ã€ŠRiverside Highã€‹


 Chapter I.

    The Italian marble floor of the Rosenbergs'' game room is cold against Hannah Marshall''s legs, even through her thrifted Levi''s. Ten thousand dollars of stone, and they let their kids spill Capri Sun on it. She shifts, crossing her ankles, and watches Tommy''s thumbs dance across the controller like he''s conducting a tiny orchestra.

    Tommy Rosenberg is actually trying today. His cherubic face¡ªall Renaissance angel with that white-blonde hair and those startling blue eyes¡ªis scrunched in concentration. The light from their obscenely large TV (who needs 85 inches to play Mario Kart?) catches on his eyelashes, turning them into little halos.

    Hannah knows she should let him win. It''s in the unwritten babysitter''s handbook, somewhere between "never feed them after midnight" and "always text when you arrive safely." But her own thumbs itch with muscle memory. She could destroy him in this race. Could lap him twice if she wanted to.

    She doesn''t.

    Because that''s not what the Rosenbergs are paying her $30 an hour for. The highest-paying babysitting gig in Riverside, and all she has to do is lose at video games and occasionally load the dishwasher with Mrs. Rosenberg''s limited edition Le Creuset cookware. Well, that and navigate the minefield that is existing in the same solar system as Amber Rosenberg.

    Amber. Hannah''s mouth twists as she thinks about Tommy''s older sister, the self-proclaimed Princess of Riverside High. The girl who treats the school hallways like her personal runway, click-clacking down them in whatever Louboutins Daddy''s guilt bought her this week. Hannah''s seen literal crowns that require less maintenance than Amber''s blonde hair¡ªexpertly highlighted, religiously trimmed, permanently cascading in waves that probably cost more than Hannah''s car.

    Where Tommy is all genuine smiles and sticky fingers, Amber is sharp edges wrapped in cashmere. She moves through life with an entourage of giggling sycophants, girls who''ve elevated agreement to an art form. "Oh my god, Amber, you''re so right!" has its own spot in the Riverside High lexicon.

    And then there''s Nate Brooks.

    Hannah''s heart does that stupid little flutter it''s been doing since third grade when she thinks about him. Star wide receiver, co-captain of the football team, and the only person who can make a letterman jacket look like it belongs on a Paris runway. His brown eyes still hold traces of the boy who once shared his fruit roll-ups with her at lunch, before social hierarchy calcified and her middle-class status became a visible brand.

    Sometimes, when he comes over to pick up Amber for whatever luxury-car-filled adventure they''re having that day, he still smiles at Hannah like he remembers those fruit roll-ups too. His wavy brown hair falls across his forehead in exactly the same way it did when they were eight, but now it makes her palms sweat instead of inspiring the urge to pull it.

    "I won!" Tommy''s victory screech pulls her back to the present. On screen, his character does a victory lap while hers sits sadly in sixth place. The race she threw is worth it for the way his whole face lights up, gap-toothed smile nearly splitting it in two.

    "You''re getting really good at this," Hannah says, and means it. Even if she helped him along, his thumbwork is improving. She ruffles his hair, and he doesn''t dodge away like most eight-year-olds would. Another way he''s nothing like his sister, who treats physical affection like it might mess up her contour.

    The grandfather clock in the hall (because of course the Rosenbergs have a grandfather clock) chimes four times. Hannah knows without looking that it''s precisely on time¡ªit''s synchronized with an atomic clock in Colorado, a fact Mr. Rosenberg shared with the same pride other dads reserve for their kids'' report cards.

    "Math time," Hannah announces, and Tommy''s joy deflates faster than his mom''s last attempt at souffl¨¦. "Come on, buddy. Calc won''t solve itself."

    He trails her to the kitchen like it''s his last march. The Rosenbergs'' idea of a kitchen is what most people would call a restaurant. All gleaming surfaces and professional-grade everything¡ªa Viking range that could heat a small country, three ovens (because God forbid you have to wait to bake multiple things), and countertops that probably cost more than Hannah''s college fund. The whole space is wrapped in floor-to-ceiling windows that make the backyard look like a magazine spread: infinity pool bleeding into carefully manicured gardens, a pool house bigger than Hannah''s first floor.

    Tommy slumps into one of the ghost chairs at the breakfast bar¡ªtransparent acrylic that probably has some fancy Italian designer name and definitely costs more than Hannah''s car payment. She spreads out his homework, trying not to think about how the marble countertop is cooler than most people''s personalities at Riverside High.

    Twenty minutes into fractions (which Tommy understands better than he pretends to), Hannah''s bladder starts sending urgent memos. She pats Tommy''s shoulder. "Keep working on number seven. I''ll be right back."

    The guest bathroom off the main hall is basically a spa¡ªheated floors, a waterfall faucet that probably has better water pressure than most fire hoses. But before Hannah can reach it, Amber''s voice slices through the air like an expertly wielded credit card.

    Hannah freezes. The thing about surviving in the Rosenbergs'' world is knowing when to make yourself invisible. She''s gotten good at it¡ªbetter than she is at calculus, better than she is at pretending her dad''s insurance job can compete with trust funds.

    "That little bitch," Amber''s voice carries down the curved staircase, sharp as her last manicure. "Lisa Chen thinks she can just¡ª"

    Hannah''s heart trips over itself. Lisa Chen. The name hits like a punch to the gut, serving up a highlight reel of shared lunches and sleepovers from before high school turned everyone into characters in some twisted social hierarchy play.

    Lisa''s parents still wave when they see Hannah at their restaurant, still slip her extra dumplings with that same warm smile. But Lisa? Lisa traded their history for a spot in Amber''s orbit, choosing designer bags over inside jokes.

    Hannah slips off her Converse, padding up the stairs like she''s diffusing a bomb. Each step brings Amber''s voice into sharper focus. She''s on speaker, probably with Susan Lawrence¡ªanother old money princess who treats kindness like an optional accessory.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    "She''s literally throwing herself at him," Amber spits. "And Nate''s so¡ªgod, he''s actually falling for it. Like, hello? She''s basically a waitress."

    Hannah edges closer, until she can see into Amber''s room. It''s like Barbie''s Dream House had a baby with a Saks Fifth Avenue¡ªall pink and white, with a chandelier that probably cost more than most cars. Amber''s sprawled on her king-sized bed in a pink La Perla robe, phone propped on her mirrored desk while she paints her toenails the exact shade of red that screams ''I''ve never worked retail.''

    "Don''t worry," Susan''s voice crackles through the speaker, filtered through whatever overpriced phone Amber''s using this week. "We''ll handle it."

    Amber''s laugh sounds like breaking glass. "Oh, I know exactly what to do. By next week, Lisa Chen will wish she''d stayed in her lane. And Nate?" She blows on her toes, casual as a bomb threat. "Please. He''ll remember where he belongs.."

    "Did you see them at lunch?" Susan''s voice drips with the kind of faux concern that comes with a lifetime of learning how to weaponize sympathy. "The way she kept touching his arm? God, it''s like watching someone try to shoplift from Bergdorf''s."

    "Right?" Amber switches toes, the red polish gleaming like fresh blood. "And that thing she did with the college applications? ''Oh Nate, which schools are you looking at?''" Her impression of Lisa is a masterclass in calculated cruelty. "Like, honey, the only ivy you''ll ever touch is the kind growing on your parents'' takeout place."

    Hannah''s fingers dig into the bannister. She should walk away. Should get back to Tommy and his fractions and the safe, clean lines of mathematics where everything adds up the way it''s supposed to.

    "Whatever," Amber continues, examining her work with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for diamond authentication. "I''ve got the perfect thing planned for Friday''s party. Little Lisa wants to play in the big leagues?" Her smile is all teeth, no warmth. "Let''s see how she handles the deep end."

    Susan''s giggle sounds like champagne bubbles, expensive and empty. "You''re literally evil. I love it."

    "Please, I''m just maintaining the natural order. I mean, Nate and I? We''re basically Riverside royalty. He''s just... temporarily distracted. You know how boys get when someone new waves some diversity in their face."

    "So what''s the plan?"

    "Let''s just say..." Amber recaps the polish with the decisive click of a safety being released. "I found some interesting texts on Nate''s phone the other day. And if certain screenshots happened to show up at exactly the right moment... well." She shrugs, the silk of her robe whispering against Egyptian cotton sheets. "I''m just looking out for everyone''s best interests."

    "God, you''re perfect," Susan breathes. "What time''s he picking you up?"

    "Five. Nobu, obviously." Amber''s voice shifts, practiced casualness wrapped around a core of steel. "By tomorrow morning, Nate Brooks will be right back where he belongs. In my arms, where things make sense."

    "Like there was ever any doubt." Susan''s laugh is a sterling silver wind chime. "The Lisa Chens of the world don''t get the Nate Brookses. That''s like, literally physics."

    "Exactly." Amber''s voice drops to a whisper coated in arsenic honey. "And after Friday night? Let''s just say some people need to be reminded what happens when they forget their place in the ecosystem."

    Hannah''s heard enough. Her stomach churns with the kind of nausea usually reserved for watching car crashes in slow motion. Poor Lisa. Poor Nate. Both of them caught in Amber''s carefully manicured web, like couture-wrapped flies about to learn exactly how sharp designer stilettos can be.

    She creeps backward, one silent sock-step at a time. The marble stairs are cold through her socks, each step a tactical retreat from ground zero of whatever social nuclear bomb Amber''s about to detonate.

    Except.

    Her shoes.

    Her ratty, beloved Converse that should be right here at the bottom of the stairs, waiting like loyal soldiers. Gone. Vanished like her chances of ever affording a Rosenberg-approved wardrobe.

    "Looking for something?"

    The world stops spinning.

    Time freezes like a glitch in the matrix.

    Because there''s Nate Brooks, holding her shoes with the kind of casual grace that makes letterman jackets look like Gucci campaigns. No BROOKS 67 jersey today. No Friday night lights armor. Just khakis that probably cost more than her car insurance, pristine white sneakers that have never known the inside of a Payless box, and a quarter-zip pullover in the exact shade of brown that makes his eyes look like something worth drowning in.

    His hair''s doing that thing. That stupidly perfect wavy thing that makes her hands itch with muscle memory from third grade.

    "I¡ª" Words evaporate like department store perfume samples.

    His smirk should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. "These yours?" He dangles the Converse like evidence in a very specific crime.

    Hannah prays to whatever deity handles footwear embarrassment that they don''t smell like minimum wage and desperation.

    But before she can stammer out an explanation that doesn''t include ''I was eavesdropping on your girlfriend''s assassination plans,'' Tommy barrels down the hall like a heat-seeking missile of pure joy.

    "Nate!" He launches himself with the kind of blind faith only eight-year-olds and base jumpers possess.

    Nate catches him mid-flight, swinging him up like Tommy weighs nothing more than Amber''s latest designer bag. "Hey, champ!" The transformation is instant¡ªgolden boy to big brother, complete with the kind of genuine smile that never makes it onto Riverside High''s Instagram stories.

    "I beat Hannah at Mario Kart!" Tommy announces it like he''s declaring victory at the Olympics.

    Nate''s eyes find hers over Tommy''s head. That smirk again. "Did you now?"

    Hannah''s face burns hotter than the La Mer moisturizer Amber''s probably applying upstairs. Because of course Nate Brooks would know exactly what it means to let an eight-year-old win at video games. Of course he''d see right through her like she''s one of the Rosenbergs'' imported crystal windows.

    He must read something in her face¡ªpanic, probably, or the desperate need to escape before Amber descends like a Valentino-clad valkyrie. His expression softens into something that makes her heart do illegal gymnastics.

    "Hey buddy," he sets Tommy down with the gentleness usually reserved for handling Ming vases. "Better finish that homework. I''ll check it when I come back down, okay?"

    Tommy zooms back to the kitchen like homework''s suddenly become his favorite hobby.

    "I should¡ª" Hannah gestures vaguely at nothing.

    "Here." He holds out her shoes like he''s Prince Charming''s cooler younger brother. The one who probably plays in an indie band and reads Vonnegut for fun.

    "Are you going to¡ª" The words stick in her throat like last season''s trends.

    "Tell her?" He cuts her off with a shake of his head. Wavy brown hair catches the light like a shampoo commercial. "No."

    She takes the shoes, careful not to let their fingers brush like some budget rom-com meet-cute.

    He stands, unfolds himself to his full height¡ªall six feet of carefully cultivated athletic grace. "Nice shirt, by the way."

    Hannah glances down at her vintage Sonic Youth tee, probably bought for two dollars at Goodwill. The kind of thing that would give Amber hives.

    When she looks up, he''s already halfway up the stairs, taking her ability to form coherent sentences with him.

    The shirt was his favorite band in eighth grade. Before designer labels became personality traits. Before social hierarchy calcified into law. Before Amber Rosenberg turned dating into a blood sport.

    "Hi, princess." Nate''s voice drifts down from above, smooth as twenty-year-old scotch, practiced as a trust fund apology.

    Above her, a door opens. Amber''s laughter cascades down the stairs like expensive perfume - the kind that costs more than Hannah''s monthly car payment. Hannah slips her shoes on and disappears - a skill she''s perfected almost as well as losing at Mario Kart.

