The Alpha's Fake Girlfriend

The flute of cheap champagne trembles in my grip as I twirl, sequins flashing like shattered glass beneath the rope lights. Midnight is still forty-three minutes away, but the Sky Terrace already smells of citrus aerosol, brine, and the coppery tang of anticipation. Somewhere below, the Chelsea River slaps the hull of the *Meridian Star*, a two-hundred-foot floating palace my father’s partners rented to toast another year of outrageous returns. I should feel guilty enjoying their blood-money glitter, but the bassline is too loud and the skyline too perfect: Liberty Beacon winking red, Monarch Tower slicing the moon in half, the whole city posing for my private highlight reel.

“Bri, you’re spilling!” Sophie laughs, ducking the spray. Her curls—sun-bleached at Seabreak Point last August—bounce as she steadies my elbow. She’s wearing white linen pants and no shoes; deck etiquette is for people who didn’t grow up on these docks.

“I’m baptizing the yacht,” I shout over the music. “Consider it consecrated.”

Zoe shoves between us, two flutes already empty. “If you’re gonna keep spinning like a Roomba, at least aim toward the cute deckhands.” She points with her chin toward a trio in navy polos coiling rope near the starboard rail. One of them—freckles, dimple, danger—meets my eyes and smiles like he knows exactly how I taste. I look away fast, cheeks hotter than the teak under my bare feet.

Because tonight I’m taken. Officially, publicly, ridiculously taken.

Connor Blackwood—Kingsport Ice captain, human thunderstorm, the boy who deleted his Vero after our first coffee because “social media feels fake when everything I want is already sitting across the table”—is somewhere below, fetching me a hoodie before the river breeze turns vicious. Six weeks ago he was a rumor in a Rangers cap; now he’s the boyfriend who kisses my knuckles in the produce aisle. The universe, after nineteen years of side-eye, finally swiped right.

A saxophone erupts into “Auld Lang Syne,” only the jazz soloist turns it inside out, all wail and ache. Couples sway. A girl in a gold lamé bikini climbs onto the bar and pours vodka into the waiting mouths of strangers. I search the crowd for Connor’s shoulders—broad enough to block entire drafts—but find only strangers taking selfies with the ice sculpture: a charging bull carved from a three-ton block, horns already melting into champagne slush.

“Twenty minutes to midnight!” the DJ crows. My pulse syncs with the countdown. I want that kiss at zero, the cinematic kind that makes the whole city hold its breath.

Sophie leans closer. “You sure he’s cool with the photos? Your mom’s PR goblins can crop him out if—”

“He said, ‘Post me, I’m proud.’” The words still buzz in my ears like neon. No boy has ever volunteered for my spotlight before; they usually dive for the nearest shadow the second hashtags appear. But Connor isn’t usual. He’s the scrape of skate blades on fresh ice, the hush before a fistfight, the promise that gravity can be optional if you jump hard enough.

Zoe fake-gags. “Couples vlog incoming. Title: *How to Lose Followers in Ten Days.*”

“Shut up, Mia,” I fire back, using her hated birth name. She sticks out her tongue, silver stud flashing. We’ve been running this joke since seventh grade—back when my biggest scandal was bleaching my brows and hers was stealing her mom’s Valium. Feels prehistoric now.

A boom rattles the deck: the yacht’s horn, low and horny. We’re passing under the Riverside Walk Bridge. Strings of tourists wave from the pedestrian path, their phone screens a galaxy of white dots. I wave back even though they can’t possibly see me; the gesture still makes me feel tethered to something bigger than this floating bubble.

“Ladies,” a voice says behind me, smooth with a rasp that could sand paint. Julian Mercer—Connor’s best friend, defenseman, walking Greek statue—hands Zoe a fresh glass of rosé. His bowtie is undone, collar open, revealing a constellation of freckles across his collarbone. “Your presence is requested at the oyster bar. Apparently the caviar’s about to walk the plank.”

Zoe perks up. “Free fish eggs? Lead the way, Adonis.” She hooks her arm through his and they disappear into the throng, leaving Sophie and me under the rope lights.

