She looks up at me through dark lashes, and for a moment, the rest of the wedding party disappears. It’s just us, standing close enough that I can smell her perfume—something light and floral that doesn’t suit her as well as her natural scent—and feel the warmth radiating from her skin through the silk.
“Ready to walk me down the aisle, Vale?” she asks, voice low and teasing.
“Lead the way, firefly.”
The music starts, and we fall into step behind the other couples. But all I can think about is the way her hand feels on my arm, the way she fits against my side like she was made for it, and the dangerous realization that having her this close makes me want things I have no right to want.
Things that would probably scare everyone else in this room.
Everyone except her.
13
PARKER
The car disappears down the drive, its taillights bleeding into the horizon like the last traces of a wound closing, and with it goes the laughter, the rice, the champagne-soaked promises that I'll never have to witness them keep or break. The ocean wind whips my hair across my face, carrying the ghost of Sienna's perfume — jasmine and joy and something I'll never quite be. I stand at the edge of the hotel's circular drive, my wrap clutched around my shoulders like armor that's too thin, too late, while the world continues its relentless spin without asking permission.
It's over — the wedding that felt like a beautiful funeral for the girl I used to be, the one who belonged here before she learned what it cost.
Two days of my mother's surgical smiles cutting through conversations like scalpels, her voice dripping honey laced with arsenic while she asked about my "little job" and when I planned to "come home and settle down properly." Two days of my father's new wife trying to make small talk while everyone pretended not to notice the twenty-five-year age gap or the wayshe kept touching her stomach like she had news she wasn't ready to share. Two days of dodging questions about why I'm twenty-eight and single, why I work for a "magazine" they'd be horrified to know the details of, why I can't just be normal, just be what they expected, just be less of a disappointment wrapped in designer silk.
And worse — two days of feeling them everywhere, even when they weren't in the room.
The thing is, I've always been attracted to them. Even when I was seventeen and they were just my brother's annoying friends who wouldn't let me breathe, some part of me noticed the way Jace's jaw would clench when he was concentrating, how Cal's fingers moved across a keyboard like he was playing piano, how Silas's laugh could fill a room and make everyone else want to be in on the joke. They were beautiful then in that dangerous way that boys become when they're turning into men — all sharp edges and barely controlled energy.
Now they're devastating.
But I'd buried that attraction under layers of resentment, told myself that every party where Jace carried me out was about control, not care. That every boy Cal scared away was about maintaining their authority, not protecting something precious. That every time Silas called me 'firefly' it was condescension, not affection. I'd rewritten history to make them the villains because it was easier than admitting I'd wanted them to see me as more than Charlie's little sister, easier than acknowledging that maybe they already did.
You wouldn't have to choose. Not with us. Not if it's you.
The words have been circling my brain like vultures for forty-eight hours, and now, standing here in the salt-thick air, I finally let myself examine what they're feeding on — the corpse of my carefully constructed narrative where I was the victim, and they were just another set of men trying to control me. But what if I was wrong? What if every intervention, every interference, every moment of overwhelming protection was their broken way of saying what they couldn't?
God, I've been so stupid. Or maybe just so scared.
The elevator doors whisper open, and my reflection in the polished brass looks like a ghost wearing my face — shadows under my eyes that concealer couldn't quite hide, lipstick worn away except at the edges, hair escaping the elaborate style that took two hours to create and two minutes to start destroying. I press the button for my floor and lean against the cool metal wall, letting my eyes close as the gentle hum fills the silence.
Then it stops.
The sound dies like something being strangled, and my eyes snap open. The lights flicker once, twice, then steady into something dimmer. My floor button goes dark.
"No, no, no..." I press it again, but nothing responds. The elevator isn't moving. The air suddenly feels thinner, the walls closer. My chest tightens as I slam my palm against the button panel. "Come on!"
The penthouse button suddenly glows red like a fresh wound.
The elevator lurches upward without warning, and I stumble, my hand shooting out to grip the rail. This hotel is still under renovation — Cal mentioned something about electrical work being behind schedule. This could be a malfunction, ashort circuit, anything. The space feels smaller with each floor we pass, the air growing thicker, harder to breathe. My heart hammers against my ribs as the numbers climb past my floor, past safety, past any illusion of control I thought I had.
I've never been good with enclosed spaces. Not since I was eight and Charlie locked me in the pool house storage room as a joke and forgot about me for three hours. The walls feel like they're closing in, the brass reflecting my panic back at me from every angle.
When the doors finally slide open, I practically throw myself out, gasping for air that doesn't taste like metal and fear. It takes me a moment to realize where I am — the penthouse, bathed in dying light and shadows that seem to breathe.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" The words rip out of me before I even fully register that they're all here — Silas by the window, Jace on the couch, Cal behind it. "You could have killed me! The elevator just— it stopped and then — what if it had fallen? What if?—"
"Hey, hey." Silas moves toward me, his hands raised like he's approaching a spooked animal. "Firefly, breathe. You're okay."
"Don't!" I stumble back when he reaches for me, my whole body shaking from adrenaline and leftover panic. "Don't touch me. I need — I need a second."
I press my palms against my thighs, trying to stop the trembling, trying to catch my breath. The fabric of my dress is damp with nervous sweat, and I can feel my pulse everywhere — throat, wrists, behind my eyes.