    Some things you learn to survive. Others you learn because forgetting would hurt more than remembering.

 Chapter II.

    The crisp October air hit Amber''s face as they stepped out of Nobu, and she leaned closer into Nate''s warmth. His arm felt strong and familiar around her waist, steadying her as her heels clicked against the pavement. The wine had left her feeling light, happy, wrapped in a blanket of contentment that made everything seem perfect.

    She glanced up at him as they walked, admiring how the streetlights caught the waves in his dark blonde hair. Even after three years, the sight of his profile still made her heart skip ¨C that sharp jawline, those full lips that knew exactly how to kiss her, and those eyes. God, those warm brown eyes that could see right through her. Tonight, he looked especially handsome in the outfit she''d picked out for him last weekend at the mall: a chocolate-brown quarter-zip that hugged his broad shoulders just right, paired with the beige chinos that made him look like he stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.

    Amber adjusted her own cream cashmere sweater dress, smoothing it over her thighs. The material caught on her gold pendant necklace ¨C a birthday gift from Nate ¨C and she smiled, remembering how proud he''d looked when she opened it. Her cognac knee-high boots and matching leather bag completed what she considered to be the perfect fall dinner date outfit. Not that she''d tell anyone, but she''d spent hours planning this look, wanting everything to be just right for tonight.

    "So," Nate''s voice broke through her thoughts, "did my girl enjoy dinner?" His thumb traced circles on her hip as they walked, sending little shivers up her spine.

    "Mmm," she hummed, tilting her head to look at him. "The sashimi was divine, and the wine..." She giggled, "well, you might need to carry me to the truck."

    He laughed, that deep, rich sound that first drew her to him during that summer at camp, when they were just awkward freshmen trying to figure out who they were. Now here they were, and he was still opening doors for her like she was something precious, something worth protecting.

    His truck sat waiting for them in the parking lot, a testament to everything Nate was ¨C practical, reliable, but with just enough edge to keep things interesting. The silver cross hanging from his rearview mirror caught the moonlight, swaying slightly as he helped her up into the passenger seat. Her eyes drifted to the football bag tossed in the back, grass stains still visible from yesterday''s practice, then to their photo tucked into the air conditioning vent. It was from last summer''s beach trip, her hair wild from the salt air, his arms wrapped around her from behind. They looked happy. They were happy.

    "Jake''s having people over," Nate said as he slid into the driver''s seat. "Nothing big, just Justin and Jeff..." He paused, and she felt her stomach tighten. "Charlotte and Lisa might be there too."

    Lisa. The name hit her like a slap. Suddenly, the wine in her system felt heavy, and the image she''d been trying to forget all evening flooded back ¨C Lisa''s face on Nate''s Snapchat, her perfectly glossed lips curved in a smile meant for someone else''s boyfriend. Her boyfriend. The screenshot was still buried in her phone, burning a hole in her conscience. She wanted to confront him, demand answers, but the words stuck in her throat.

    "I..." she started, trying to keep her voice steady. "I don''t know, babe. I''m kind of tired."

    "Hey, no problem," he said quickly, reading her mood like he always did ¨C or at least, like she thought he always did. "We could head back to my place instead? Watch a movie or something?"

    She forced herself to smile, pushing aside the doubts that had been plaguing her. "Just a movie?" she asked, letting her voice drop to that teasing tone he loved.

    His responding smirk was both familiar and dangerous. "Whatever my girl wants," he said, and for a moment, she almost believed everything was okay.

    The truck wound its way through the familiar streets of their hometown, leaving behind the manicured lawns of Riverside Heights where Amber''s Tudor-style house stood proudly among equally impressive homes. The route to Nate''s place took them past the town center, toward Ridgeline Hills where the woods created a natural barrier between the old money of Riverside and the newer developments. His parents'' home was a masterpiece of modern architecture ¨C a dramatic three-story structure that seemed to float above the hillside, its walls of glass and warm wood panels catching the evening light. The house jutted out from the slope at a bold angle, supported by steel beams, with a sleek concrete driveway leading to the garage beneath. It was exactly the kind of statement piece you''d expect from a successful doctor and real estate developer ¨C ambitious, unconventional, and impossible to ignore.

    Nate''s hand rested on her thigh, warm and heavy through her tights. Any other night, his touch would have been comforting, exciting even. But now Amber could only stare out the window, her mind replaying that damned Snapchat image of Lisa Chen''s face, her perfect smile, those knowing eyes. The same eyes that had looked up at Nate yesterday in the library, all innocent and eager.

    "I saw you with Lisa yesterday," Amber said finally, her voice cutting through the silence. "At the library."

    Nate''s thumb, which had been tracing small circles on her thigh, stilled. "Yeah, I was helping her with her college applications. She''s applying early decision to Yale."

    "How charitable of you." The words came out sharper than she''d intended, dripping with sarcasm.

    "Is something wrong?" Nate glanced at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

    "No," Amber lied, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. She watched the shadows of trees dance across the dashboard, letting the silence stretch between them like a rubber band ready to snap.

    "You know," she said finally, her voice tight, "Lisa''s not exactly one of us. I mean, her parents run that takeout place on Mason Street." The moment the words left her mouth, she knew how they sounded, but she couldn''t stop herself.

    "So?" Nate''s voice had an edge to it now. "Lisa''s smart, and she''s nice. I thought she was your friend?"Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    Anger bubbled up inside Amber, hot and messy. She wasn''t even sure where it was coming from anymore ¨C the photo she''d found, the way Lisa looked at Nate, or the fact that Nate seemed so quick to defend her. "I see the way she looks at you," she blurted out.

    "Lisa is just a friend, Amber."

    "And I see the way you look at her."

    The truck''s brakes squealed as Nate suddenly pulled over, the vehicle coming to an abrupt stop in the middle of the empty road. Amber''s hand flew to the dashboard, her heart hammering in her chest.

    Nate turned to face her fully, his eyes intense in the dim light. He took her hands in his, and for a moment, just looked at her, really looked at her, like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face.

    "Amber Rosaly Victoria Rosenberg," he started, his voice low and serious, "do you have any idea what you do to me? Every single day, I look at you and wonder how I got so lucky. You''re not just beautiful ¨C though God knows you are. You''re fierce, and driven, and sometimes a little crazy in ways that make me crazy about you. That night at camp, when you kissed me under the stars? I knew right then that no other girl would ever compare. Not Lisa, not anyone."

    His thumb brushed across her knuckles. "When you walk into a room, everything else just... fades away. And yeah, maybe I''m helping Lisa with her applications, but that''s all it is. Because at the end of the day, you''re the one I want sitting next to me in this truck. You''re the one I want to share everything with. You''re it for me, Amber. You always have been."

    Amber''s fingers intertwined with his, her voice barely above a whisper. "It''s just... sometimes I look at you and wonder why you''re with me. You''re Nate Brooks. The guy who broke the school record for receiving yards. The guy every girl wants. The future doctor everyone''s parents approve of." She paused, vulnerability creeping into her voice. "And I''m just¡ª"

    "Stop right there," Nate cut her off, his thumb brushing across her knuckles. "You''re not ''just'' anything, Amber. You''re everything. Everything I want, everything I need." His eyes locked with hers, intense and earnest in the dim light of the truck''s cabin. "Always have been, always will be."

    He leaned across the center console, pressing his lips against hers in a kiss that made her forget about Lisa, forget about her insecurities, forget about everything except the familiar taste of him and the warmth of his hand on her cheek.

    "I''m sorry," she murmured against his lips. "For being crazy about Lisa, about everything."

    "Come on," he said with that crooked smile she loved so much, "let''s get you home and get those ridiculous boots off. Though I gotta say, they make your legs look amazing."

    Amber felt herself melting back into her seat as Nate put the truck in drive, the tension from earlier dissolving into the comfortable silence they''d perfected over three years together. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the empty road ahead.

    "You know," Nate said after a while, his voice thoughtful, "Mom''s going to kill me, but I don''t think I want to be a doctor." He glanced at her, gauging her reaction. "All those years of med school, residency... that''s her dream, not mine."

    "What do you want?" Amber turned to study his profile, noting the way his jaw clenched slightly ¨C something he always did when talking about his future.

    "Business, maybe?" He shrugged, but there was an undercurrent of excitement in his voice. "I''ve been thinking about what your dad does. Investment banking, market analysis... that''s the kind of thing that gets me going. Not memorizing anatomy terms or dealing with sick people all day."

    The mention of her father made Amber''s thoughts drift to Richard Rosenberg, to his corner office overlooking the city, to the way he commanded attention in every room he entered. She could see Nate fitting into that world ¨C he had the charm, the intelligence, the drive. She could picture him in tailored suits, making deals, building something for himself just like her father had.

    The truck slowed as they approached the turnoff to his house, the narrow road ahead disappearing into the darkness between the trees. Amber watched as the shadows of branches played across the dashboard, creating patterns that reminded her of the dappled sunlight at camp three summers ago, when everything between them had started.

    The Brooks'' house loomed before them, its angular silhouette stark against the night sky. Light spilled from the wall of windows, casting geometric patterns across the damp driveway. Through the glass, Amber could see movement in the kitchen ¨C shadows of Nate''s parents moving about their evening routine.

    "Looks like Mom and Dad haven''t gone to bed yet," Nate said, switching off the engine. His eyes drifted to the poolhouse, a small smile playing on his lips. "Want to sneak away?"

    They crept around the perimeter of the house, their footsteps hushed against the concrete path. Amber''s boots clicked softly despite her best efforts, and Nate pulled her close, stifling his laughter against her hair. The poolhouse emerged from the darkness ¨C a smaller echo of the main house''s modern design, its windows dark and inviting.

    The door yielded to Nate''s key, revealing their private sanctuary. A sleek bar stretched along one wall ¨C the not-so-secret secret his parents tactfully ignored. The massive sectional dominated the space, facing a mounted flatscreen, while Riverside High''s royal blue and gold banner hung proudly above, though slightly askew. Video game controllers and snack wrappers littered the coffee table, evidence of recent teenage occupation.

    "Sorry about the mess," Nate said, quickly gathering the empty cans and snack wrappers. "Jake and I hung out here yesterday."

    Jake Woodland. The name alone made bile rise in Amber''s throat. Trust fund baby extraordinaire, quarterback god of Riverside High, and son of William Woodland ¨C who never let anyone forget their family had been in Riverside since before it had running water. Jake and Nate were practically joined at the hip, had been since they were in diapers. The universe''s cosmic joke was making Jake Woodland the price of admission for dating Nate Brooks.

    Amber sank into the sofa''s embrace, watching Nate move around the space. Her gaze caught on a White Claw can hidden behind a controller, and suddenly she was back at Hampton Beach ¨C the salty air, the distant music, the metallic glint of the can, the lone shoe on the sand. She slammed the door on that memory before it could fully form.

    "You ever find yourself thinking about that night at Hampton?" The question slipped out before she could catch it.

    Nate''s hands stilled on the coffee table. "Sometimes," he said quietly, turning to face her. His eyes searched hers with concern. "You okay?" When she nodded, he moved closer.

    He crossed to her, dropping to one knee. His fingers found the zipper of her boot, but his eyes never left hers. "You know what I think about most?"

    "Tell me," she whispered.

    "How perfectly you fit into my life." His hands were gentle as he eased the zipper down. "How your laugh makes everything better." His lips brushed her ankle. "How you''re the first person I want to talk to every morning." Another kiss, higher this time. "How you''re the last person I think about every night."

    "Smooth talker," she managed, though her heart was racing.

    He looked up at her with that crooked smile that still made her stomach flip, even after all this time. "Only for you, princess." His thumb traced circles on her calf. "Always for you."

    The warmth of his touch chased away the chill of old memories, but something nagged at the edges of her mind ¨C a warning, perhaps, or just the lingering taste of wine making her paranoid. Still, as Nate''s lips found that sensitive spot behind her knee, Amber let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, some things in life really were this simple.

 Chapter III.

    The Riverside High library is a study in contradictions: soaring ceilings and fluorescent lights, first-edition classics gathering dust while students huddle over TikTok videos on their phones. Hannah sits at her usual table¡ªthe one with the wobbly leg that no one else wants¡ªand watches Morris struggle with the concept of pre-war alliances like they''re written in hieroglyphics.

    The library smells like old books and expensive perfume, the latter courtesy of a group of girls who''ve claimed the prime study spot by the window. Their designer bags rest on chairs like sleeping pets, price tags higher than Hannah''s monthly babysitting earnings. She tries to focus on Morris instead of the way their jewelry catches the afternoon light.

    Morris hasn''t changed much since fourth grade, when they shared colored pencils in art class. Still has that round face that makes him look perpetually surprised, brown hair that never quite decides if it wants to be straight or wavy. The only difference is the letterman jacket that marks him as part of Riverside''s athletic aristocracy¡ªthe golden leg that sends footballs sailing between goalposts with surgical precision. From pudding cups to field goals, Morris''s trajectory through Riverside''s social hierarchy has been as neat as his kicks.

    "So Hitler¡ª" Morris starts, chewing on the end of a pen.