Sophie bumps my hip. “You happy, Hawthorne?”

The question is soft, almost lost in the saxophone’s bend. I glance toward the stairwell Connor vanished down, half expecting him to appear like a conjuring trick, hoodie draped over one shoulder. Nothing. Only glitter and strangers.

“Terrifyingly,” I answer. Happy like standing at the edge of a rooftop, arms out, knowing you can fly if you forget the landing for one second. Happy like maybe I don’t deserve it but I’ll take it anyway.

She nods, satisfied, then yelps as cold droplets slide off the rigging onto her neck. We dance in place, singing the wrong lyrics to whatever remix pumps through the speakers. Time dilates—thirty minutes becomes five, becomes forever—until a hand slides across my waist.

Connor.

I smell cedar and rink rubber before I even turn. He’s swapped his dress shirt for a charcoal hoodie, sleeves shoved up, forearms corded and winter-pale. His dark hair is damp at the temples, like he sprinted below deck and back. In the strobing lights his eyes shift from slate to storm.

“Cold?” he asks, already pulling me against him. The fleece lining brushes my bare arms and I shiver, but not from temperature.

“Never,” I lie, tilting my face up. He kisses the corner of my mouth, polite enough for public but lingering enough to promise more later. My knees file a complaint.

Sophie clears her throat. “I’m gonna go… find oxygen.” She winks and vanishes, swallowed by bodies.

Connor threads our fingers, thumb tracing the thin scar across my knuckle—souvenir from a broken martini glass last summer. “Fireworks start in fifteen. Captain says we’ll have front-row once we clear the inlet. Want to head up to the skydeck?”

“Only if you promise not to drop me when the boat rocks.”

He grins, wolfish. “I’ve got good hands.”

We weave through the crowd. Every few steps someone claps his shoulder—teammates, alumni, brokers who want a piece of his future NHL salary. He nods but doesn’t stop, towing me like a secret he refuses to let go of. My sequins snag on a stranger’s cuff; Connor pauses to free me, gentle, then tucks me closer.

The stairwell to the skydeck is narrow, spiral, lit by strips of blue LED. Our footsteps echo. Halfway up, he pauses, presses me against the curved wall. Music fades to a heartbeat thump below.

“Hi,” he whispers, like we haven’t spoken in days.

“Hi,” I echo, breathless. The yacht rolls; my back meets cool metal. His palms bracket my face, thumbs stroking the hollow beneath my ears. We stay like that, suspended, until the horn blasts again and we remember where we are.

At the top, the skydeck is quieter, wind sharper. A velvet rope guards the helipad; a sign reads *VIP Only*. Connor unhooks it without hesitation. Of course. The universe stamped *Prime* on his bones.

Out here the city looks breakable—Lego towers and toy bridges. The river is black silk cut by our wake. Crew members in reflective vests prep for the fireworks barge ahead. A waiter offers blankets; Connor takes two, drapes one around my shoulders like a coronation.

We settle on a built-in bench, thighs touching. Overhead, clouds scud across the moon, thin and fast, as if late for their own party. I sip the last of my champagne, tasting plastic and adrenaline.

“New year, new everything?” I ask, half tease, half prayer.

He considers, knuckles brushing my knee. “Some things don’t need replacing.”

My heart performs an illegal maneuver. I lean into him, cheek to his collarbone, listening to the low thud of his pulse. Below, the DJ starts the final countdown: “Ten… nine…” The yacht engines throttle down; we drift, waiting.

Connor’s hand slips beneath the blanket, finds the ribbon tie at my hip. He doesn’t tug, just toys with the knot, sending sparks up my spine. “Eight… seven…”

I tilt my chin, eyes on his. “Kiss me at zero?”

“Planning on it.” His voice is rough, honest. “Six…”

The first firework whistles up, premature, and blooms gold over the inlet. Gasps ripple. Reflections skitter across the water like scattered coins.

