My stomach tightens.
Micah reaches across the console first, squeezing my knee once. “Ready?” he asks quietly.
No.
“Yes,” I say anyway.
“This is fucking crazy,” Heather breathes behind me.
The valet opens my door before I can second-guess myself. Cold night air brushes my bare legs as I step out. Immediately, the flashes intensify. My heart stutters, but Micah’s arm isalready around my waist, grounding me. His other arm hooks easily around Heather as she steps out beside us, red dress catching the light like a warning flare.
We look...perfect. Happy, even.
Micah smiles for the cameras like it’s muscle memory, easy and relaxed. He definitely makes it known that he’s done this a million times. Heather leans into him, laughing softly at something he murmurs quietly to her. I lift my chin, paste on a confident smile, and let myself be guided forward. The cameras eat it up. And honestly? So does Heather. She could do this kind of thing every single weekend.
Click.
Click.
Click.
We’re three people arriving together, united and unbothered. Inside, the noise shifts instantly into soft orchestral music and laughter bouncing off marble walls. The ceilings soar above us, chandeliers dripping light like constellations. Everyone here smells expensive and looks effortless.
Heather leans in close, her voice barely above a whisper. “Emma,” she murmurs, eyes wide as she scans the room, pointing out several famous people. “That’s—oh my god. Wait, is that—”
“I know,” I whisper back, trying not to stare. Even though I hear the song,“The Beautiful People”by Marilyn Manson in my head while looking around. “It’s insane.”
Celebrities glide past like it’s nothing. Actors. Designers. People whose faces I’ve seen on magazine covers while waiting in grocery store lines. I suddenly feel very aware of my heartbeat, of how small I am in a room like this.
Micah, meanwhile, is completely at ease.
He slips seamlessly into conversation, shaking hands, greeting people by name. Someone claps him on the back. Someone elsecompliments his suit. When Jude’s name comes up—and it does, more than once—he doesn’t flinch.
“Jude’s struggling,” he says smoothly, voice warm but firm. “We’re giving him space. Hoping he gets better soon.”
Concerned nods. Sympathetic murmurs. But no prying, thankfully. It’s impressive and devastating. Because in their world, drugs and going off the rails are often just part of the Hollywood experience.
Time stretches, blurring together. I snag champagne flutes from passing trays more out of necessity than desire, sipping just enough to keep my nerves from swallowing me whole. I make small talk with people, complimenting dresses, and nodding politely.
An hour passes.
My feet ache, and my smile feels brittle at this point. I don’t know how much more of this I can take…
Then Micah stills. I immediately feel the shift in his posture and see his attention sharpen. His gaze locks across the room. “There,” he mutters under his breath. “Told you he was a character.”
I follow his line of sight and immediately understand.
Who I can only assume is Rook, stands near the edge of the gallery, like he doesn’t quite belong to the room—or the century. Long brown hair spills past his shoulders. Sharp profile. Dark eyes that seem to catalog everything and everyone without effort. He’s dressed in tight black jeans stretched over muscular thighs, a brown button-up rolled casually at the sleeves.
He looks…odd here. Like someone who crawled out of a different world and wandered into this one by mistake.
My pulse spikes. This ishim.Jude killed his brother.
The man who might be ouronlyhope.
I swallow hard, fingers tightening around my champagne flute as Micah shifts subtly closer to me.
“Stay calm,” he murmurs. “Let me get us close. When the moment opens, you step in.”