    "Wrong war," she interrupts, gentler than the history they''re discussing. "That''s World War Two. We''re talking about World War One. Think earlier¡ª1914, not 1939."

    Morris''s face scrunches up like he''s trying to solve a particularly complex math problem. "Right, right. The one with the sandwich guy?"

    "The assassination," Hannah corrects, but she can''t help smiling. There''s something endearing about Morris''s determination to understand, even as historical facts slip through his fingers like water. He''s trying harder than most of Jake''s crew would¡ªthey''d probably just buy their way to a passing grade.

    "Man," Morris laughs, running a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair. "I''m really bad at this, aren''t I? Like, epically bad. My brain just sees dates and goes ''nope, we don''t do that here.''" He gestures dramatically with his pen, nearly knocking over his untouched water bottle.

    "You''re trying," Hannah offers, rescuing the water bottle. "That''s more than most people do. Besides, you got the assassination part right. Sort of. If you squint and tilt your head sideways."

    "Yeah, but sandwich guy? Really?" Morris shakes his head at his own confusion. "My mom would kill me if she knew how bad I am at this. She''s got this whole thing about knowing our history, you know? Says those who don''t learn from it are doomed to¡ª" He pauses, frowning. "Something about repeating stuff."

    The library doors swing open with the kind of dramatic timing usually reserved for movie entrances. Hannah''s stomach drops as Amber glides in, flanked by Susan and¡ªHannah''s heart clenches¡ªLisa Chen. They move like a coordinated dance team, their presence immediately commanding attention from everyone in the room.

    Lisa looks different now. Gone are the Hello Kitty hair clips and the nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ears. This Lisa walks with practiced confidence, her glossy black hair falling in perfect waves. She''s wearing the uniform of Amber''s court: a cashmere sweater, plaid skirt, and ballet flats, fitting in seamlessly with her new social circle.

    Hannah''s mind races back to the conversation she overheard. The calculated cruelty in Amber''s voice, the casual way she''d planned to destroy Lisa for daring to get close to her boyfriend. Because that''s what Nate was - Amber''s boyfriend, the other half of Riverside High''s golden couple. The screenshots Amber had mentioned, whatever scheme she was planning for Friday''s party... Should Hannah warn Lisa? The weight of the secret sits heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs like a physical thing. But getting between Amber Rosenberg and Nate Brooks seemed like a particularly creative form of social suicide.

    But then she remembers eighth grade, when Lisa stopped sitting with her at lunch. The gradual fade from best friends to strangers, punctuated by unanswered texts and declined invitations. How Lisa''s eyes would slide past her in the hallway, like Hannah had become invisible overnight.

    "So Franz whatever gets killed," Morris continues, oblivious to Hannah''s internal turmoil. His pen taps against the textbook in an irregular rhythm. "And then Austria just goes nuts and declares war on Serbia?"

    "Austria-Hungary," Hannah corrects automatically, her voice softer than intended. "It was an empire then, not just Austria."

    "Right, right." Morris nods enthusiastically. "The empire with the fancy mustache guys."

    The library doors swing open again, and Hannah''s heart performs its usual gymnastics routine. Because there''s Nate Brooks, wearing his letterman jacket like it was made for him, that wavy brown hair falling perfectly across his forehead. His presence changes the air pressure in the room¡ªor maybe that''s just Hannah''s imagination playing tricks on her.

    Jake Woodland follows close behind, golden boy quarterback to Nate''s star receiver. They''re mirror images in different coloring¡ªJake all California sunshine with his blonde hair and blue eyes, Nate darker and more intense. But they move with the same athletic grace, share the same easy confidence that comes from knowing exactly where you belong in the world.

    "Morris Vanderbaan in a library?" Nate''s voice carries that hint of amusement that makes everything sound like an inside joke. "Did you lose a bet?"

    "Ha ha," Morris rolls his eyes, but he''s grinning. "Some of us actually study sometimes, Brooks."

    Jake drops into the chair next to Morris, spinning it around with casual grace. "Yeah, right. Next you''ll tell us you''re joining the debate team."

    Nate grabs a chair, turning it backward and straddling it in one fluid motion. His eyes find Hannah''s, and that smile¡ªthe one that still holds traces of shared fruit roll-ups and secret handshakes¡ªcurves his lips. "Hey, Marshall."

    "Hi," Hannah manages, proud that her voice doesn''t crack. She focuses on breathing normally, on not thinking about how close he is, about how he still smells like autumn air and something uniquely him.

    "Marshall?" Jake''s eyebrows lift with interest. "As in Marshall Construction?"

    Hannah feels her cheeks heat. "No, um, my dad works in insurance."This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "Hannah and I went to elementary school together," Nate explains, and something in his voice makes Hannah''s heart skip. Like maybe those memories mean something to him too, like maybe they''re not just artifacts from a different life.

    Jake snatches Morris''s textbook with the casual entitlement of someone who''s never been told no. "World War Two, right? Hitler and all that shit?"

    "World War One, Woodland." Nate''s voice is easy, relaxed, and Hannah tries not to notice how his fingers drum a gentle rhythm against the back of his chair.

    Jake''s expression shifts¡ªsubtle, but Hannah catches it. Three years of observing from the social sidelines has made her fluent in Riverside High''s unspoken language. "Oh yeah? And what do you know about it, Brooks?"

    The smirk that spreads across Nate''s face shouldn''t make Hannah''s stomach flip, but it does. He leans forward slightly, and she catches a hint of his cologne¡ªsomething expensive and subtle that makes her think of autumn bonfires and star-filled skies.

    "June 28, 1914. Archduke Franz Ferdinand gets assassinated in Sarajevo." His voice takes on a professor-like quality that Hannah''s never heard before. "Austria-Hungary blames Serbia, Russia backs Serbia, Germany backs Austria-Hungary. Everyone''s got alliances, everyone''s got pride, and before you know it¡ª" he waves his hand through the air "¡ªthe whole world''s at war. Four years, seventeen million dead, and Europe''s map gets redrawn like a kid''s coloring book."

    Hannah stares at him, heat creeping up her neck. Because of course. Of course Nate Brooks isn''t just unfairly attractive and genuinely kind. Of course he also knows more about World War One than most of her AP History class combined. The universe, clearly, has a twisted sense of humor.

    "How do you know all that?" Morris asks, voicing Hannah''s thoughts.

    Jake''s laugh echoes through the library, earning a sharp look from Mrs. Bucher at the desk. He throws an arm around Nate''s shoulders. "Because Richard Rosenberg wants his future son-in-law Stanford-ready. Isn''t that right, Brooks?"

    Nate''s eyebrows lift in that way that means yes without having to say it. Hannah''s chest tightens. Right. Because he''s not just Nate Brooks, star receiver. He''s Nate Brooks, Amber Rosenberg''s boyfriend. Future Stanford student. Future everything that has nothing to do with girls who babysit for gas money.

    "So what brings you to our humble house of learning?" Morris asks, attempting and failing to sound sophisticated.

    That smile again. Hannah wishes she was immune to it.

    "Looking for someone," Nate says, glancing around the library with practiced casualness.

    "We''re here for Park Jin-ho," Jake cuts in. "Guy''s got a direct line to AP Physics answers that would make Einstein jealous."

    The words tumble out before Hannah can stop them: "You''re buying homework?"

    "Not me," Nate holds up his hands, and his eyes meet hers for a split second. "I actually like physics."

    "Some of us," Jake says with practiced nonchalance, "prefer to outsource our academic achievements to more qualified individuals."

    Hannah doesn''t mean to say it. But the words slip out before she can stop them: "So you''re getting an early start on your Wall Street career? Paying other people to do the work while you take the credit?"

    The joke lands better than she expected. Jake throws his head back laughing, Morris nearly chokes on his water, and even Nate''s trying to hide his grin behind his hand. For a moment¡ªjust a moment¡ªit feels like the social walls of Riverside High have developed a crack.

    "Damn, Marshall''s got jokes," Jake grins, and there''s something in his voice that makes Hannah want to retreat back to her wobbly table and the safety of historical dates. "You should definitely come on Friday."

    "Come where?"

    "My Halloween party." Jake says it like he''s offering her a seat at the cool kids'' table¡ªwhich, Hannah realizes, he kind of is. "My parents are gone for some charity thing. House is gonna be empty. Everyone''s going all out with costumes this year."

    Hannah''s mind races. Jake Woodland''s parties are legendary¡ªthe kind of event that gets whispered about in hallways for weeks after. The kind of party she''s never been invited to, because girls who babysit the Rosenberg kids don''t get invited to parties thrown by guys who drive Range Rovers to school.

    "I don''t know..." Hannah fidgets with her pen, trying to ignore the way her heart''s doing backflips.

    "It would be cool if you came." Nate''s voice is soft, almost private, and when she looks up, he''s wearing that smile again. Perfect white teeth, genuine warmth, and three years'' worth of what-ifs wrapped in a letterman jacket.

    Then Amber''s voice echoes in her head¡ªsharp and cruel and calculating¡ªand reality comes crashing back. The screenshots, the party, the carefully laid trap. Her stomach twists.

    "You''re welcome to come, Hannah." Morris cuts through her spiral of thoughts. "Do whatever feels right."

    "So what are you really doing here, Brooks?" Morris continues, squinting at Nate. "If you''re not buying homework like our morally flexible friend here?"

    Hannah finds herself leaning forward slightly, genuinely curious. Because yeah, what is Nate Brooks doing in the library if not participating in Jake''s academic outsourcing program?

    Jake''s grin turns wicked. "Oh, you didn''t hear? Poor little puppy called Nate Brooks lost his owner Amber Rosenberg. Been wandering the halls ever since, hoping she''ll come find him."

    "You''re dead, Woodland!" Nate launches himself at Jake, catching him in a headlock. They wrestle like puppies, all contained strength and brotherly affection, knocking into a nearby chair.

    "Gentlemen!" Mrs. Bucher''s voice cuts through the library like a steel blade. "This is not the football field!"

    "Sorry, Mrs. B!" They break apart, matching grins on their faces, not looking sorry at all. Hannah tries not to notice how Nate''s hair has gotten slightly messed up, how it makes him look younger, more like the boy who used to share his snacks with her.

    "Let''s bounce." Jake straightens his shirt. "See you around, Vandenbaan."

    Nate claps Morris on the shoulder, then turns to Hannah. "See you at the party, Marshall." He throws her a wink that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states, then follows Jake into the library.

    Morris returns to his textbook, but Hannah can''t focus anymore. The invitation to Jake''s party sits in her mind like a lit fuse, sparking all kinds of possibilities.

    She shouldn''t go. That''s the smart play. Jake Woodland''s Halloween parties are legendary for all kinds of reasons, not all of them good. And getting anywhere near Nate Brooks while Amber Rosenberg is plotting vengeance against Lisa? That''s the kind of bad decision that could turn senior year into a social minefield.

    But God, that smile. The way he said her name, like he was tasting it. Like maybe he remembers third grade too, remembers how they used to be friends before money and status and last names started mattering. Before Amber Rosenberg claimed him like a crown jewel in her perfectly curated life.

    Then there''s Lisa. Sweet, ambitious Lisa, who doesn''t know she''s walking into a trap. Lisa, who might have abandoned their friendship for a shot at the cool kids'' table, but who still deserves better than whatever Amber''s planning.

    Hannah closes her history book, her mind racing. It''s senior year. Their last chance at everything¡ªlast football games, last parties, last opportunities to be brave or stupid or both. After this, they''ll all scatter to different colleges, different lives, different social circles where high school hierarchies won''t matter anymore.

    Maybe that''s exactly why she should go. Maybe she should go because she''s tired of watching life from the sidelines, tired of playing it safe.

    Or maybe she''s just tired of playing it safe. Tired of being the girl who tutors from the wobbly library table, who watches life happen from the edges.

    The bell rings, sharp and final, like it''s making the decision for her. Hannah gathers her books, her mind made up. She''s going to that party.

    After all, what''s the worst that could happen?

 Chapter IV.

    Rain taps against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Nate''s room like nature''s own Morse code, transforming the woods behind the Brooks estate into a dark canvas of shifting shadows. The space itself is a testament to carefully curated masculinity¡ªall clean lines and neutral tones, with just enough personal touches to make it feel lived in rather than staged. Like everything else in Nate''s world, it walks the line between effortless and intentional.

    Amber burrows deeper into Nate''s oversized football sweater, the familiar BROOKS 67 stretched across her shoulders like a claim of ownership. The fabric smells like him¡ªa mix of his cologne and that indefinable scent that makes her heart do illegal things in her chest. Her bare feet rest in his lap, and his fingers trace absent patterns along her ankle, each touch sending little sparks of electricity through her nervous system.

    "What about Gatsby and Daisy?" She holds up her phone, displaying yet another Pinterest-perfect couple costume. The rain creates a cozy backdrop to their Halloween planning session, making the bedroom feel like their own private universe.

    "Pass," Nate says without looking up, his thumb finding a particularly sensitive spot on her arch that makes her toes curl. "I''m not spending the whole night explaining to Jake who Gatsby is."

    "Romeo and Juliet?"

    That gets her a look¡ªthe one that makes her understand why freshman girls giggle in the hallways when he passes. "You want us to dress as teenagers who die? That''s dark, princess."