“Five…”

I think about every crappy December 31st—mom too drunk to find the door, dad on speaker promising he’d be home by midnight, me alone with cheap sparkling cider and a streaming countdown. I think about Connor sliding into my DMs with a meme about penguins, how we talked until my phone burned my palm. I think about the rumor that tore through campus last fall, the hashtag #ChelseaSnub, the way my name became a punchline. I think about tonight, this bench, this boy who doesn’t flinch when people whisper.

“Four…”

He cups my neck, thumb tracing the chain of the tiny anchor necklace I haven’t removed since he gave it to me. “Three…”

Wind whips my hair across both our faces; he laughs into it, breath warm.

“Two…”

I close my eyes. The world tastes like salt and anticipation.

“One—”

His mouth finds mine as the sky explodes. Color after color—magenta, turquoise, white so bright it burns through my eyelids. The yacht shudders with each boom. He kisses me like the city is watching and he wants to give them something worth the ticket: slow, deep, deliberate. My hands fist in his hoodie; his slide down to my waist, anchoring. Fireworks crackle overhead, but the real detonation is smaller, quieter, happening behind my ribs.

When we break apart, smoke drifts across the deck in sweet, acrid sheets. Applause erupts below—cheers, whistles, the clink of reckless refills. Connor rests his forehead against mine, noses brushing.

“Happy New Year, Brielle Hawthorne,” he says, like my full name is a spell.

“Happy New Year, Connor Blackwood,” I answer, and for the first time in my life the calendar feels like a promise instead of a threat.

Another volley lights the sky—silver spirals that scream then whimper into darkness. In their flicker I catch movement near the skydeck hatch: a figure in a crimson dress, hair the color of merlot, eyes locked on us with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. She’s beautiful in a sharp, expensive way, cheekbones carved by money and malice. I don’t recognize her, but the way she stares at Connor—like he’s a memory she’s trying to exhume—turns the champagne in my stomach sour.

She lifts a phone, angles it just enough that the screen catches the next burst of light. A photo? A video? Before I can nudge Connor, she’s gone, swallowed by the stairwell’s blue glow.

The sky settles into smoke-laced quiet. The barge below fires its final shell: a weeping willow of gold that drips into the river and dies. Music surges back to life—something triumphant, oblivious.

Connor tucks my blanket tighter. “Let’s stay up here until the air clears.”

I nod, but my gaze keeps drifting to the hatch, heart ticking like a faulty bomb. Somewhere in the pocket of his hoodie, his phone vibrates—once, twice—insistent. He ignores it, lips brushing my temple, but the vibration continues, a tiny earthquake against my ribs.

And just like that, the new year starts—beautiful, loud, and already cracking.

Zoe Kensington flings herself onto the ivory-linen chaise as though the skyloft were titled in her name. “Just putting it out there—if he makes you cry tonight, I’m keying his Rivian.”

“Zoe!” Sophie Caldwell squeaks, scandalized. “Play nice. This is Brielle’s big night.”

“I am nice,” Zoe answers, palms open. “I’m simply forecasting.”

“Stop,” I mutter, gripping the terrace rail. “Connor’s different.”

Zoe’s eyebrow arches like a drawn bow, but Sophie’s wide please-don’t eyes silence her. She rolls her gaze skyward and clamps her lips. I face the city again, pulse drumming louder than the DJ two floors below.

Club Halcyon’s main salon sparkles like a Gatsby fever dream: three-tier chandeliers drip crystal, a jazz soloist bends blue notes into the air, and the snow gossip is thick enough to choke a social network. Everyone who matters is here—the heirs whose surnames own half of Seabreak Point. Me, Zoe, Sophie? Scholarship kids clutching a pity invite.

“Maybe we should’ve stayed in the HomeAway loft,” Sophie whispers, shifting in her discount-store Valentinos.

“Nope,” Zoe snaps. “We’re here, so we own it.”

Sophie nods, unconvinced. I try to mirror her, but my stomach cartwheels, a rogue acrobat testing the safety net.

The terrace door sighs open behind us. Julian Mercer steps out, Rangers cap pulled low, trademark smirk loaded. “Ladies, the Prime of New Avalon requests your presence downstairs.”

Zoe snorts. “Tell Knox we’re busy contemplating class warfare.”

