“That’s right, babe,” he whispers, his words falling into my ear, hot and dripping, and just like that, everything in life is right. I’m flying. I have the wings of a raptor. I want to stay inside this moment forever, but a small part of me, the part of me that I hate, fights its way to the surface, telling me it’s all going to be over soon.

When Nate finds out about my past, what I’ve done.

I can’t help but feel like an imposter, like I’ve cheated the universe somehow, stolen someone else’s hand in this vicious game of life, and soon it’s going to realize. I know how life works. Nothing good lasts forever. At least, in my world, it doesn’t. I know this probably won’t last, either. We’re so young. We can grow apart as easily as we were drawn together. Lots of couples do, even the ones who truly love each other. We’re all constantly learning, changing, evolving. I’m not afraid of change. It would just be nice to finally have something that’s constant in my life for once.

I try to push that voice away, stay right here in this moment. But it’s all-consuming.

I’ve been staring out the window for miles. After an hour-long drive to Long Island, and a subsequent ride down a seemingly never-ending winding road lined with hundred-year-old oak trees, we’re outside the Van Doren mansion, a sprawling estate with enough acreage to rival the iconic homes from the Gold Coast era. It’s all tall columns, black shutters and wisteria vines that look more like art than anything else, the greenery so thick it feels primordial. The entrance is swarmed with flashing lights. A handful of paparazzi is huddled around the step-and-repeat at the end of the red carpet. A platinum blonde twirls for the cameras in a Giambattista Valli gown like a music-box ballerina.

Nate takes my hand and helps me out of the backseat. His strong hand is on the small of my back, gently steering me the way I like once we get inside, and the views only get more unreal. Stark, fifteen-foot white walls outlined in ornate molding and a stained-oak floor frame the hexagonal entrance hall. English pedestals topped with ferns are paired with a regency-style table where a woman sits, taking names. Her dress is voluminous, bright yellow and over-the-top. It’s breathtaking, in that you-have-to-see-it-to-get-it kind of way. Behind her, a silk runner stretches off into a world of generational wealth.