    She scrolls further, past endless iterations of couples trying too hard to be clever. "We could do the classic angel and devil thing. Though..." Her eyes drift over his bare chest, all wide receiver perfection and careful dedication to weight room schedules. "You''d make a pretty convincing angel."

    "Says the girl who made a freshman cry last week."

    "She was wearing knockoff Valentino. Someone had to tell her."

    His laugh rumbles through the mattress. "You''re terrible."

    "You love it."

    "God help me, I do." His fingers slide higher, tracing the delicate bones of her ankle. "Find anything that won''t end in tragedy or tears?"

    "Wait¡ª" She sits up straighter, nearly kicking him in her excitement. "Harley Quinn and Joker. Look!"

    Nate leans forward, interest finally caught. The movement does interesting things to his abs¡ªa sight that still makes her Instagram followers spam heart emojis. "That could work."

    "Right? You''d look hot with green hair." She runs her fingers through his waves, imagining the transformation. "All dangerous and unhinged."

    "Takes one to know one," he teases, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "You just want an excuse to wear those tiny shorts."

    "Please. Like I need an excuse." She arches an eyebrow. "Besides, you love my legs."

    "Among other things." His voice drops lower, making promises his parents downstairs probably wouldn''t approve of.

    Nate¡¯s hand wandered past her feet, brushing against her ankles, his fingers warm and deliberate. Amber shivered at the sensation, then kicked his hand away lightly, grinning. ¡°Not today,¡± she teased, her voice soft but firm.

    Nate groaned dramatically, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. ¡°You¡¯re killing me, Amber. I want you so fucking bad.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll survive,¡± she replied, stretching out her legs and tapping his shoulder with her toes. ¡°I¡¯ve got to keep up the perfect girlfriend act for your mom. She¡¯s finally starting to like me. I¡¯m not about to let her think I¡¯m corrupting her precious son.¡±

    Nate¡¯s laugh was low and throaty. ¡°If only she knew what you do to me.¡±

    Amber leaned closer, her lips curling into a wicked smile. ¡°Only what her son does to me.¡±

    He let out a frustrated grunt and flopped back against the pillows. ¡°You¡¯re impossible, you know that?¡±

    ¡°And yet, here you are,¡± she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder. ¡°Now be a good boyfriend and make yourself useful. How about a back rub?¡±

    Nate raised an eyebrow. ¡°A back rub? That¡¯s the best way I can please my princess?¡±

    Amber nodded solemnly. ¡°Not just any back rub. The one you do when I can¡¯t sleep¡ªthe kind where you tickle me just a little. You¡¯re surprisingly good at it.¡±

    ¡°Surprisingly?¡± He sat up, feigning offense, then reached for her waist. ¡°Come here, princess. Let¡¯s see how good I really am.¡±

    She squealed as he helped her wiggle out of the oversized jersey, leaving her in just her bra. Nate shifted, straddling her hips and sitting on her bottom. His hands moved with practiced ease, tracing her shoulders and tickling down her back. Amber¡¯s laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, blending with contented hums as the tension melted away.

    But the moment was cut short by a sharp voice from downstairs. ¡°Nathaniel!¡±

    Amber froze, then stifled a giggle as Nate groaned and dropped his forehead against her shoulder. ¡°Dr. Katherine Brooks summons you,¡± she teased.

    ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her neck before standing. He grabbed a hoodie from his desk chair and tugged it on as he headed for the door. ¡°I¡¯ll be back.¡±

    Amber watched him leave, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The room felt bigger without him, the quiet more noticeable. Her eyes drifted to the nightstand where his phone lay forgotten. She hesitated, biting her lip. It wasn¡¯t like she didn¡¯t trust him¡ªshe did. Mostly.

    But the memory of the last time she¡¯d looked lingered, sharp and unforgiving. That Snapchat of Lisa Chen, still open¡ªa picture that could ruin Lisa¡¯s life if Amber ever chose to use it. She told herself she wouldn¡¯t check again, that it wasn¡¯t worth the drama. Yet her fingers itched with curiosity.

    Before she could second-guess herself, she grabbed his phone. The screen lit up, and her own face stared back at her: a photo from the summer, lounging on her parents¡¯ yacht in the Bahamas. She¡¯d picked that bikini because she knew it drove Nate crazy. And it worked. His mom might see a classy family portrait, but Amber knew better. Nate was obsessed with that photo, and the way it made him feel like she belonged to him.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    She swiped up and entered his passcode¡ª6767. The digits were as easy to remember as breathing. Nate wasn¡¯t exactly secretive about it to her.

    Amber opened Snapchat, her heart beating faster than she liked to admit. The app loaded, revealing streaks, unopened snaps, and¡ªLisa¡¯s chat. She clicked on it, her breath hitching as she scanned their messages.

    Lisa was flirting. So obvious it was embarrassing. The stupid winks, the ¡°this stays between us, right? ;)¡± messages. Amber¡¯s jaw tightened as she read Lisa¡¯s desperate attempts to pull Nate into her orbit. But Nate? His replies were short. Polite. Detached. If he¡¯d taken the bait, it didn¡¯t show here. A strange mixture of emotions churned in her chest¡ªpride in Nate for keeping it cool, and fury at Lisa for even trying.

    ¡°Lisa Chen,¡± Amber muttered through clenched teeth, her voice low and sharp. The name tasted bitter in her mouth, a reminder of betrayal. Lisa had played the friend card once, all sweet smiles and shared secrets, but now? Amber¡¯s nails pressed into her palm, leaving tiny crescents behind. The rage churned within her, simmering just beneath the surface, hot and relentless.

    Lisa was pretty, though. Amber couldn¡¯t deny that. Hot, even. For a moment, that bitter admission cut through her anger. But it didn¡¯t last. The thought of Lisa¡¯s face, her too-perfect eyeliner, trying to edge into Amber¡¯s territory made her stomach turn. Her vision blurred, the familiar tightness in her chest swelling until it felt like her ribs might crack.

    She¡¯s going to pay for this, Amber thought. And Nate¡­ Nate should have told her. Her anger shifted direction, sharper now, pointed at him. Her breathing quickened, shallow and erratic. The room spun for a moment, her pulse pounding in her ears. She slammed the phone back onto the nightstand just as she heard his footsteps on the stairs.

    The door opened, and Nate walked in, his face lit up with an easy smile. "Mom needed help with a plant pot. You know her¡ªcan''t let anyone sit still for too long," he said, tugging his hoodie straight with a casual shrug. "She¡¯s probably just using it as an excuse to check in on us, though. Classic Mom."

    Amber¡¯s fists clenched tighter. Her jaw ached from grinding her teeth. She wanted to throw something at him, to scream until her throat burned, to make him feel even a fraction of the chaos storming inside her. The anger overtook her, wild and uncontrollable, like a hurricane that refused to be contained. It was happening more often lately, these violent bursts of fury that left her trembling and breathless.

    ¡°Hey,¡± Nate said softly, his tone cautious but steady. ¡°You okay?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Amber snapped, the venom in her voice unmistakable. Her hands shook, and her breathing came in sharp, uneven bursts. She felt like she was unraveling, the threads of her composure slipping through her fingers.

    Nate moved closer, lowering himself to one knee in front of her. His expression didn¡¯t waver, calm and reassuring. ¡°Amber,¡± he said quietly, his voice a soothing balm against the storm inside her. ¡°It¡¯s me. Talk to me.¡±

    Her chest heaved, the fire inside her burning hotter, but something in his tone made her hesitate. She turned her head, refusing to meet his eyes. Her mind raced, a chaotic jumble of rage, guilt, and the unbearable weight of being seen.

    Nate didn¡¯t press her. He placed his hands gently on her knees, the warmth of his touch grounding her. ¡°Hey,¡± he murmured, his voice softer now. ¡°I¡¯m here. Whatever¡¯s going on, we¡¯ll figure it out. Together.¡±

    Amber¡¯s breathing hitched, and her hands unclenched, leaving crescent-shaped imprints on her palms. The fire inside her flickered, dimming under the steady glow of his presence. Her shoulders sagged, the tension seeping out of her body.

    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m just¡­¡± Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing the words out. ¡°I get in my head sometimes.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s okay,¡± Nate said, his thumbs brushing gentle circles on her knees. ¡°You don¡¯t have to go through it alone. I¡¯ve got you, babe. Always.¡±

    Amber tried to hold back the tears, but they came anyway, hot and unrelenting. She buried her face in her hands, her breath hitching. "I''m sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I¡­ I don¡¯t know why this happens. I can¡¯t stop it."

    Nate¡¯s expression softened instantly. He knelt in front of her, pulling her hands gently away from her face. "Hey, hey," he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "It¡¯s okay, babe. You¡¯re okay."

    His words wrapped around her like a warm blanket, steadying her as the storm inside began to quiet. Nate shifted closer, his arms enveloping her. Amber clung to him, her tears soaking into his hoodie, but he didn¡¯t seem to care.

    "You always make it better," she mumbled against his chest. "I love you."

    He leaned back just enough to meet her eyes, his thumbs wiping away the damp trails on her cheeks. "And I love you," he said simply. "Every messy, beautiful part of you."

    Her chest ached, but now it was from a swell of gratitude, not anger. "I was afraid of losing you," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

    Nate¡¯s brow furrowed. "Losing me? Amber, there¡¯s no chance of that. None. Zero." His voice was gentle but firm, as if he could will her to believe it. "You¡¯re my girl. Always have been, always will be."

    The conviction in his tone made her lips curve into a small smile. "You mean that?"

    "Of course I do. Look at you¡ªthere¡¯s my princess again," he said, his voice softening into the teasing tone she knew so well.

    A weak laugh escaped her. "You¡¯re ridiculous," she murmured.

    "Ridiculously in love with you," Nate countered, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to her lips. It was sweet and unhurried, a quiet reminder of their connection.

    When they pulled apart, he reached for a tissue on the nightstand, dabbing away the last of her tears. "There. Now my princess is good as new."

    Amber sighed, the weight in her chest finally lifting. "I¡¯m sorry. For being¡­ I don¡¯t know. Crazy or something."

    Nate tilted his head, his eyes twinkling with affection. "You¡¯re not crazy. Well, maybe a little bit. But I love that part of you, too."

    She swatted at his arm, a faint grin breaking through her remaining gloom. "Can we just forget the last five minutes happened?"

    Nate¡¯s face lit up, and he dramatically rewound an imaginary tape with his hands. "Bzzt! Rewinding! Okay, Amber¡¯s weird meltdown¡ªdeleted!"

    His antics sent a burst of laughter through her, loud and genuine. It felt good¡ªbetter than she¡¯d expected.

    "Lay on your belly," Nate commanded, his tone playful but insistent.

    Amber raised an eyebrow but obeyed, sprawling out on the bed.

    He climbed onto the bed, straddling her hips again. "Now," he said, his fingers trailing down her spine with a feather-light touch, "I¡¯m going to remind you how much I love you, one tickle at a time."

    Her laughter bubbled up instantly, filling the room as his hands danced across her back, erasing every trace of the storm that had just passed.

    Amber lay still beneath Nate¡¯s touch, the gentle tracing of his fingers on her back sending a shiver of warmth through her body. It wasn¡¯t the kind of touch that demanded anything¡ªno urgency, no expectation¡ªjust a quiet reassurance that he was there, grounding her in the moment. She let out a slow, steady breath, her worries ebbing away with each soft stroke.

    She didn¡¯t know how he did it, how he always seemed to know exactly what she needed before she even said it. There was something about the way he tickled her back that was impossible to explain. It wasn¡¯t just the sensation, though that was nice, too. It was the way it felt like he was painting invisible words onto her skin, each one saying, ¡°I¡¯m here. You¡¯re safe. I¡¯ve got you.¡±

    Her eyes fluttered shut, a small smile tugging at her lips. It was moments like these that made everything else fade away¡ªthe fights, the doubts, the constant hum of anxiety in the back of her mind. This was their space, their quiet little corner of the world where nothing could reach her.

    ¡°Close your eyes, love,¡± Nate murmured, his voice low and steady, like the rumble of distant thunder. It vibrated through her, calming her in a way she could never quite put into words. ¡°I promise, I won¡¯t stop until you say so.¡±

    Amber obeyed, her lashes resting against her cheeks as she sank deeper into the mattress. The rhythmic motion of his fingers on her back was hypnotic, lulling her into a space where time didn¡¯t matter and the weight of the world couldn¡¯t touch her.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± she whispered, though she wasn¡¯t sure if he even heard her. Maybe she didn¡¯t need him to. The gratitude was in her smile, in the way her body finally relaxed against his touch.

    Nate didn¡¯t respond, at least not with words. Instead, he kept going, his fingers tracing lazy, looping patterns across her skin. She let herself drift, caught in the warm glow of his presence and the steady rhythm of his movements. For once, her mind was quiet.

    The last coherent thought she had before sleep claimed her was simple: this, right here, was love.

 Chapter V.

