Outside, the sky is on fire—green and violet curtains rippling across the dark, dancing in sheets of impossible color. The whole family stands in the snow, faces tipped up, breath fogging in the cold.
Wesley wraps his arms around me from behind, chin resting on my shoulder.
“Beautiful,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, but he’s looking at me, not the sky.
I lean back into him, memorizing this—the warmth, the wonder, the way his family gathers close, laughing and pointing. The way he holds me like I belong here.
Like I belong to him.
Tomorrow we fly home. And after, he meets my family. Uncle Julian will shake his hand, and Wesley’s face will change, and this—all of this—will end.
The second he realizes what my last name really means, I’ll stop being the girl in his hoodie and start being an asset. A problem set. An angle.
I close my eyes against the northern lights and hold on tighter.
The truth will catch up.
It always does.
10
QUEEN OF THE NIGHT (WESLEY)
I’m ready to meet my girlfriend’s family at the opera.
Except she’s not really my girlfriend. She’s my fake fiancée.
Or was. It stopped feeling fake somewhere between our first pretend kiss and this morning’s airport coffee.
My phone buzzes.
Big Russian: Tonight is the big night, yes? Meeting the family?
Me: Yeah. Opera. Wish me luck.
Big Russian: You are good man, Wesley Kane. They will love you. Just be yourself.
Me: That’s the plan.
Big Russian: And if they do not love you, I will fight them.
I grin despite my nerves.
Me: Appreciate it, brother.
Pocketing my phone and keys, I head out.
Me: On my way down.
Joy: Ready.
I take the stairs two at a time, coat draped over one arm, bow tie snug. Her door clicks. Then it opens, and my brain short circuits.
Black. Not cute black. Opera black. The dress skims her: clean neckline, bare shoulders, a sweep that promises floor length until she steps and the slit flashes knee and the blade of a heel. Hair blown out and pinned low, elegant as a swan’s neck. Diamonds at her ears. The ring catches the hallway light when she reaches for her clutch, and for one stolen second, I let myself believe that means something permanent.
I’ve never seen her this way. Not the girl in hoodies shooting videos, not the live wire who set me on fire in a locker room, not the feral creature who wrecked me in Alaska. This is something older. Sharper. A Joy the world is trained to recognize and step back for.
