Wherethey’llbe. The thought slots into place like a puck dropping at center ice. Clean. Foregone.
I shower too fast, shove on clothes with damp hair, and leave the rink before anyone can ask why my jaw looks like it’s chewing glass.
By evening, I’m outside the Aurelius, hood up, hands jammed in pockets, pretending the marble pillars and gold leaf don’t make me itch. Cameras nest like carrion birds along velvet ropes. Limos exhale heat into cold air. People step out in glitter and tailored smiles. The lobby glows like a cathedral for the rich.
I slip in through a side entrance, mask in my pocket, shoulders angled so security sees a service worker, not a headline. Money recognizes itself; it pretends not to notice the rest of us until we score forty goals a season.
The ballroom is a curated dream: glass chandeliers, a forest of white flowers, waiters threading between tableslike choreography. A string quartet saws through something expensive. On a dais, Alaric’s father is talking into a microphone with that particular warmth executives rent by the hour. I scan past him and?—
There. Alaric. In a black tux that fits like sin and inheritance. Hair neat, jaw clean, the exact version of himself his family builds a brand around. Kyle stands at his side, date-adjacent in a midnight jacket, smiling for a cluster of cameras. “Ayle” signs don’t make it into rooms like this. The idea does.
The little spike of rage is so pure it scares me. Not because it’s new—jealousy and I are old friends—but because it curls with something else. Hurt. He ignored me and put on a tux and came here with the safe option. Of course he did. This is the world where safe wins.
He looks… tired. No one else would notice. I do. There’s a tightness around his eyes, a half-second drag before each smile. The tells my obsession has taught me.
I don’t think. I move. Through donors smelling like power and dessert wine, past a press knot I’ve dodged in three different cities, keeping him in my sightline. Kyle turns to greet someone. Alaric steps back, breathing room opening around him like a throat. I slide into it.
“Walk with me,” I say quietly, already angling him toward the side corridor.
His head snaps up. Those gray eyes flash relief and fury in the same second. “Magnus—what are you?—”
“Question for later,” I murmur. “You can yell at me where the acoustics aren’t excellent.”
He hesitates then lets me guide him. We slip past a curtained arch to a tiled hallway, down another, into an antechamber with too much marble and a door markedPrivate. I shoulder it open. Powder room with gilded mirrors, lemon soap, a hush that tastes like money.
The door clicks shut behind us. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, voice low, furious. “This is my family’s event. “
“I noticed.” My pulse is loud in my ears. “You weren’t answering my messages.”
“So you crashed a gala?”
“You left me on read and brought Thorn as your date.”
His mouth tightens. “He’s a...friend.”
“Your father’s favorite storyline,” I add, ugly and accurate.
He flinches, then straightens like he hates that I saw it. “You don’t belong here.”
“I know that,” I say, stepping closer. “But I’m here anyway.”
He looks like he wants to argue with the floor until it opens and swallows us. “You can’t say that to me in a bathroom at the Aurelius while I’m on a date.”
“I can’t say it in your texts, either,” I snap. “They bounce off your walls.”
His eyes flash. “I’m trying to keep my life from exploding.”
Silence. The lemon scent feels violent now. He presses two fingers to his temple like he can massage order back into the night.
“I came to see you,” I add, quieter. “Because I thought maybe you forgot whatweare when you’re in there playing pretend.”
That gets him. His gaze snaps to mine—hot, helpless. “I didn’t forget.”
“Then why are you with him?”
“Because it’s easier,” he grinds out.