    Hannah tugs at the collar of her carefully ironed Oxford shirt, trying to find comfort in its familiar starchiness. She''d spent an embarrassing amount of time choosing this outfit¡ªa calculated attempt to look like she wasn''t trying too hard while also not looking like she''d rolled out of bed. The end result is what her mother would call "sensibly pretty": dark blue high-waisted corduroys from the thrift store (probably someone''s castoff J.Crew), her most presentable penny loafers (only slightly scuffed), and a cream-colored button-down that she''d rescued from the clearance rack at Target. Her hair is pulled back in what she hopes reads as "effortlessly messy" rather than "actually messy," secured with her lucky pencil¡ªthe one she''d used to ace every AP exam so far.

    The streets of Riverside''s Heights District feel like another planet. Here, even the air tastes expensive¡ªcrisp and clean, unmarred by the exhaust fumes that perpetually hover around her apartment complex downtown. Jack-o''-lanterns guard manicured lawns like tiny orange sentries, their faces carved with the kind of precision that suggests professional pumpkin artists might actually be a thing. Every house looks like it was plucked from a magazine spread about "Autumn in New England," all perfect symmetry and tasteful Halloween decorations that probably cost more than her monthly grocery budget.

    A group of trick-or-treaters scampers past, their costumes reflecting trust funds rather than creativity¡ªstore-bought Marvel heroes and Disney princesses, not a homemade bedsheet ghost in sight. Their parents trail behind, discussing property values and school board elections in voices that carry just the right note of casual affluence.

    Another car full of teenagers roars past, bass thumping through custom speakers, Halloween costumes fluttering out the windows like flags. They''re all heading to the same place¡ªJake Woodland''s party, the social event horizon of senior year. Hannah''s stomach does an uncomfortable flip as she thinks about it. About him. About Nate Brooks in the library, looking at her like she was more than just the girl who helps Morris with history.

    "I mean, maybe he was just being nice," she mutters to herself, scuffing her loafers against perfect concrete. "Maybe¡ª"

    The growl of a well-maintained engine interrupts her self-doubt session. A matte black Tesla Model 3 pulls alongside her, its electric whir somehow managing to sound pretentious. The window rolls down with a whisper of engineering excellence, revealing a familiar face.

    "Hannah banana!" David Marshall''s grin is visible even through his meticulously crafted Dungeons & Dragons wizard costume, complete with a staff. Her cousin''s glasses catch the streetlight, making him look momentarily ethereal¡ªif wizards shopped at Brooks Brothers, that is. "What''s my favorite cousin doing walking these hallowed streets?"

    "I''m your only cousin, dork." But she''s smiling despite herself. David''s always been the family''s golden child¡ªthe one who managed to turn his computer science obsession into an early admission to MIT.

    "Nice outfit." His eyes twinkle behind his glasses. "Very librarian chic. Let me guess¡ªyou''re going as... someone who organizes books by the Dewey Decimal System?"

    "I''m not in costume," Hannah protests, but she can feel her cheeks warming. "This is just... me."

    From the driver''s seat, Alex Winters snorts. Even on Halloween, she''s a study in calculated darkness¡ªblack lipstick, black clothes, skin so pale it makes vampires look sun-kissed. Her "costume" consists of adding plastic fangs to her usual gothic ensemble. "Get in, Marshall. These hills are brutal in those sensible shoes."

    Hannah hesitates. Alex Winters exists in a different social stratosphere at Riverside High¡ªnot quite with the Amber Rosenbergs of the world, but definitely above Hannah''s careful invisibility. She''s the kind of girl who quotes Sylvia Plath in English class and somehow makes it sound cool.

    "I''m okay walking¡ª"

    "Hannah." Alex''s dark-rimmed eyes fix on her through the rearview mirror. "It''s Halloween. The one night a year when social hierarchies are supposed to dissolve like fake blood in the rain. Get your corduroyed ass in this car."

    David pats the seat beside him. "Come on, Han. Let me protect my favorite cousin from the terrors of suburban trick-or-treaters."

    "Again, only cousin." But Hannah finds herself reaching for the door handle. The Tesla''s interior smells like patchouli and expensive leather¡ªan odd combination that somehow works, just like Alex herself.

    "I didn''t know you were into parties," David says as they glide up the hill, the car''s electric motor humming like a contented cat. "Thought your idea of a wild night was reorganizing your calculus notes."

    "It''s senior year," Hannah manages, trying to sound casual. "Thought I should... expand my horizons."

    Alex''s laugh is warm despite her frosty appearance. "Expand your horizons all the way to Jake Woodland''s, huh?" She reaches into her studded leather jacket and produces a small bag of what definitely isn''t oregano. "Can''t blame you. Guy''s an ass, but he knows how to throw a party. Plus, he always buys the good stuff."

    Hannah blinks. "You and Jake..."

    "Share certain recreational interests." Alex''s grin is all mischief and expensive orthodonture. "What, you thought all those football bros were actually that chill naturally?"

    The Tesla crests another hill, and suddenly it''s there¡ªthe Woodland estate, sprawling across its carefully landscaped acres like a small country. Music pulses from within, and costumed figures stream up the circular driveway like pilgrims to a particularly exclusive shrine.

    Hannah''s heart performs a complex gymnastics routine in her chest. Somewhere in there, Nate Brooks is probably already holding court, all footballplayer grace and careful charm. Somewhere in there, Amber Rosenberg is probably plotting someone''s social execution. Somewhere in there, Hannah Marshall is about to either make history or become another casualty of Riverside High''s brutal social warfare.

    "Ready?" Alex asks, guiding the Tesla into a spot between a Porsche and what looks like a brand-new Range Rover.

    Hannah takes a deep breath, inhaling patchouli and privilege and possibility. "As I''ll ever be."

    Some nights are for staying safe. Some nights are for expanding horizons.

    And some nights¡ªlike this one¡ªare for rewriting history.

    The Woodland mansion looms before them, its windows pulsing with multicolored lights. Hannah instinctively steps closer to David and Alex as they approach. Groups of costumed seniors cluster on the manicured lawn, their laughter mixing with the bass that thrums through the ground.

    "Stay close," Alex says, navigating through the crowd with practiced ease. Her black clothes part the sea of costumes like ink through water. Hannah follows in her wake, grateful for the buffer. The entrance hall of the Woodland house stretches before them, all marble and money, already sticky with spilled drinks.

    Alex leads them toward the kitchen where the party''s heart seems to beat strongest. Hannah catches glimpses of familiar faces through the crowd - Morris, free from his history homework, dancing with Sarah from AP Bio. His letterman jacket is draped over her shoulders, and he''s moving with considerably more rhythm than he shows for historical dates.

    "Well, well, well!"

    Jake Woodland''s voice cuts through the noise. Hannah turns, trying to channel confidence she doesn''t feel, but Jake breezes past her like she''s part of the decor. He wraps Alex in a bear hug that lifts her off her feet.

    "Got something for me?" Jake''s grin is sharp as a credit card edge.

    Hannah watches, fascinated, as Alex and Jake perform their strange dance. Alex whispers something in his ear that makes his grin widen, and there''s a subtle exchange of hands and pockets that Hannah pretends not to notice.

    "Drink?" Jake asks, already reaching for the red cups.

    "Three," Alex replies, nodding toward Hannah and David.

    Jake''s attention finally lands on them, like a spotlight swinging around. "Hannah, great you made it!" He pours with the expertise of someone who''s had plenty of practice, liquid splashing darkly into plastic cups.

    "Here you go... Daniel," he says, handing the last cup to David.

    "David," her cousin corrects, adjusting his wizard''s glasses.

    "Right, right. David. My bad, buddy." Jake ruffles David''s carefully styled hair, messing up the severe part. "Enjoy the party!" And then he''s gone, disappearing into the crowd like smoke.

    "What a jerk," David mutters, trying to fix his hair.

    "Total jerk," Hannah agrees, staring into her cup.

    Alex throws her head back and laughs. "Boys are so easy to play. Watch this - by midnight he''ll be writing bad poetry about my eyes." She grabs their hands. "Come on, nerds. We''re dancing."

    "I don''t dance," Hannah protests, but Alex is already pulling them toward the makeshift dance floor in the living room.

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    "Tonight you do," Alex declares, and somehow her absolute certainty makes it true. The music wraps around them like a spell, and Hannah finds herself moving, letting the rhythm wash away her usual careful calculations.

    For a moment, surrounded by her cousin''s bad wizard moves and Alex''s gothic grace, Hannah feels something strange and wonderful: belonging. Not the carefully manufactured belonging of the cheerleader crew, or the athletic camaraderie of the football team, but something real. Something that tastes like freedom and sounds like laughter.

    Then she sees him.

    Nate Brooks stands in the doorway, and the world stops spinning.

    Green hair shouldn''t look that good on anyone. But there''s Nate Brooks in the doorway, his Joker costume somehow transforming him from golden boy to something dangerous and electric. The tailored purple suit fits him like it was born to live on those shoulders, and even the face paint can''t hide the sharp line of his jaw. His hair is styled in careful chaos, temporary dye turning his waves into something wild and magnetic.

    Hannah''s heart does a complicated drumroll in her chest when his eyes find hers through the crowd. His smile, even painted in Joker red, still holds echoes of shared fruit roll-ups and third-grade secrets.

    "Ladies and gentlemen!" Justin Moore''s voice shatters the moment as he leaps onto the kitchen counter, his Batman costume a perfect counterpoint to Nate''s Joker. "Presenting the man who could throw a football to the moon if Coach would let him - Riverside''s own Prince of Chaos, the one, the only, Nate ''67'' Brooks!"

    Nate''s still in the doorway, but now his attention shifts, looking back over his shoulder. Of course. Of course she''s there.

    Amber Rosenberg materializes like an apparition of perfect timing, her Harley Quinn costume immaculately styled down to the last detail. The tiny shorts, the perfectly curled pigtails, the prop baseball bat - it''s all exactly right, because everything about Amber Rosenberg is always exactly right.

    Hannah feels her stomach turn to ice as Nate takes Amber''s hand, leading her into the kitchen like they''re walking a red carpet instead of navigating through drunk teenagers.

    "And his partner in crime," Justin continues, grinning down from his counter perch, "the queen of Riverside High herself, the girl who could kill you with a look and make you thank her for it - Amber Rosenberg!"

    Nate laughs as Justin launches himself off the counter, catching his fellow receiver in a display of athletic brotherhood that makes several freshman girls sigh audibly. "Pool!" Justin declares, still hanging off Nate''s shoulders. "Everyone''s waiting!"

    Nate turns, and suddenly he''s right there, almost colliding with Hannah. "Sorry," he says, and this close she can see where the green hair dye has stained his neck slightly.

    "Cool outfit," Hannah manages, hating how her voice comes out smaller than intended.

    "Well, well." Amber''s voice cuts through the air like scissors. "If it isn''t the babysitter. A bit far from the kiddie table, aren''t we?"

    Hannah forces herself to smile, channeling years of practice at the Rosenbergs''. "Just enjoying the party, Amber."

    "Hmm." Amber''s eyes flick over Hannah''s outfit like she''s cataloging every bargain-bin purchase. "I''m sure you are. Come on, Nate. Everyone''s waiting." She tugs at his arm, perfect nails digging into his sleeve.

    Hannah watches them go, Amber''s baseball bat swinging casually at her side like a warning.

    "Don''t even think about it," Alex says beside her, voice gentle despite her vampire fangs. "Getting between Amber Rosenberg and her property is like trying to steal a bone from a purebred pitbull. Not worth the blood loss."

    Hannah watches them disappear into the crowd, Amber''s pigtails bouncing with each step like tiny victory flags. Something in her chest aches, and she''s pretty sure it''s not just the cheap beer in her red cup.

    "I wasn''t thinking anything," she lies, but Alex''s knowing smile says she''s not fooling anyone.

    Some costumes, Hannah thinks, watching Nate''s green hair vanish into the sea of bodies, are harder to take off than others. And some roles - like the girl who stays in her lane, who knows her place in Riverside''s careful hierarchy - fit like a second skin, no matter how much you might wish to shed them.

    The kitchen becomes their temporary sanctuary, and Hannah feels the alcohol warming her veins, softening the edges of her usual careful restraint. Alex announces she needs to pee and disappears into the crowd, leaving Hannah and David to pour another drink.

    "You okay?" David asks, noticing her slight sway.

    "I don''t usually..." Hannah gestures vaguely with her cup. "This."

    The kitchen gradually empties, people trailing outside like moths drawn to some invisible flame. Through the windows, Hannah can see flashes of movement and laughter around the pool area.

    Lisa Chen and Susan Lawrence sweep into the kitchen, a study in contrasts. Lisa''s Wonder Woman costume is understated but perfect, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders. Susan, dressed as Catwoman, looks like she stepped off a magazine cover.

    "Hey, Hannah!" Lisa''s smile seems genuine, but before Hannah can respond, Susan''s fingers close around Lisa''s wrist.

    "Come on," Susan says, already pulling Lisa toward the door. "Everyone''s outside."

    With Alex gone and the kitchen feeling suddenly too empty, Hannah and David follow the exodus into the backyard. The Woodland''s pool area is like something from a resort - the water glows an ethereal blue, steam rising into the cool October air. Tall heaters create islands of warmth where people cluster, and music drifts from hidden speakers. The pool house looms at the far end, its windows dark and promising.

