The stilettos pinch Amber''s toes with each step toward the Riverside Country Club''s entrance, but she''s learned to keep her expression neutral through worse discomfort. Her black Valentino dress whispers against her legs, the fabric probably worth more than most people''s monthly rent. The neckline dips just low enough to be tasteful while still making a statement—exactly what''s expected of Richard Rosenberg''s daughter at yet another charity gala.
Tonight feels different though. Maybe it''s the way Nate''s hand rests at the small of her back, steady and warm. Maybe it''s the lingering effect of their conversation last week, of finally letting someone see behind her carefully constructed walls. Or maybe it''s just that she''s tired of playing the perfect princess, and somehow that makes the role fit better—like loosening a too-tight shoe.
"Mr. Brooks! Ms. Rosenberg!" The photographer''s voice cuts through the evening air. "Just there, perfect!"
Amber turns automatically, years of practice guiding her into the perfect pose. Beside her, Nate looks absolutely edible in the Tom Ford tuxedo she picked out last week. The cut emphasizes his shoulders in a way that makes several passing debutantes do double-takes, but his eyes never leave her face.
"Other side please!" The photographer calls out. As they turn, Nate''s lips brush her ear.
"You look absolutely beautiful," he whispers, his breath warm against her skin.
Heat creeps up Amber''s neck. "How many times are you going to say that today?"
Nate''s smile—the real one, not his camera-ready version—makes her heart skip. He takes her arm, guiding her toward the entrance. "As many times as it takes for you to believe it''s not just the dress I''m talking about."
The Riverside Country Club rises before them like a cathedral to old money, its colonial architecture a testament to generations of careful breeding and strategic marriages. During the day, it''s all golf carts and tennis whites, but tonight crystal chandeliers transform it into something from a fairy tale. This is where Riverside''s elite gather to congratulate themselves on their generosity while ensuring their children know exactly which families are worth knowing.
A waitress materializes beside them, her tray laden with champagne flutes. Amber''s stomach turns at the mere sight of alcohol, memories of Halloween still too fresh. "No, thank you," she says softly. From the corner of her eye, she sees Nate watching her. He declines as well, his hand squeezing hers gently.
"Speaking of good decisions," a familiar voice cuts through the ambient chatter. "There''s my princess."
Richard Rosenberg approaches like a shark in Italian wool, his Brioni suit a masterpiece of subtle intimidation. His grey hair is slicked back with military precision, and his smile holds the same predatory edge that Amber sees in the mirror some mornings. But it''s his eyes—her eyes, really—that give away his genuine pleasure at seeing her.
"Daddy." She accepts his kiss on her cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of expensive cologne and power.
"And Mr. Brooks." Richard''s handshake is perfectly calibrated—firm enough to convey respect, but not quite a challenge. "That suit''s Tom Ford, isn''t it? Excellent choice."
"Thank you, sir." Nate''s smile is perfectly pitched. "Though I can''t take credit. Your daughter has significantly better taste than I do."
Richard''s laugh carries just the right note of appreciation. "Smart man. Speaking of smart decisions—how''s that Stanford application coming along? The business school''s dean is an old friend. Always good to have connections in the right places."
Amber watches her father''s expression shift subtly. Ever since Nate mentioned his interest in business over medicine, Richard has been like a lion spotting particularly promising prey. She can practically see him calculating returns on investment, mapping out Nate''s future like a particularly complex merger.
Nate smiles politely, his tone measured. "It''s coming along well, sir. I appreciate the advice—connections like that could make a world of difference."
Richard’s eyes gleam with satisfaction. "Glad to hear it. Make sure to circle back with me once you''ve got your draft together." He turns to Amber with a grin. "Your young man has a good head on his shoulders, princess. Don''t let this one get away."
As her father moves off to work the room, Amber feels Nate''s arm tighten around her waist. "You okay?" he murmurs.
She leans into him slightly, drawing strength from his solid presence. "Just thinking about how weird it is."
"What is?"
"That after everything—the Halloween disaster, the Lisa drama, all of it—we''re still here. Still us."
Nate turns her to face him, his expression serious in the chandelier light. "Always us, princess. The rest is just noise."
Nate guides her through the crowd, his arm warm against hers. Amber plays her part perfectly, dispensing practiced smiles and polite nods like carefully rationed currency. Every gesture is a performance she learned at her mother''s knee - "Remember darling, in our world, even casual greetings are investments."
