When we reached the middle, Natalie turned, her posture relaxed. “We’ll stage everything right here,” she said. “Cameras will be here shortly.”
The railing came up to my ribs.
That was the first thing my body noticed.
Not the view. Not the height. Not the water far, far below. Just the fact that the metal barrier separating me from open air felt suddenly, terrifyingly insufficient.
I took one more step.
And then—without warning, without logic—the world dropped out from under me.
I glanced over the side.
Just a fraction of a second. Barely a look.
The harbor sprawled beneath us in impossible scale, the water glinting deceptively calm, boats reduced to toys, the city pulled thin and distant. The height didn’t just register—it attacked. My stomach lurched violently, my vision tunneling as if my body had decided we were already falling.
Too high.
Too open.
Too much space between me and the ground.
My breath hitched.
Once.
Twice.
Then refused to come back properly.
“Oh—” I whispered, though no sound really came out. My chest tightened like an invisible fist had wrapped around my lungs and started squeezing. My heart slammed so hard it hurt, each beat echoing in my ears, drowning out the sounds of traffic and voices and wind.
I tried to inhale.
My body saidno.
The edges of my vision went dark, pinpricked with light. My hands tingled, fingers going numb as if they no longer belonged to me. The railing felt unreal under my palm—slick, distant, like I was touching it through water.
I was fourteen years old again.
Standing somewhere high.
Watching something go wrong.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t?—
“Sophie.”
Wyatt’s voice cut through the panic like a lifeline.
I turned toward the sound without thinking, my body seeking it on instinct alone. His hands were suddenly everywhere I needed them—firm on my arms, then my back, grounding me in something solid and real and here.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his forehead resting against mine, blocking the view entirely. “Look at me. Don’t look anywhere else. Just me.”
I tried.