    "Yo, Marshall!"

    Hannah turns to find Alex sprawled on a luxurious outdoor sofa, her head resting comfortably in Jake Woodland''s lap. Jake, dressed in an impeccable tuxedo, looks every bit the James Bond he''s channeling. The scent of something definitely not tobacco drifts from between his fingers.

    "Join us?" Alex pats the space near her feet.

    Hannah and David settle onto the cushions, and Jake passes the joint to Alex with practiced ease. She takes a long drag before offering it back to him.

    Jake''s eyes find Hannah''s through the haze. "You partake, Marshall?"

    "I don''t smoke," Hannah says, then adds quickly, "Usually."

    "Come on," Alex coaxes, "Live a little. It''s good stuff."

    To Hannah''s shock, David reaches for the joint. "David!" she hisses.

    Her cousin grins, taking a hit like he''s done this before. "What? MIT''s going to drug test me?" He exhales slowly. "Besides, I''m a wizard tonight. This is basically a magic potion."

    Maybe it''s the alcohol, or maybe it''s the way everyone''s looking at her with amused expectation, but Hannah finds herself reaching for the joint. The first drag sends her into a coughing fit that makes everyone laugh.

    "Easy there, Marshall," Jake says, but his smile is surprisingly kind. "First time''s always rough."

    When she can breathe again, Hannah asks, "Don''t you guys get tested? For football?"

    Jake''s laugh carries across the pool. "Let''s just say there are ways around that. Otherwise we''d have to bench half the offensive line." He winks. "Plus, Coach Martinez''s son sells to half the team, so..."

    "No way," Hannah says, but Jake just grins and takes another hit.

    "Way," he confirms. "How do you think we stay so chill before games? Pure athleticism?"

    Hannah takes another hit, the world getting softer around the edges. Alex suddenly snatches David''s phone, holding it high above her head.

    "Party rules," Alex declares, dark lips curved in a mischievous smile. "No phones. Live in the moment."

    "Give it back!" David reaches for it, but Alex dances away, surprisingly nimble for someone who''s been drinking and smoking.

    "Come and get it, wizard boy!" Alex takes off across the patio, David chasing after her with his wizard robe flapping behind him.

    Hannah laughs, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and uninhibited. She leans forward to pass the joint back to Jake, but the world tilts sideways, and suddenly her face is in his lap.

    "Whoa there, Marshall." Jake''s voice carries amusement and something else. "Didn''t know you were that kind of girl."

    His hands help her up, but instead of letting her sit back, he guides her head to rest against his shoulder. His arm slides around her, and for a moment it feels nice, comfortable even. Then the comfort shifts into something else.

    Jake''s grip tightens, drawing her closer. "You know," he murmurs, "I always wondered about the quiet ones."

    Hannah''s mind clears slightly, alarm bells cutting through the haze. Jake''s arm feels less like support and more like a trap. She tries to shift away, but his fingers dig into her shoulder.

    "Didn''t know you were into quarterbacks, Hannah."

    Nate''s voice cuts through the moment like a knife through fog. He stands there, green hair catching the pool lights, his Joker makeup slightly smudged from the night''s festivities.

    "I''m not," Hannah manages, relief flooding her system as Nate drops onto the sofa beside her, sandwiching her between himself and Jake.

    "I''m hurt," Nate places a hand over his heart dramatically. "And here I thought Jake and I had something special. No one comes between our bromance, Marshall."

    "Best friends since diapers," Jake confirms, his grip on Hannah finally loosening. He passes the joint to Nate.

    Nate takes a long drag, and Hannah watches, fascinated, as the smoke curls around his Joker smile.

    Jake lets out a low whistle. "Well, well. Look who decided to be bad tonight. Does Daddy Rosenberg know his perfect future son-in-law is corrupting himself?"

    "Don''t have to drive Amber home," Nate shrugs, passing the joint back. "Perks of her living three houses down from you."

    Hannah sits there, acutely aware of the heat from both boys'' bodies, of the way Nate''s knee occasionally brushes against hers. The night air feels electric, charged with something she can''t quite name. She''s caught between Jake''s casual dominance and Nate''s careful charm, and she''s not sure which is more dangerous.

    Hannah spots Amber approaching, Alex''s earlier warning echoing in her head. She tries to extract herself from between Jake and Nate, but there''s nowhere to go.

    "Well, isn''t this cozy?" Amber''s voice cuts through the haze, her heeled boots clicking against the stone patio. "Stuck between Riverside''s finest. Most girls would kill for your spot right now, Hannah." Her Harley Quinn smile is sharp in the pool lights.

    She bends down to kiss Nate, then unexpectedly drops onto Jake''s lap, swinging her legs across Hannah to rest her combat boots on Nate''s thighs. She snuggles against Jake''s chest dramatically. "This is getting complicated. The legendary bromance, and now Hannah too? What''s a girl to think?"

    "Jealous, Rosenberg?" Jake''s hands find her waist.

    "Speaking of complications," Amber sits up suddenly. "I definitely just saw two juniors sneaking up to your dad''s room. Pretty sure one of them had a bottle from the good cabinet."

    "What?" Jake practically launches Amber off his lap, wedging her between himself and Hannah as he stands. "Those little¡ª"

    "Need backup?" Nate starts to rise.

    "Nah, I got this." Jake''s already moving, his James Bond persona dropping as he storms toward the house.

    Amber stretches her legs, her feet finding Nate''s neck, playing with his collar. "Baby," she purrs, "be a good Joker and get your Harley Quinn a drink?"

    "As you wish, princess." Nate catches her boot, pressing a kiss to her ankle before standing.

    The moment he''s gone, Amber turns to Hannah. Her voice drops, all playfulness vanishing.

    "We''re not friends, Hannah. Let''s be clear about that. I''m only telling you this because you take care of my brother, and Tommy..." She pauses, something softer crossing her face. "Tommy trusts you."

    Hannah feels the world tilt slightly. Whether it''s the weed or this unexpected version of Amber, she''s not sure.

    "I saw you with Jake," Amber continues. "And despite what everyone thinks, I''m not completely heartless. You think you know Jake Woodland? The charming quarterback with the perfect smile? You don''t."

    "What do you mean?"

    Amber''s fingers tighten around her baseball bat. "Three girls transferred schools this year. Know why?" She leans closer, her voice barely a whisper. "Jake''s got this thing about boundaries. About the word ''no.'' And his father has very, very expensive lawyers."

    Hannah''s blood runs cold. "But you and Jake seem so..."

    "Close?" Amber''s laugh is bitter. "That''s the game, Hannah. The burden of dating Nate Brooks¡­" She glances toward the house.

    "Why are you telling me this?"

    "Because beneath that thrift store cardigan and those sensible shoes, you''re not stupid. And maybe..." Amber hesitates, her carefully constructed facade cracking just slightly. "Maybe I''m tired of watching girls walk into his web thinking they''re special. That they''ll be different."

    Hannah stares at her, seeing past the costume, past the perfect makeup, to something unexpectedly real. "I didn''t think you cared about¡ª"

    "I don''t," Amber cuts her off. "But we girls have to stick together sometimes. Even if we hate each other." She shifts slightly. "And Hannah? I didn''t come over here to mark my territory. it was me that send Nate because I saw how Jake was looking at you."

    "Nate knew?"

    "Nate knows everything." Amber''s smile is sad. "It''s part of why I¡ª"

    She stops abruptly, her entire body tensing. Hannah follows her gaze to see Nate in the doorway, red cups in hand. Lisa Chen stands next to him, her fingers wrapped around his bicep as she laughs at something he''s said. The way she''s looking up at him, the way her hand lingers...

    "That little bitch," Amber whispers, but there''s something in her voice Hannah''s never heard before. Something that sounds almost like fear.

    Hannah watches as Amber rises to her feet, baseball bat gripped tight. The party seems to hold its breath, like the moment before lightning strikes.

    And Hannah suddenly remembers what she overheard at the Rosenbergs'' that day. About plans. About teaching Lisa Chen a lesson.

    About what happens when people forget their place in the ecosystem.

 Chapter VI.

    Amber''s fingers tighten around the baseball bat until her knuckles match her French manicure. The pool lights catch on Lisa''s Wonder Woman costume, turning the cheap polyester into something that almost passes for silk. Almost. Like everything about Lisa Chen¡ªalmost good enough, almost worthy, almost belonging.

    The world narrows to a single point: Lisa''s hand on Nate''s arm, her fingers pressing little half-moons into his costume. Each laugh that bubbles up from her throat feels like a personal assault, like someone keying a Bentley just to watch the paint scratch.

    "Amber." Hannah''s voice comes from somewhere far away. "Don''t."

    A memory surfaces through the rage¡ªher father''s voice, smooth as aged scotch: "Rosenbergs don''t lose control, princess. We orchestrate." She''d been six, throwing a tantrum over some perceived slight at a charity gala. He''d knelt down, straightened her party dress, and taught her the first rule of their world: "Power isn''t in the punch. It''s in making them punch themselves."

    Amber forces her grip to relax, letting out a breath that tastes like expensive vodka and careful calculation. "Here," she says, passing the bat to Hannah with a smile that would make sharks nervous. "Hold this."

    She approaches them like she''s walking a runway, each step precisely measured. Lisa sees her first, and something flickers across her face¡ªrecognition of the coming storm.

    "Amber!" Lisa''s voice is bright, practiced. The kind of tone you perfect when you''re trying to prove you belong. "Your costume is amazing."

    Nate holds out one of the red cups. "Got your drink, princess."

    But Amber''s focus has already shifted, like a sniper finding their target. "Lisa Chen." She lets the name roll off her tongue like she''s sampling wine she knows is beneath her. "Can we talk?"

    "I should probably¡ª" Lisa starts, but Amber''s already hooked her arm through Lisa''s, steering her away from Nate with the kind of gentle force that brooks no argument.

    "You know," Amber begins once they''re by the pool''s edge, her voice carrying just enough to draw a small audience, "I''ve been thinking about your college essays. All those personal statements about... what was it? ''Straddling two worlds''? Very touching."

    Lisa stiffens beside her. "Amber¡ª"

    "No, really. It''s inspiring. Your parents'' little restaurant, all those nights helping with takeout orders, dreaming of something... bigger." Amber''s smile is razor-sharp. "But here''s the thing about dreams, Lisa. Sometimes they make us forget where we belong."

    "I belong wherever I choose," Lisa says, but there''s a tremor in her voice that makes Amber''s smile widen.

    "Do you? Because from where I''m standing, it looks like you''re choosing to get very... friendly with my boyfriend." Amber reaches into her costume, producing her phone like she''s drawing a weapon. "And speaking of choices..."

    "What are you doing?" Lisa''s voice has lost its careful brightness.

    "You know, it''s funny. Nate''s always been terrible about checking his Snapchat. Leaves it for days sometimes." Amber''s fingers dance across the screen. "So when a certain... message came in last week, well. Let''s just say I was being a good girlfriend, making sure he hadn''t missed anything important."

    The color drains from Lisa''s face. "You didn''t¡ª"

    "Oh, but I did." Amber holds up the phone, the screenshot casting a harsh glow between them. Lisa''s breath catches as she sees herself on the screen¡ªa private moment never meant for public eyes. The accompanying text makes her stomach drop: "For your eyes only, Nate ??"

    "That¡ª" Lisa''s voice cracks. "I never sent¡ª"

    "Really?" Amber''s laugh is crystalline, designed to carry. "Because it came directly from your Snapchat to his. At 2 AM last Tuesday, to be exact." She leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "What''s wrong? Didn''t think anyone would see it before him? Didn''t know I check his phone while he''s at practice?"

    Tears glitter in Lisa''s eyes, catching the pool lights like discount diamonds. "Nate and I... we were just talking about college applications¡ª"

    "Save it." Amber''s voice hardens. "A naked selfie is hardly academic advisement, Lisa. Did you really think he''d leave me for you? That one little picture would make him forget who he belongs with?" She holds up the phone like a weapon. "You have exactly thirty seconds to leave this party before this becomes everyone''s favorite group chat topic. And trust me, college admissions officers check social media these days."

    "You wouldn''t."

    "Try me."

    The silence stretches between them like designer silk, ready to tear. Then Lisa turns, her Wonder Woman costume suddenly looking like the cheap costume it is, and flees toward the house.

    "Lisa, wait!" Nate''s voice cuts through the night. Before Amber can react, he''s brushing past her, following Lisa''s retreating form.

    For the first time all night, Amber''s perfect composure cracks. Because this isn''t how it''s supposed to go. Because Nate Brooks is supposed to be hers, completely and irrevocably. Because the crown she''s worn since birth suddenly feels heavier than all her family''s expectations combined.

    And as she watches Nate''s green hair disappear into the darkness after Lisa Chen, Amber Rosenberg learns a lesson her father never taught her: Sometimes the most painful wounds are the ones we inflict on ourselves.

    Hannah materializes at Amber''s side, swaying slightly. "What did you say to her?"

    "Just¡ª" Amber blinks, the world tilting a bit. "Just reminded her about boundaries." She grabs the baseball bat from Hannah''s hands, nearly missing. "Thanks for... yeah."