The buzz of Nate''s phone pulls her attention. He''s typing something, thumbs dancing across the screen with casual disregard for social etiquette.
"Seriously?" Amber coughs delicately. "Your phone? What happened to all those manners Katherine drilled into you?"
Before Nate can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the ambient chatter. "Yo Brooks! Get your ass over here!"
Of course. Jake Woodland. He''s holding court at the bar like he owns it - which, given his family''s influence in Riverside, he practically does. Nate''s hand finds hers, practically dragging her toward his best friend with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for touchdown celebrations.
The burden of dating Nate Brooks, Amber thinks, watching Jake''s perfectly practiced grin. At least Susan Lawrence is there, looking stunning in a Dior gown. The sight of her best friend since elementary school soothes some of Amber''s irritation.
Nate and Jake collide in one of those elaborate handshakes that somehow evolves into a bear hug. "Looking sharp, Woodland," Nate grins, adjusting his tie afterward.
"Susan, you absolute goddess." Amber air-kisses her friend''s cheeks. "That dress is homicidal."
"Had to keep up with you, bitch," Susan laughs, her eyes sparkling. "You''re literally trying to kill half the debutantes here with that Valentino."
Jake''s embrace, when it comes, is carefully calibrated - friendly enough to maintain appearances, brief enough to acknowledge the unspoken tension. Amber returns it with equally practiced precision, trying not to remember the little boy who used to share his juice boxes with her in kindergarten. Before everything got complicated. Before she understood what kind of person he really was.
"So," Amber arches an eyebrow at Susan, "are you and Jake finally making it official?"
Susan''s laugh is sharp as crystal. "Please. Some of us have standards. No offense, Jake."
"None taken, Lawrence." Jake''s smirk is pure privilege. "We''re just keeping up appearances. Old money helping old money, right? Speaking of which..." His eyes narrow playfully. "Why aren''t you two drinking? The champagne here is actually decent for once."
"Same reason you''re not," Amber counters smoothly. "Or did you forget about all our parents playing ''who can donate the most money'' tonight?"
Jake''s grin turns positively feral. He glances around conspiratorially before patting his jacket. The metallic glint of two silver flasks catches the chandelier light. "Pulled from William Woodland''s private collection. Pre-war scotch."
"You beautiful bastard," Nate laughs, and even Amber has to admit - Jake Woodland might be many things, but boring isn''t one of them.
Jake signals the bartender with the kind of casual authority that comes from knowing your family''s name is on half the building''s plaques. "Four Coke Zeros," he orders, then turns back with an exaggerated wink. "Time to make this charity gala actually charitable to our spirits."
The drinks arrive promptly, and Jake''s hands move with practiced efficiency under the bar, doctoring each one with precision born of experience. The familiar weight of the glass in Amber''s hand feels dangerous and comforting at once.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
"Hate to break up this little speakeasy," Susan announces, checking her phone, "but we should head to our tables. You''re with us, right? I refused to sit through another one of these things next to the Wilson twins."
They claim a table in the far corner, as distant from the watchful eyes of their parents as the ballroom''s geography allows. Amber can''t help but appreciate the irony - their parents'' names might be on half the plaques in this building, but their children still huddle in corners like conspirators.
Nate pulls out Amber''s chair with the kind of practiced grace that makes her heart flutter despite herself. His fingers brush her shoulder as she sits, a touch so light it might be accidental - except nothing about Nate Brooks is ever truly accidental.
"Hel-looo?" Susan''s voice drips with exaggerated patience as she stands beside her own chair, staring pointedly at Jake. "Did chivalry die while I wasn''t looking?"
Jake blinks at her. "What?"
"Oh my god." Susan rolls her eyes dramatically. "Just do whatever Nate does. It''s literally your entire life strategy anyway."
"Whatever," Jake mutters, but pulls out Susan''s chair with practiced efficiency. "Some of us don''t need to put on a show."
"Right," Nate says drily as he settles beside Amber. "Because subtlety is definitely your strong suit, Woodland."
The laughter bubbles up before Amber can stop it. Even she has to admit - when Jake isn''t being terrifying, he can actually be funny. It''s part of what makes him so dangerous.