Julian lifts both hands. “Just the messenger.” His eyes flick to me. “Brielle, he’s waiting.”

Waiting to introduce me to people who still think Hawthorne is a typo. Waiting to show off the scholarship girlfriend who doesn’t know which fork is for oysters. Waiting, maybe, to change his mind about the soul tie he hasn’t mentioned in three weeks.

I force a smile. “Coming.”

Sophie squeezes my elbow. “Breathe.”

“Trying.”

We descend the spiral. Velvet ropes part like the Red Sea. Heads swivel; whispers follow, silk-soft and razor-sharp. I catch fragments—“Connor Blackwood’s anchor,” “tuition charity,” “#ChelseaSnub trending last spring.” Zoe hears them too; her stride turns predatory.

Inside the salon, champagne waterfalls cascade over an ice sculpture of Halcyon’s winged logo. Waiters in graphite suits pass trays of oyster-bar shooters. A girl I recognize from Vero—Isla Radcliffe—poses beneath the jazz soloist, capturing selfies that will earn fifty thousand hearts before midnight. She sees me, leans to the girl beside her, mouths something behind her glass. Laughter bubbles up like over-shaken seltzer.

Connor stands near the bar, black hair tousled just so, tuxedo jacket open, careless king surveying his court. When our eyes lock, the room tilts. He excuses himself from a cluster of crested blazers and closes the distance in five easy steps.

“You came,” he says, voice low, warm, dangerous.

“Invitation said mandatory fun,” I answer, attempting lightness.

His hand finds the small of my back. “Walk with me.”

Zoe steps forward. “If she’s not back in ten, I’m starting a tab on your credit, Blackwood.”

Connor grins, unoffended. “Put it on the Prime account.”

He guides me through bodies and perfume clouds to a quieter alcove curtained with gauze. The music muffles; lights dimmer. My heartbeat spikes.

“I needed a minute before the circus starts,” he says, thumb tracing my spine. “You look…” He pauses, searching. “Like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Not true,” I lie. “Just…processing.”

“Processing me?” A crooked smile.

“Processing them.” I nod toward the glittering herd. “They’re waiting for me to trip.”

“Let them wait.” He cups my face. “Look at me.”

I do. Grey eyes, storm-swirl, unreadable. The same eyes that went distant when I asked about the future, that shuttered when I whispered the words soul tie two weeks ago on the Riverside Walk.

“Connor,” I start, but the jazz soloist hits a crescendo, applause exploding like fireworks. The curtain flutters; Vivian Ashford slips in, diamonds flashing semaphore.

“Darling, the investors want a toast,” she tells Connor, then regards me as if I’m lint on cashmere. “Miss Hawthorne, charming.” She doesn’t wait, yanking him toward the spotlight.

His hand slips from mine. “Five minutes,” he promises.

I’m alone behind gauze, city lights winking through terrace glass. The applause fades into bass beats. My phone buzzes—Zoe.

Zoe: Status?

Me: Alive.

Zoe: He better be groveling.

Me: Investors first.

Zoe: Investors can bite me.

I smirk, but the ache under my ribs sharpens. Through the curtain slit I watch Connor lift a crystal flute, thanking patrons for “believing in the next generation.” Cameras flash. He never glances my direction.

The curtain whispers again; Sophie peeks in. “You okay?”

“Peachy.”

“Come dance. Don’t let them win.”

I allow her to tow me onto the floor. Bodies sway to a remixed swing track. Zoe finds us, hands me a shot of something amber. “Liquid courage.”

I knock it back, fire licking throat to stomach. The room softens at the edges. I move to the beat, arms overhead, hair sticking to glossed lips. For sixty whole seconds I forget last names and net worth.

Then the song cuts. The DJ calls for attention. A spotlight swings, catching Connor on the mezzanine stair beside Vivian and a man I don’t recognize—silver-haired, boardroom tan, smile like a scalpel.

Connor speaks, voice amplified. “Thank you all for championing the Avalon Squad Foundation. Tonight we celebrate legacy—and future.” He gestures, and the silver-haired man steps forward. “My father, returning from Crescent Bay to announce the next Prime successor.”