    The hallway seems longer than it should be as Amber makes her way through it, her Harley Quinn boots not quite hitting the ground where she expects them to. Through the front door''s glass, she watches Lisa''s car swerve slightly as it pulls away. Nate stands in the driveway, his Joker makeup smeared, green hair wild, looking like chaos personified.

    "LISA!" His shout echoes through the night. "Just¡ª just wait a second!"

    Amber pushes through the door, stumbling slightly on the threshold. The cold air hits her like a slap, making her head spin more. Nate whirls around, nearly losing his balance.

    "YOU!" He points at her, his gesture too wide. "What the hell, Amber? What the actual hell?"

    "Me?" She laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. "What about you? Following her like some... some lost puppy!"

    "Going through my phone?" He steps closer, his words slurring slightly. "That''s¡ª that''s messed up. That''s so messed up."

    "Oh, I''M messed up?" Her voice rises hysterically. "While you''re off playing study buddies with Miss Perfect? Don''t think I haven''t seen you two! All those little... little looks in AP Lit!"

    "You''re crazy!" He throws his hands up, stumbling backward. "You''re actually crazy! Lisa and I are just¡ª"This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    "Just what?" She steps into his space, jabbing a finger at his chest. "Just friends? Just partners? Just sending each other naked pictures?"

    "I never even SAW those pictures!" His voice cracks. "Because my psycho girlfriend is going through my phone like some... some"

    "Psycho?" Tears spring to her eyes, hot and angry. "I''m psycho for protecting what''s mine?"

    "YOURS?" He laughs, loud and harsh. "I''m not your property, Amber! I''m not one of your... your designer handbags!"

    "No, you''re just the guy who SWORE you loved me!" She shoves him, not hard, but in his drunk state he staggers. "Who said we''d be together forever! But the second some girl bats her eyes at you¡ª"

    "Don''t push me!" He steadies himself against a car. "And don''t¡ª don''t turn this around! You went through my PHONE!"

    "BECAUSE I''M LOSING YOU!" The words tear out of her throat. "I can feel it! Every time she''s around, you''re different! Like I''m not enough anymore!"

    "You''re not losing me, you''re PUSHING me away!" He runs his hands through his hair, smearing the green even more. "With all your... your crazy control stuff! Your rules and your schemes and your... you''re CRAZY!"

    "I''m not crazy!" But she''s crying now, mascara probably running down her face. "I love you! I love you so much it makes me insane!"

    "Well, congratulations!" He spreads his arms wide, almost falling over. "You succeeded! This?" He gestures between them. "This is insane! I can''t... I can''t do this right now. I''m too drunk for this."

    "Nate¡ª" She reaches for him but misses slightly.

    "No!" He backs away, tripping over his own feet. "Just... just stay away from me. I need... I need to think. Or drink. Or... just... not this."

    He turns and stumbles back toward the house, using the wall for support. Amber''s legs give out, and she sinks onto the front steps, the baseball bat rolling away somewhere in the dark. The world spins around her, alcohol and heartbreak making everything blur.

    From the backyard, someone starts a drunk rendition of "Don''t Stop Believin''" while Amber Rosenberg, Queen of Riverside High, sits alone on Jake Woodland''s front steps, crying off her Harley Quinn makeup and learning that some things can''t be controlled, no matter how hard you try.

    The tears come hot and fast now, smearing her perfect Harley Quinn makeup into something grotesque. Nate Brooks. The name echoes in her head like a broken record, like a prayer, like a curse. Nate Brooks, who was supposed to be forever. Nate Brooks, who she just pushed away with both hands.

    Her father''s voice floats through the vodka haze: "A Rosenberg''s greatest asset isn''t their money, princess. It''s their ability to turn any situation to their advantage." She''d been thirteen, crying over some middle school drama. He''d lifted her chin with one finger, his eyes serious. "The key is control. Always control."

    But she''s lost control, hasn''t she? Lost it completely.

    "Amber?" Hannah''s voice breaks through her spiral. "Are you okay?"

    Amber''s head snaps up, a snarl forming on her lips. "Do I look okay?"

    "I saw Nate heading to the pool house. He looked..."

    "I don''t care how he looked." The lie tastes like copper in her mouth.

    Hannah shifts from foot to foot but doesn''t leave. The concern in her eyes makes Amber want to scream. She doesn''t need concern. She needs¡ª

    Something shifts inside her, like a switch being flipped. The world suddenly seems brighter, sharper, full of possibilities. Her father''s voice again: "When you can''t control the game, change the rules."

    A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside, surprising them both. Amber wipes her tears with the back of her hand, smearing black makeup across her skin like war paint. She grabs Hannah''s arm, pulling her up.

    "Let''s go party, bitch."

    "What¡ª"

    "Come on!" The energy surging through her veins feels electric, unstoppable. "You want to see how the other half lives? Let me show you."

    She drags Hannah back toward the pool area, snatching a bottle of Grey Goose from an abandoned drinks table. The music hits her like a physical force ¨C some remix of a song everyone''s sick of but pretends to love. Perfect.

    Through the crowd, she spots him. Nate, slumped next to the pool house with Jake and Jeff Thompson. Jeff''s varsity jacket stretches across shoulders built for protecting quarterbacks, his dark skin gleaming under the pool lights as he gestures emphatically about something.

    Amber takes a long pull from the bottle, relishing the burn. The music changes ¨C something with a heavy bass that she feels in her bones.

    "WHOOOOO!" Morris''s voice cuts through the night. "AMBER ROSENBERG, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!"

    She finds herself moving toward the diving board, her body electric with something that feels like power. The crowd parts for her like they always have, like they always will. Queen of Riverside High, wasn''t that what they called her? Well, time to earn her crown.

    The diving board vibrates under her Harley Quinn boots as she climbs up, bottle still in hand. Someone whoops. Someone else starts chanting her name. The energy builds, feeds on itself, becomes something wild and uncontrollable.

    She moves like lightning captured in human form, like every dance lesson she''s ever taken distilled into pure feeling. The bottle becomes a prop in her performance, catching light like liquid diamonds as she spins.

    Her gaze finds Nate again, drawn like a magnet to true north. He''s watching her, they all are. Jeff''s mouth hangs slightly open. Jake''s expression is harder to read ¨C something between appreciation and concern. As she watches, Jake grabs Nate''s arm, pulling him toward the pool house door.

    Whatever. Let them go. Let them all go.

    She takes another drink, raises the bottle high. "TO RIVERSIDE HIGH!" she screams, and the crowd roars back at her. The sound fills her up, replaces everything she''s lost with something that feels like victory.

    Who needs Nate Brooks? The world is hers ¨C has always been hers. She just forgot for a while, got caught up playing the perfect girlfriend when she should have been playing queen.

    The music pounds through her blood like a promise, like destiny. Amber Rosenberg doesn''t need anyone''s permission to rule. She just needs to remember who she is.

    And right now? Right now, she''s absolutely unstoppable.

    The music becomes her heartbeat, becomes everything. Amber spins on the diving board, vodka sloshing in the bottle, her body moving like it''s possessed by something wild and ancient. She feels infinite. Invincible. More alive than she''s felt in months, maybe years.

    "AMBER! AMBER! AMBER!" The crowd''s chant feeds her frenzy. She''s electric, she''s fire, she''s¡ª

    The shift comes like a thunderclap.

    One moment she''s flying, and the next there''s nothing but a void opening up inside her chest. The music turns hollow, meaningless. Her movements falter.

    Nate.

    Where is he?

    She needs him. Needs him like oxygen, like gravity, like everything that keeps the world making sense.

    "Watch out!" Hannah''s scream cuts through the fog.

    Amber''s heel catches the edge of the diving board. The world tilts sideways, the pool''s surface rushing up to meet her¡ª

    Hands grab her arms, yanking her back. She stumbles into Hannah, both of them falling onto the concrete. The bottle shatters somewhere nearby, vodka mixing with pool water.

    "I can''t¡ª" Amber gasps. Her lungs won''t work right. The fairy lights strung around the pool blur and multiply, too bright, too much. "I can''t breathe¡ª"

    "It''s okay." Hannah''s voice seems to come from very far away. "Come on, let''s get you out of here."

    Amber''s legs won''t cooperate. The crowd''s voices press in on her like physical weights. Everything''s too loud, too close, too real.

    "Nate," she manages. "I need¡ª where''s¡ª"

    Hannah guides her away from the pool, past clusters of concerned faces. Amber''s stomach lurches. She barely makes it to the bushes before everything comes up ¨C vodka and expensive sushi and the last shreds of her dignity.

    Cool fingers gather her hair back. "It''s okay," Hannah murmurs. "Just get it out."

    "I''m fine," Amber gasps between heaves. But she''s not fine. She''s so far from fine she can''t even see it anymore. The world won''t stop spinning. Her knees won''t stop shaking. And Nate¡ª

    God, Nate.

    What has she done?

    Another wave of nausea hits. She retches into the perfectly manicured hydrangeas, tears streaming down her face. Her carefully crafted Harley Quinn makeup runs in black rivers down her cheeks.

    "I need him," she sobs. "Please, I need¡ª"

    The ground seems to tilt beneath her feet. The last thing she sees is Hannah''s worried face, illuminated by party lights that streak across her vision like falling stars.

    Then darkness claims her, and Amber Rosenberg ¨C Queen of Riverside High, keeper of secrets, destroyer of hearts ¨C crumples like a discarded costume onto Jake Woodland''s lawn.

 Chapter VII.

    Hannah''s world narrows to a single point: Amber Rosenberg, crumpled on Jake Woodland''s pristine lawn like a broken butterfly. The perfectly styled pigtails are askew, her Harley Quinn makeup running in dark rivulets down her cheeks. A smear of vomit glistens at the corner of her mouth, transforming the girl who rules Riverside High into something terrifyingly human.

    "Oh god, oh god," Hannah drops to her knees beside Amber''s still form. The grass is damp through her corduroys, but she barely notices. The skin under her fingertips is clammy, but there¡ªa heartbeat, steady if fast.

    The crowd materializes like sharks scenting blood, their Halloween costumes creating a surreal tableau of concerned superheroes and worried mythological creatures. Phones appear like fireflies, their screens casting ghostly light on upturned faces.

    "Someone call 911!" Hannah''s voice cracks with urgency. The crowd shifts uneasily, a collective hesitation born of privilege and fear. These are kids who''ve never faced real consequences, who solve problems with trust funds and family lawyers.

    "I said call 911!" This time her voice carries the authority of genuine panic. A girl in a cat costume¡ªSarah from AP Bio, Hannah''s mind supplies automatically¡ªpulls out her iPhone with trembling fingers.

    The phone barely makes it to Sarah''s ear before it''s plucked from her hand. Nate Brooks materializes from the darkness like an avenging angel in smeared Joker makeup, Jake Woodland at his shoulder. Their entrance parts the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea.

    "No one''s calling 911," Nate says, his voice carrying the kind of authority that comes from years of commanding offensive lines. He tosses the phone to Jake, who catches it with the same casual grace he uses to snag touchdown passes.

    Hannah watches, fascinated despite her fear, as Nate kneels beside Amber. His movements are precise, clinical¡ªnothing like the stumbling drunk from minutes ago. His fingers find Amber''s pulse points, check her pupils, monitor her breathing. Every gesture speaks of practice, of knowledge absorbed through osmosis at countless dinner tables with Dr. Brooks.

    "Her pulse is strong," he mutters, more to himself than the crowd. "Breathing''s regular. No signs of¡ª" He sits back on his heels, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "She''s okay. Just too much, too fast." His eyes find Jeff Thompson in the crowd. "Jeff! You sober?"

    Jeff pushes forward, his massive frame making others step back instinctively. "Yeah, man. Been drinking Gatorade all night. Coach''s new rules."

    "Start your car." Nate''s voice brooks no argument. "Jake, help me with her."

    They move like a well-oiled machine, Jake and Nate lifting Amber between them as if they''ve done this before. Maybe they have, Hannah realizes. Maybe this is just another Friday night in the lives of Riverside''s elite¡ªsaving each other from their own excesses, protecting their carefully constructed world from outside interference.

    "Everything''s fine!" Justin Moore''s voice carries across the lawn, practiced charm working its magic. "Show''s over, folks. Who''s up for beer pong?"

    Hannah follows Nate and Jake through the house, her feet moving of their own accord. The halls of the Woodland mansion blur past¡ªexpensive art and family photos witnessing their procession like silent judges.

    "Where are you taking her?" The question escapes before Hannah can stop it.

    "My place," Nate answers without turning. "If her dad sees her like this..." He doesn''t finish the sentence. He doesn''t have to. Everyone knows Richard Rosenberg''s reputation, his iron grip on both his business empire and his family''s image.

    Jeff''s car idles in the circular drive, its engine a quiet purr of German engineering. They load Amber into the backseat with surprising gentleness, her head lolling against the leather.

    Nate straightens, running a hand through his green hair. "Sorry about the party, man," he says to Jake.

    Jake pulls him into a brief, fierce hug. "Just take care of our girl."