As they settle in, Nate''s hand finds the cutout in her dress, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her bare skin. The touch sends shivers down her spine, grounding her in this moment even as the spiked Coke burns pleasantly down her throat.
Movement at the front of the room draws their attention. Richard Rosenberg ascends the stage like a king approaching his throne, followed by Katherine Brooks in a gown that probably cost more than most cars. Amber watches her father take his position at the podium, noting how the room automatically quiets - power recognizing power.
"Distinguished guests, fellow patrons of progress," Richard''s voice fills the space with practiced authority. "Welcome to the 21st annual Children''s Hospital Charity Gala. Tonight, as we gather in this beautiful space, surrounded by evidence of our community''s prosperity, I''m reminded of something my own father used to say: ''True wealth isn''t measured by what we keep, but by what we give away.''"
Amber resists the urge to roll her eyes. She''s heard variations of this speech since she was old enough to wear designer dresses and fake smile at her father''s business associates.
"And speaking of giving," Richard continues, his shark-like smile gleaming under the chandeliers, "I''m honored to introduce someone who gives not just her resources, but her remarkable talent and dedication to our community. Please welcome the head of pediatric surgery at St. Margaret''s Regional, and my dear friend, Dr. Katherine Brooks."
Katherine takes the podium with the same fluid grace her son inherited. Her silver hair catches the light like a crown, and her smile carries the perfect blend of professional warmth and social authority.
"Twenty-one years ago," she begins, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes everyone lean forward slightly, "I treated a little girl with a rare heart condition. Her parents couldn''t afford the specialized care she needed. Today, thanks to programs funded by generous donors like yourselves, that little girl is studying pre-med at Johns Hopkins."
As Katherine continues her carefully crafted story of triumph over adversity (conveniently leaving out, Amber notes, that the girl''s family probably still has medical debt), Nate''s fingers continue their gentle exploration of her back. The touch, combined with William Woodland''s excellent scotch, makes everything feel slightly dreamlike - like she''s watching a play she''s seen too many times to fully believe anymore.
The speeches drag on like a particularly tedious form of social torture. Amber fights to keep her eyes open as yet another board member drones about the importance of community investment. Jake''s emptied both flasks, reduced to spinning them idly between his fingers. Susan''s mastered the art of checking Instagram while appearing attentive, and Nate''s found sudden fascination with the Renaissance-style frescoes adorning the ceiling.
Finally, Richard Rosenberg returns to the podium. "And now," he announces with practiced warmth, "I believe it''s time for drinks. After all, that''s when the real charitable giving begins." Polite laughter ripples through the crowd - the kind of laughter that accompanies seven-figure donations.
"Thank god," Jake practically leaps from his chair. "I haven''t been this sober at a charity event since freshman year."
Nate stands, catching Jake''s eye with a look Amber''s seen countless times but never quite decoded. It''s like watching two people who share a private language, developed over years of shared secrets and coordinated plays.
Jake''s answering smirk is immediate. "Great minds, Brooks. Great minds."
Before the crowd can fully disperse toward the main hall, Nate''s hand finds Amber''s, and they''re moving - all four of them - through the club''s labyrinthine corridors. Jake leads them with the confidence of someone who''s spent his entire life treating other people''s property as his personal playground.
He pushes open a heavy oak door, revealing what can only be described as a shrine to old money masculinity. The room breathes leather and mahogany, with mounted game trophies staring down from wood-paneled walls like silent judges. Leather chairs and sofas cluster around a stone fireplace that probably cost more than most cars. The air smells of cigars and privilege.
"Sue?" Jake''s already moving toward a hidden cabinet. "Grab some mixers from the mini-fridge? I''ll handle the important part."
Nate guides Amber to one of the sofas - butter-soft leather. She swings her legs across his lap, finally allowing herself to relax fully. Jake and Susan settle into adjacent chairs, creating their own little island of youth in this temple to inherited wealth.
As Jake plays bartender, Nate''s fingers find the straps of Amber''s heels, gently working them free. The tender gesture makes her heart flutter - how he always knows exactly what she needs, often before she does.
"Jesus Christ," Jake announces, pouring generous measures into crystal tumblers. "I thought they''d never shut up. Like, we get it - you''re rich and feeling guilty about it. Write the check and let us drink in peace."
"Might as well get used to it," Nate says, his fingers still working gentle circles on Amber''s ankles. "That''ll be us up there in twenty years, pretending our tax write-offs make us saints."
