I sit up, wrapping my arms around myself. “What if it wasn’t a coincidence? What if someone told the paparazzi I was that star because they knew what would happen? Because they wanted me to get hurt?”
He considers this for a moment, his brow furrowed. “They knew someone would throw a rock at the window? That’s unlikely.” He brings over the kettle and a box of tea, setting them on the coffee table. His eyes catch on the variety of teas. “You have quite a collection here.”
“Yeah,” I say, grateful for the change of subject. “It’s kind of a hobby. It started by chance and turned into my obsession.” I nod toward the cabinets lining one wall of the living room.
Ryder approaches, examining the shelves filled with delicate teacups and ornate teapots. “These sets, they’re beautiful. And they look expensive.”
“Some of them are,” I admit, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything.
He turns back to me, curiosity in his eyes. “When did you start collecting them?”
I know he’s asking questions to distract me from what happened, to calm me down. And despite knowing this, it’s working. My hands have stopped shaking as I pour hot water into a cup, selecting a chamomile blend.
I cradle the warm cup in both hands. The familiar, soothing aroma wafts up, grounding me. “My mom died when I was young. But later, when I was sixteen, I discovered she had this special tea set—an antique that was her favorite. It became mine, too. I decided to expand her collection, and... Well, I got a bit carried away.”
“Why at sixteen specifically?” Ryder asks, settling into an armchair across from me.
I take a sip of tea before answering. “Ever heard of Sweet Sixteen?”
He nods, his dark eyes intent on me.
“I didn’t have a mom to plan the party, so I asked my dad. I wanted the works—big party, ball gown, limo, the whole fairytale.”
“And what happened?” His voice is soft as if he knows what I’m going to say.
I swallow hard, the old hurt rising up. “He forgot. He meant to give the task to an event planner, but it slipped his mind. It happens, I guess.” I shrug, aiming for nonchalance but knowing I’m failing. “I suppose that’s part of why I became an event planner in the end. No one else’s special day would be forgotten on my watch.”
Ryder leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “So, what did you do on your birthday? What did he say when he realized?”
The memory floods back, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. “Dad said he’d make it up to me, that we’d have another party. But I spent that birthday in tears. Alone, wearing my ball gown, sprawled on my bed like some tragic princess. I didn’t want another party or compensation. I wanted the magical night I’d dreamed of. He just forgot.”
“It’s okay to be angry with him, Cora,” Ryder says. “He messed up something that was important to you. It’s okay to acknowledge that hurt.”
I shake my head, pushing down the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s ancient history. Since then, I’ve planned every event myself, down to the last detail.”
“And how does this connect to the tea?” Ryder asks, bringing me back to the present.
“Oh, right,” I say, gathering my thoughts. “When I realized there was no party to go to, that it was just me alone in my ball gown, I called my brother, Liam. He suggested that since I was already dressed up, we should have our own party at home. We rummaged through the cabinets and found Mom’s old tea set. We decided to have a tea party—drinking with our pinkies out and putting on posh accents. Liam made me laugh, helping me forget about everything else for a while.”
I pause, a bittersweet smile crossing my face. “Later, I learned from Dad that it was an antique set Mom had loved. He gave it to me as a gift—I think he felt guilty. I still have it to this day. Want to see it?”
He nods, his expression soft, and I rise to retrieve the precious cup from its place of honor. I handle it carefully, offering it for his inspection but not quite letting go.
Ryder doesn’t reach for it. “It’s beautiful,” he says. “But I wouldn’t dare touch it. I can see how much it means to you.”
His understanding touches me more than I want to admit. “Yeah. You’re right.” I return the cup to its place and sit back down, closer to him this time. “That set started my collection. It became a way to feel close to my mom, I guess.”
“Did you ever end up having that Sweet Sixteen party?” he asks.
I shake my head, looking down at my hands. “No. By then, I didn’t want to. My birthday had passed, and the magic was gone. Wear my dress again? Hope again? Dream again? That dream was shattered.”
“I’m sorry,” Ryder says, and the genuine empathy in his voice has me looking up.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I tell him.
“I can still be sorry,” he insists. “Sorry that you were hurt. That your heart was broken.”
He looks at me with such intensity that I could drown in the dark pools of his eyes. I want to lose myself in him, in his strength, in the beautiful words he’s saying. But a small voice in my head reminds me of the reality of our situation.