Murmurs ripple. I freeze. He never mentioned his father was here, never hinted at an announcement. Sophie’s hand tightens on mine.

The man—Knox Blackwood—raises a glass. “To my son, who will lead our pack into a new era—alongside his chosen partner, Isla Radcliffe.”

Gasps bloom like night flowers. Cameras capture Isla gliding up the stairs, gown shimmering mercury, slipping her arm through Connor’s. His expression blanks, but he doesn’t push her away. Doesn’t deny it.

Noise rushes back—applause, whistles, gossip hissing. My heartbeat detonates. Zoe’s curse slices through. “I’m going to key more than the Rivian.”

Sophie pulls me toward the emergency stairwell. “Breathe, B. Let’s go.”

I can’t move. Eyes lift—Connor’s find mine across the chasm of chandeliers and judgment. For a second, pleading flickers there. Or maybe reflection of chandeliers. He lifts a hand, micro-gesture, stop.

I step back. My heel catches barn-board decking; pain sparks ankle, but it’s distant, underwater. I turn, push through velvet, burst onto the Sky Terrace. Winter air knifes lungs. Below, Kingsport’s lights smear like wet paint.

Footsteps behind. Julian emerges, hands raised. “Brielle, listen—”

“Don’t.” The word cracks. “You knew.”

He exhales fog. “He was going to tell you after—”

“After what? After he paraded denial in front of everyone?”

Julian has no answer. I laugh, brittle. “Tell the Prime his anchor quits.”

I yank off the delicate bracelet Connor fastened around my wrist earlier—a white-gold chain with a tiny onyx charm—and let it fall. It clinks against stone, rolls, vanishes over the edge into night.

Inside, the jazz soloist starts a slow, mocking wail. I grip the railing, knuckles whitening, tears blurring skyline into impressionist streaks.

Zoe and Sophie appear, coats in hand. Zoe doesn’t speak, just drapes wool over my shoulders. Sophie offers a tissue. I wave it off; the wind dries tears fast enough.

“Ready to leave?” Zoe asks.

I nod. “Burn the pity invite on the way out.”

We descend the emergency stairwell, heels clanging metal. Behind us, music swells, laughter cascades, cameras immortalize a future I’ve been edited out of. My chest hollows, but something steely threads the emptiness—resolve, sharp and cold as winter stars.

At the alley, the Rivian sits glossy beneath a streetlamp. Zoe pauses, keys glinting.

“Don’t,” I say.

She pockets them. “Next time.”

There won’t be a next time. I start walking, city lights guiding me toward the subway, toward the loft that smells of thrift-store candles and borrowed dreams. Each step pounds a new mantra: Not anchor. Not charity case. Just Brielle Hawthorne.

My phone buzzes—Connor calling. I decline, power down. Snow begins to fall, soft as secrets, erasing footprints almost as quickly as I make them.

“I’m going after Connor,” I blurt, the words tasting like copper pennies. “You two grab cocktails; I’ll ping you.”

Sophie’s smile is soft moonlight on choppy water. “Fortune favor the brave.”

Zoe bumps my hip with hers. “Knock ’em dead, future hedge-fund wife.”

Future hedge-fund wife. The phrase ricochets inside my ribs anyway.

I plunge into the Club Halcyon crush—stilettos stabbing barn-board decking, bass thumping through my sternum. My eyes hunt for six-three of unruly dark hair and the scarlet Rangers cap he never removes, even when we—especially when we—well, never mind.

The mezzanine smells of tequila, brine, and overpriced cologne. I skirt a waiter balancing champagne pyramids, dodge a couple devouring each other against a mirrored pillar, and emerge by the raw-bar where crushed ice glitters like cracked diamonds.

There: the Kingsport Ice pack, shoulder to shoulder, doing body shots off a swimsuit model sprawled across the zinc counter. Her bikini top is undone; their laughter sounds like breaking glass.

“Hey, guys,” I call, voice half-swallowed by the music. “Seen Connor?”