Jake snorts into his drink. "Speak for yourself, Brooks. In twenty years, I''ll be on some private island with a yacht full of models and enough Colombian snow to start my own ski resort."
"And that," Susan points her glass at him, "is exactly why you''re perpetually single. Your emotional development stopped somewhere around spring break."
Amber settles deeper into the sofa, letting the familiar banter wash over her. There''s something almost comforting about it, like a play they''ve all performed a thousand times. Their parents had probably sat in these same chairs twenty years ago, plotting their own futures. Richard Rosenberg, William Woodland, Katherine Brooks, Susan''s father, Charlotte''s mother - all of them products of Riverside High, all of them now directing their children down the same carefully mapped paths.
"Speaking of our incestuous little social circle," Amber sits up slightly, "where''s Charlotte? I saw her dad earlier, but..."
"Grounded," Susan replies with obvious delight. "Like, seriously grounded. House arrest level."
"What? Why?"
"Remember Jake''s Halloween party?" Susan''s grin turns wicked. "Apparently, she and Morris Vandenbaan put on quite the show for her parents'' Ring doorbell camera. Full make-out session, complete with some very creative use of his letterman jacket."
Jake and Nate burst out laughing, the sound echoing off wood-paneled walls. "No way," Nate manages between chuckles. "Morris? Our Morris? The guy who still blushes during health class?"
"The very same," Susan confirms. "Charlotte''s dad saw the footage next morning. I heard the grounding extends through Christmas break."
"Speaking of Halloween adventures," Susan''s eyes find Amber''s, "how''s your recovery going? You were pretty... festive that night."
Shame burns in Amber''s chest, but before she can respond, Nate squeezes her ankle gently. "Nothing my world-famous hangover breakfast couldn''t fix," he says smoothly. "Scrambled eggs, bacon, and about a gallon of Gatorade."
"God," Susan sighs dramatically. "Why can''t I find someone who brings me breakfast in bed?"
"Anyone new on the horizon?" Amber seizes the chance to change subjects. "You''ve been suspiciously quiet about your love life lately."
Jake''s laugh carries a knowing edge that makes everyone turn to look at him.
"What?" Amber demands.
"Should I tell them," Jake''s eyes glitter with mischief, "or do you want to explain why you and Justin Moore were trying to merge into one entity in my pool house?"
Susan''s cheeks flush pink. "We were not—"
"Please," Jake cuts her off. "I had to sage cleanse that couch afterward. It was like watching National Geographic, but with Batman and Cat Woman."
Laughter ripples through the room, but Susan rolls her eyes. "At least Justin and I weren''t sending girls running out of there crying."
"What girl?" Nate asks, his hand stilling on Amber''s ankle.
"You know," Susan says, swirling her drink. "Tommy''s babysitter. Hannah Marshall."
The air feels suddenly thick. Everyone turns to Jake, and Amber feels her stomach drop. Not again. Please, not again.
"Jake..." Nate''s tone holds a warning. "We talked about this."
"Jesus Christ," Jake explodes, sitting forward in his chair. "Nothing happened, alright? We kissed, big fucking deal. Then she went all psycho bitch on me, playing hard to get or whatever."
The words hit Amber like physical blows. Memories she''s tried so hard to bury claw their way to the surface - Hampton Beach, summer heat, a lone shoe on sand. She slams that mental door shut before it can fully open, but the echo remains.
"Nothing happened," Jake repeats, but there''s something in his voice that makes Amber''s skin crawl. "She just... freaked out."
"Alright, dude." Nate cuts him off, his voice carefully neutral. "I was just asking."
But Amber knows her boyfriend better than anyone. Knows the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers have stopped their gentle movements on her ankle. Nate isn''t "just asking" - he''s processing, calculating/
The leather sofa suddenly feels less comfortable, the mounted heads on the walls more accusatory. Even the crystal glasses seem to catch the light differently, throwing shadows that look almost like warnings across the antique carpet.
In the silence that follows, Amber realizes something that terrifies her: their carefully constructed world of inherited privilege is starting to show its seams. And once you start seeing the tears in the fabric of your reality, it becomes impossible to ignore them.
The grandfather clock in the corner strikes ten, its chimes echoing through the room like a countdown to something none of them are ready to face.