"Oh, I know exactly who I'm fucking with," she fires back, each word precisely aimed. "A desperate girl clinging to relevance because she knows it's slipping through her fingers. Question is, when are you going to realize you're the one who's fucking with the wrong person?"

I step between them, heart thundering. "Camilla, let's just go. She's not worth it."

Camilla's expression softens as she meets my eyes, looping her arm through mine with practiced grace. She turns back to Farrah, sugar-coating her voice. "Nice face. That new eyeshadow really suits you."

Farrah's words chase us like poison darts. "Enjoy your little moment while it lasts, Nora. We both know it won't."

Camilla's middle finger rises with elegant defiance as we stride toward Marcus and Mia's table, where they've been watching with barely concealed fascination.

"Do we even want to know?" Marcus asks, already pulling out a chair.

Camilla leans close, her Chanel No. 5 a comforting shield. "I swear, if she comes at you again tonight, I'll have Marcus dump his champagne on her dress and claim it was an accident." Her eyes sparkle with mischief and fierce loyalty.

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected but welcome.

"Oh shit." Marcus' words force us to turn, and my heart stops.

The air doesn't just shift when Scott Sullivan enters, it fractures like ice moments before it shatters. He moves through the crowd, his presence electric and suffocating, commanding space with the confidence that comes from decades of crushing others beneath Italian leather shoes.

Lydia's gasp from nearby is barely audible, but it reverberates through my bones. Nate transforms beside her, his spine snapping straight as though replaced with steel. His expression settles into something carved from marble—beautiful, cold, and utterly lifeless. It's a mask I've seen before, the one he wears when burying emotions six feet deep.

But Jake—Jake is different.

Where others ripple with tension, he remains still waters. There's an unsettling serenity in his demeanor, like he can finally exhale. When he meets his father's gaze across the room, their subtle nod feels like a secret handshake to a club I never knew existed.

"This is not good," I whisper, turning back toward our table like a moth seeking flame.

Camilla's perfectly arched brows knit together, her crimson lips pressing thin as she tracks the Sullivans. "No kidding. Who invited that walking midlife crisis?"

Marcus swirls his champagne with practiced nonchalance. "Forget reality TV. You can't script this shit if you tried." His attempt at levity dissolves into the thickness of the air.

My eyes magnetically pull back to Nate. The sight makes my heart fold in on itself—his jaw works like he's grinding glass, hands clenched into fists so tight I hear his knuckles protest. The usual fire in his eyes has been replaced by something worse: a vacuum-sealed emptiness that swallows light whole as he watches his father work the room like a master puppeteer.