So, I did what I always did.
I smiled. Deflected. Made it about work.
“I’m stressed,” I said. “The city’s pushing for another funding vote in January and?—”
Harper leaned closer. “Lia.”
Her voice was softer now. Less teasing. More friend.
I held her gaze for a second and felt the truth press against the inside of my teeth.
I almost said it.
I almost told her about the letter.
About Alpha Mail.
About the way I’d been walking around for weeks like a woman who’d opened a door in her own mind and couldn’t shut it again.
But the countdown started, and the crowd surged, and Harper turned toward the skyline, shouting joyfully with strangers as midnight approached.
I stayed still.
Staring into the dark harbor.
Feeling like my life was split down the middle: the version everyone saw and the version no one was allowed to touch.
“Ten!”
The numbers roared.
Harper grabbed my hand, squeezing hard. “Nine! Eight!”
I let her, because it grounded me in something. Her warm palm. Her laugh. The way she assumed I was still simply Lia Quinn.
I wondered what she would do if she knew what I’d asked for.
If she knew that under my coat, my body was humming like a woman on the edge of something.
“Three!”
Harper’s face was bright. Joyful. Safe.
“Two!”
I swallowed, thinking of my condo door. Thinking of silence. Thinking of winter.
“One!”
The rooftop exploded into cheers. Confetti. Kisses. Music.
Harper threw her arms around my neck. “Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year,” I said, and my voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
A man near us kissed his girlfriend so deeply her knees buckled. Somewhere behind me, someone screamed happily. Fireworks flared over the water, bright and brief.
I smiled for Harper. I smiled for the world.