The laughter stops so abruptly the DJ’s scratch seems to echo. Six pairs of eyes swivel toward me—pity, mischief, disgust, take your pick. I feel my smile fossilize.

One of them—Knox, I think—licks salt from his wrist. “Try the skyloft,” he snickers, jerking a thumb toward the emergency stairwell. “Master suite’s unlocked.”

The rest erupt, howling like wolves at a blood moon. All except one.

Julian Mercer leans against the teak railing, arms folded, mirrored Ray-Bans reflecting my own stricken face back at me a dozen times. Captain of the rival Avalon Squad, heir to the Whitaker shipping empire, and the guy who once told Connor he could “trade up.” His mouth is a flat line, unreadable.

Heat floods my cheeks. I pivot toward the stairs before my brain catches up, each step a drumbeat of dread. The bouncer posted at the velvet rope lifts it without meeting my eyes, as if he already knows I’m walking into a trap I’ve designed myself.

The stairwell is cooler, quieter, lined with flickering sconces that smell faintly of vanilla and ozone. My Valentinos click too loudly, so I slip them off, clutching the straps in one hand, the cold metal railing in the other. Halfway up, I pause to breathe, pressing my free palm against the wall. The bass from downstairs thuds through the soles of my feet, a second heart I don’t want.

At the landing, a low hum of voices leaks beneath the skyloft door. Connor’s laugh—low, easy, intimate—slides down my spine like an ice cube. I almost retreat. Instead, I count to three, twist the handle, and step inside.

The loft is dim, city lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. A skyline of half-burned candles gutters on the coffee table; discarded silk wraps and champagne flutes litter the sectional. The air smells of coconut sunscreen and something sharper—desire, maybe, or the aftermath of it.

Connor stands near the terrace door, back to me, Rangers cap tipped just enough to hide his eyes. He’s cradling someone’s waist—olive skin, waterfall of dark hair that isn’t mine. She tilts her face up, laughing at whatever he murmurs, and the candlelight catches the tiny anchor tattoo at the base of her spine.

My stomach folds in on itself. I must make a sound—some tiny, involuntary exhale—because Connor half turns. His grin falters, but only for a second.

“Bri? Thought you were downstairs with Sophie.” His voice is casual, like I’m a roommate who walked in on him raiding the fridge.

The woman—girl, really—peeks around his shoulder. Recognition flickers across her face, then something crueler. She doesn’t let go.

I swallow, tasting ash. “We need to talk.”

“Now?” He glances at his companion, then back at me, eyebrows raised in polite incredulity. “Kinda in the middle of something.”

The words slap harder than an open palm. I feel my chin lift anyway. “It’ll be quick.”

Connor sighs, kisses the girl’s temple—like I’m not even here—and whispers something that makes her giggle before sauntering toward me. He smells of lime and salt and her perfume. Up close, his pupils are blown wide, whether from booze or adrenaline I can’t tell.

He guides me onto the terrace, sliding the glass door shut behind us. Night air rushes in, carrying the distant clang of a harbor buoy and the sodium glow of Marina Cove. Twenty-three stories below, gridlock twinkles like circuitry.

“So?” He leans against the railing, arms crossed, cap brim shading everything I used to think was kindness. “What’s the emergency?”

I open my mouth. No sound emerges. My brain scrolls frantic captions: You promised. You said forever. You told me I was your home. None of them feel big enough.

Instead I whisper, “Who is she?”

Connor exhales through his nose, half laugh, half groan. “Brie, don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Act like we’re some epic love story. We’re twenty-one. We’re having fun.” He waves a hand toward the loft where shadowy silhouettes rearrange themselves like puppets. “You knew the deal.”

My throat burns. “The deal changed when you said you loved me.”

He goes still. Then, softer: “I do love you. Just… not the way you want.”

The sentence lands like a scalpel: precise, bloodless. I stare at him, waiting for the apology, the rewind, anything. Instead he checks his watch—steel on Italian leather, early graduation gift from his father—and glances longingly at the door.

“Look,” he says, “I’ve got the Crescent Bay internship next week. You’re heading to Monarch Tower for that finance boot camp. We’ll both be too busy for drama.” He tries a smile, the same one that once coaxed me into skinny-dipping at Seabreak Point. “Let’s not ruin a good thing, yeah?”

