Bri and Marianna are awake. Before seven in the morning. In pajamas and messy buns, making bagels.
“What is happening right now?” I ask, still halfway between dreamland and confusion.
Their heads snap up in perfect unison, identical smirks already forming. The kind of smile only a sister and a best friend can master.
“Good… morning,” I say.
“Good morning,” they echo, way too innocent.
Marianna raises an eyebrow. “You’re up early. I figured you’d be exhausted. I was literally planning to drag you out of bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” I head for the coffee maker because caffeine feels safer than eye contact.
I glance over my shoulder just in time to catch them trading a look. Mischief practically vibrates between them.
“What?” I ask, pouring my coffee.
Marianna turns to Bri, eyes sparkling. “Is she really gonna make us ask?”
Bri sips her coffee, deadly calm. “Guess she’s playing hard to get.”
I blink at them. “What are you two talking about?”
Marianna leans on the counter, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Sooo…the text about not needing a ride home was weird as hell, Catalina. So, naturally, we did a little math.”
My stomach drops. “Math?”
“Oh, yes,” Bri cuts in. “We looked up your flight number, timed when it landed, calculated how long it would take for yourfriend’s car”—she does air quotes—“to get from the airport to the building.”
Marianna nods. “And then, like the totally normal people we are, we waited by the window.”
“Youwhat?”
“We waited by the window,” Bri repeats, as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world. “And then we saw you getout of a black town car, with a driver, and none other than football superstar Roger Gallagher.”
I attempt a poker face. I really do. But my lips betray me, twitching upward, and the second they notice, they scream. Actual movie-trailer scream.
“Oh my God, Catalina!” Marianna yells, nearly knocking over the cream cheese. “What the actual fuck? What happened in New York?!”
Bri’s already clapping. “Tell us everything. I want timestamps, dialogue, deleted scenes. Start from the beginning!”
“Fine, fine,” I say, laughing despite myself, and take a long sip of coffee while they bounce in place like two caffeinated detectives.
“Get me a bagel,” I say, surrendering. “I have a lot of tea to spill.”
By the time afternoon hits, I’m in my office, with June across from me, our laptops surrounded by coffee cups and color-coded notes. The high from New York still hums somewhere in my chest, but the world has spun back to normal: emails, deadlines, and a week packed with prep.
This weekend the Strikers host Miami, and the city’s already buzzing. Tickets sold out months ago; every bar in town is throwing a watch party. Miami’s lineup is stacked—Messi, half of Argentina’s World Cup roster, and a parade of celebrities who’ll be filling up the VIP seats. It’s Rogue’s debut all over again, and you can practically feel the stadium vibrating through the walls.
Focusing on work hasn’t been easy.
After my morninginterrogationwith Marianna and Bri, answering all their “what happened in New York” questions, I showered, dressed, and tried to pull my head out of the clouds. Somewhere between mascara and matching my shoes, curiosity got the better of me.
I opened Veil.
It’s been days since I heard from HalfWritten, which makes sense after telling him I was interested in someone else. But I’ve gotten used to his words—the quiet comfort, the way they always seem to find me when I need them most.
So I messaged him.
