystal chandeliers scatter light like falling stars. Lydia has transformed every inch into a glittering testament to excess that makes reality feel paper-thin.

The polished marble reflects hundreds of golden votives, their flames dancing across mirrored tables adorned with white orchids and gold-dusted roses. A jazz band plays from their velvet-draped platform, brass instruments gleaming like liquid gold against an enormous art deco mural that creates the illusion of a metallic cityscape reaching toward heaven.

The air is thick with champagne and designer perfume as wait staff in immaculate tuxedos weave through the crowd. The guests themselves are living art—women in gowns that ripple like precious metals, diamonds catching light at their throats, feathered headpieces blurring the line between vintage and couture. Men stand like dark pillars in perfectly tailored suits, every detail from their cufflinks to their shoes whispering old money and influence.

Nate's hand in mine is the only thing keeping me from freaking out as my eyes sweep the room, each familiar face hitting like a wave. Farrah and Connor's group notices us first, their expressions shifting into something carefully crafted. Relief flickers through me when I don't spot Evan, but it's short-lived. My mom and Lydia beam with unmistakable pride from across the room, their joy reaching through the crowd like sunlight. It should comfort me, but instead, my chest tightens as I spot Camilla and Marcus.

And then there's Jake.