I realize, with crystalline clarity, that he isn’t waiting for my answer. He’s waiting for permission to leave.

The city hums below us, indifferent. Somewhere inside, Sophie and Zoe are probably sipping lychee martinis, expecting me to return flushed with triumph or maybe tender resignation. They have no idea I’m bleeding out under stadium lights.

I drag in a breath that feels like inhaling glass. “So that’s it?”

Connor shrugs, already turning. “Take care of yourself, Brie.”

He steps back into the candlelight, sliding the door closed with a gentle click that sounds like a gunshot. Through the glass I watch him reclaim her waist, dip his head to her neck, resume the narrative I thought I co-authored. No one in the room glances toward the terrace. I am a ghost haunting my own heartbreak.

My fingers find the railing, knuckles whitening. For one wild second I imagine hoisting myself over, letting gravity simplify everything. Instead I close my eyes, count the thud of blood in my ears—one, two, three—until the vertigo passes.

When I open them, Julian Mercer is standing in the doorway, mirrored shades finally lifted. His eyes are storm-cloud gray, unreadable but undeniably fixed on me. He doesn’t speak, just tilts his head in a silent question: You okay?

I have no answer. My throat is a locked vault. He steps onto the terrace anyway, sliding the door shut behind him, muting the music to a dull pulse. The breeze ruffles his dark hair; he smells of cedar and something metallic, like ships’ rigging.

“Rough night?” His voice is lower than I expected, almost gentle.

I manage a brittle laugh. “Something like that.”

Julian leans against the opposite railing, giving me space. “For what it’s worth, he’s an idiot.”

I wipe at my cheeks, surprised to find them wet. “You told him he could do better. Guess he agreed.”

He winces, actually winces. “I meant someone who wouldn’t kiss his ego for sport. Not—” He gestures vaguely toward the revelry inside. “Not this circus.”

Silence stretches between us, filled only by the harbor’s lullaby. Finally he pulls a slim silver flask from his jacket, unscrews it, offers. “Medicinal.”

I hesitate, then take a swig. Liquid fire—good scotch—slides down, steadying the tremor in my hands. I pass it back. Our fingers brush; his are warm, calloused from years of hockey sticks.

Below, a horn bellows; above, the moon keeps its counsel. I realize I’m still clutching my Valentinos like a life raft. My laugh comes out cracked. “I threw away a perfectly good pair of shoes for this.”

Julian glances at the spikes dangling from my fingers, then at my bare feet on the cold stone. Without asking, he kneels, slips the shoes from my grip, and sets them upright beside me. “Cinderella clause,” he says. “Midnight’s already past, but maybe the story’s still editable.”

The metaphor is so absurd I almost smile. Almost. Instead I stare at the skyline, where Monarch Tower blinks like a warning. Tomorrow I’ll don a blazer, smile at recruiters, pretend my universe hasn’t imploded. Tonight I’m just a girl on a terrace with a stranger who smells like ships and offers stolen whiskey.

Julian caps the flask, pockets it. “I’m heading out. Can drop you anywhere—no strings, no small talk.” He pauses, then softer: “Unless you want to stay and keep haunting the bastard.”

I glance back through the glass. Connor is spinning the girl under his arm, Rangers cap tipped in triumph. The candles flicker; the room spins. My chest feels hollowed out, but the emptiness is weirdly light, like excavation before rebuilding.

I draw a shaky breath. “Actually… I think I’m done haunting.”

Julian’s nod is barely perceptible. He steps aside, offers his elbow—old-fashioned, almost funny. I slip my shoes back on, straighten my spine, and take it. Together we walk toward the stairwell, leaving the laughter, the salt, the cracked skyline behind.

Behind us, the terrace door stays shut. Ahead, the emergency lights glow sterile white, illuminating nothing and everything. I don’t know where I’m going, only that it isn’t here. For the first time all night, the drum in my chest isn’t dread—it’s something rawer, hungrier, almost like beginning.