    Then Nate turns to Hannah, his eyes intense even through the smeared makeup. "Thanks," he says simply. "For being there when she fell." Something passes between them¡ªan understanding, maybe, or a recognition of shared concern.

    The car pulls away, carrying its cargo of smeared makeup and broken pride into the night. Hannah stands in the emptiness it leaves behind, acutely aware of Jake Woodland''s presence beside her, of the bass still thumping from the backyard, of the way the world has shifted slightly on its axis.

    Some nights change everything. Some nights just reveal the cracks that were always there.

    And sometimes, Hannah realizes as she feels Jake''s eyes on her in the darkness, the real danger isn''t in what you know¡ªit''s in what you don''t.

    The night air settles around them like a weighted blanket, heavy with unspoken words and the lingering echo of tires on pavement. Hannah hugs her arms against her chest, suddenly cold despite the outdoor heaters that dot Jake Woodland''s perfectly landscaped lawn.

    "Well," Jake breaks the silence, his voice carrying that particular cadence of practiced charm. "That was intense."

    Hannah takes a step toward the gate. "I should probably¡ª"

    "Come on, Marshall." Jake''s hand finds her elbow, gentle but insistent. "Let me get you a drink. You earned it after that save with Amber."

    Warning bells chime distantly in Hannah''s head, but they''re muffled by the alcohol already in her system. Amber''s words from earlier float through her mind¡ªsomething about boundaries. But what could possibly happen at a crowded party? Besides, she''s too drunk to drive anyway, and her sensible shoes aren''t made for walking home.

    "One drink," she concedes, hating how her voice sounds uncertain even to her own ears.

    Jake''s smile is a masterpiece of reassurance. "One drink," he agrees, leading her back toward the pool area.

    The party has shifted, like someone''s adjusted the contrast on a photograph. Where twenty minutes ago there was chaos and energy, with Amber commanding attention from the diving board like a conductor before her orchestra, now smaller groups huddle around the heat lamps. The music still plays, but softer, more of a suggestion than a demand.

    Couples have begun to pair off like animals before a storm. Morris and Charlotte occupy one of the poolside loungers, their limbs entangled in a way that makes Hannah wonder if Morris will remember any of their history lesson tomorrow. A group of football players pass around what looks suspiciously like one of Coach Martinez''s son''s special cigarettes.

    Jake returns with two bottles of imported beer, the labels catching light like tiny promises. "Here you go, hero of the hour."

    Hannah accepts the bottle, trying not to think about how much it probably costs. Her eyes scan the crowd and stop dead on a sight that makes her nearly drop the beer.

    In a shadowy corner by the pool house, David¡ªher cousin David, MIT-bound David, wouldn''t-hurt-a-fly David¡ªhas Alex Winters perched on his lap like some gothic queen on her throne. Alex''s vampire fangs are nowhere to be seen as she kisses David with an intensity that makes Hannah''s cheeks burn.

    "Well, would you look at that." Jake''s laugh rumbles through the night air. "Guess your cousin''s got game after all. Who knew wizards could score?"

    A giggle escapes Hannah''s lips before she can stop it. Since when is Jake Woodland funny? Since when does his presence beside her feel less like a threat and more like... something else?

    "Come on," Jake says, already moving toward the pool house. "Let''s give the lovebirds some privacy."

    Hannah follows, her feet moving of their own accord. The pool house looms before them, its windows glowing with warm light. Jake pushes open the door, revealing Justin Moore and Susan Lawrence in what appears to be an attempt to fuse into a single entity on one of the leather couches.

    "Seriously, Moore?" Jake''s voice carries equal parts amusement and exasperation. "Your house''s like fifty feet away."

    Justin detaches himself from Susan long enough to flip Jake off. "Busy here, Woodland."The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    "Yeah, I can see that." Jake turns to Hannah, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Guess the tour''s canceled. Unless..."

    He lets the word hang in the air between them like smoke, like possibility, like danger.

    Jake Woodland leans in, and Hannah''s world tilts on its axis.

    Her hands come up automatically, pressing against his chest¡ªsolid warmth through expensive fabric. "Wait¡ª" The word comes out barely a whisper.

    She''s never done this before. Never felt the gravitational pull of someone else''s lips approaching hers. Her heart performs a drum solo against her ribs as Jake pulls back slightly, his eyes questioning in the pool house''s soft light.

    Something shifts in her alcohol-addled brain. Jake Woodland¡ªbest friend to the boy she''s actually dreamed about since third grade. How many times has she watched them together at practice, Jake commanding the field while Nate executed his plays with that fluid grace that makes her palms sweat? They share the same expensive clothes, the same careful haircuts, the same air of untouchable privilege. But where Nate''s smile holds traces of shared fruit roll-ups and elementary school secrets, Jake''s carries an edge sharp as his family''s credit cards.

    Yet right now, with vodka singing in her veins and the lingering effects of expensive weed making everything feel dreamlike and possible, those distinctions blur like watercolors in rain.

    Hannah Marshall¡ªstraight-A student, careful babysitter, perpetual outsider¡ªleans forward and kisses Jake Woodland.

    Their lips meet, and the world explodes into sensation. Jake''s mouth is soft, tasting faintly of imported beer and privilege. His hand comes up to cup her face, fingers threading through her hair with surprising gentleness. She has no idea what she''s doing, but somehow it doesn''t matter. Somehow it''s perfect¡ªeven if he''s not the football player she''s imagined this moment with.

    "WOOOOO!" Justin''s whoop shatters the moment. "Didn''t know you were into nerdos, Woodland!"

    "Justin!" Susan smacks his arm, her Catwoman suit catching light as she moves. "Don''t be a dick."

    Hannah pulls back, her cheeks burning. "It''s okay," she manages, trying to sound casual. "It''s probably just the costume." She gestures vaguely at her Oxford shirt and corduroys, now slightly rumpled. "Sexy librarian, right?"

    Justin''s laugh booms through the pool house. "Oh man, she''s funny too! Come on, join the party. Fuck the rest of those basic bitches out there."

    Jake''s hand finds the small of her back, guiding her toward the leather sectional. The touch sends electricity racing up her spine¡ªdifferent from how she imagines Nate''s touch would feel, but intoxicating in its own right. She settles onto the cushions, hyper-aware of Jake''s thigh pressing against hers.

    The scene feels surreal, like something from a movie she shouldn''t be in. Justin Moore sprawls across one end of the sectional, his Batman costume missing the cape but somehow still looking expensive. Susan Lawrence curls beside him like a designer cat, all sleek black leather and perfectly applied makeup. Jake''s James Bond tuxedo probably costs more than her dad''s monthly salary, the bowtie now hanging loose around his neck in a way that seems deliberately crafted for maximum effect.

    And then there''s Hannah, in her thrift store clothes and sensible shoes, somehow sharing the same air as Riverside High''s elite.

    "So," Susan''s voice carries that particular tone of calculated interest, "you''re Tommy''s babysitter, right?"

    Hannah takes another sip of beer, buying time. Be cool, she tells herself. You just kissed Jake Woodland¡ªeven if your traitorous heart whispers Nate''s name. You can handle small talk.

    "Yeah," she replies, aiming for casual. "Someone has to make sure the next generation of Rosenbergs learns their multiplication tables. Can''t have them embarrassing the family name with public school math."

    Susan''s laugh rings out, genuine and surprised. "Oh my god, you''re actually hilarious! Why didn''t anyone tell me she was hilarious?"

    "Right?" Justin sprawls deeper into the leather sectional. "Who knew the quiet ones had it in them? You''ve been holding out on us, Marshall."

    Hannah feels herself relaxing despite everything, her body unconsciously settling back against Jake''s chest. His arm drapes around her shoulders with casual possession, and the warmth of the beer makes everything feel soft around the edges.

    "You should see her in AP Lit," Jake says. "The way she absolutely destroyed Peterson''s whole interpretation of Gatsby last week¡ª"

    "That wasn''t¡ª" Hannah starts.

    "No, no, tell it right," Jake interrupts. "She raises her hand, all innocent like she''s going to agree with him, and then just systematically dismantles his whole thesis. Peterson looked like someone had stolen his tenure."

    "Bet Amber loved that," Susan snickers, taking another sip of something that definitely isn''t soda. "She thinks she owns that class just because she did that summer program at Yale."

    "Speaking of owning things," Justin''s eyes get that glazed, reminiscent look. "Remember Hampton Beach? Now that was a party where people really¡ª"

    "Justin." Susan''s voice cuts through the laughter like a knife. "Don''t."

    "What? I was just gonna say¡ª"

    "Read the room, Moore." Jake''s arm tightens almost imperceptibly around Hannah.

    Hannah shifts, curiosity prickling at her skin. What happened at Hampton Beach? Why does Susan look suddenly sober, her playful mood evaporating like expensive perfume?

    "Whatever," Justin waves his hand dismissively. "Have you guys ever noticed how Susan sounds exactly like that viral video of the screaming goat when she''s mad? It''s like¡ª" He lets out a horrifyingly accurate imitation that echoes through the pool house.

    "I do NOT sound like that!" Susan launches herself across the sectional, but Justin''s already moving, years of football training evident in his quick escape.

    "Watch this," he cackles, grabbing her designer purse and holding it high. "Oh no, Susan! Is this last season''s Prada? The HORROR!"

    "You''re dead, Moore!" Susan vaults over the back of the sofa with surprising agility for someone in a leather catsuit. "I swear to god¡ª"

    "Gotta catch me first!" Justin backs toward the door, still making goat noises. "Come on, kitty cat. Show us those claws!"

    "I will END you!" But Susan''s fighting a smile now as she stalks toward him.

    Justin bolts through the door, his bleating mixing with genuine laughter. Susan pauses in the doorway, glancing back at Hannah and Jake. Something passes across her face¡ªconcern? warning?¡ªbefore she shakes it off.

    "Don''t wait up," she says, then she''s gone, leaving only the echo of her heels on the pool house floor.

    The door clicks shut behind them, and suddenly the space feels much smaller. Hannah''s awareness narrows to the point where Jake''s arm meets her shoulders, to the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back.

    The muffled sounds of the party drift through the walls like music from another world¡ªJustin''s distant goat impressions, Susan''s threats of bodily harm, the general chaos of drunk teenagers playing at adulthood.

    The pool house feels different now, charged with something that makes Hannah''s skin prickle. Jake''s charm wraps around her like expensive cologne, his words soft and practiced as he traces patterns on her shoulder.

    "You know," he murmurs, "you''re not like other girls at Riverside."

    The line should sound clich¨¦, but somehow Jake Woodland makes it feel real. His lips find hers again, and this kiss is different¡ªdeeper, hungrier. For a moment, Hannah lets herself believe this is how it''s supposed to be. That Jake Woodland could actually see past her thrift store clothes to something worth wanting.

    Then he''s moving, shifting his weight until he''s above her on the leather sectional. His hands slip under the hem of her Oxford shirt, warm against her stomach, and reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water.

    "What are you doing?" Her voice comes out smaller than intended.

    Jake doesn''t answer. Instead, his fingers move to her buttons, working them open with practiced ease. Panic rises in her throat like bile.

    "Stop it." The words barely make it past her lips.

    "Relax," Jake breathes against her neck. "Let me just¡ª" He sits back, pulling his own tuxedo shirt off in one fluid motion.

    Hannah''s breath catches despite herself. Jake''s body is a testament to years of athletic dedication¡ªall perfect lines and careful definition. For a fraction of a second, she hesitates, that glimpse of perfection making her doubt her own instincts.

    That moment of uncertainty is all he needs. His mouth finds her neck as his hands move higher, more insistent now. "No!" The word tears from her throat. "I don''t want this."

    "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Jake pulls back, his expression darkening. "Playing hard to get now?"

    "Let me go." Hannah tries to push against his chest, but he might as well be made of stone.

    Something shifts in Jake''s eyes then¡ªsomething that makes Hannah''s blood run cold. The charming quarterback vanishes, replaced by something predatory and ancient. She suddenly understands with crystal clarity what Amber had tried to warn her about.

    His mouth returns to her neck, but there''s nothing gentle about it now. His weight pins her to the couch, and Hannah feels herself drowning in expensive cologne and rising terror.

    "No!" The word echoes off the pool house walls. "Get off me!"

    When he doesn''t move, instinct takes over. Hannah''s hand cracks across his face with a sound like breaking glass. The shock of it gives her the opening she needs. She scrambles out from under him, nearly falling in her haste to get away.

    "Come on," Jake calls after her, his voice carrying that practiced tone of wounded innocence. "I was only playing! Hannah!"

    But Hannah''s already running, her partially unbuttoned shirt flapping behind her like broken wings. She bursts out of the pool house into the cool night air, her feet carrying her past clusters of drunk teenagers who barely notice her flight.

    Through the front gate, down the perfectly manicured street, away from the pulsing music and floating lights and the boy whose mask finally slipped. Her sensible shoes slap against expensive concrete as she runs, each step taking her further from Jake Woodland''s carefully constructed world of privilege and predation.

    Behind her, the party continues its glittering existence, but Hannah Marshall''s night of pretending to belong is very, very over.

    Some masks, once removed, can never be put back on. Some warnings, once ignored, extract their own terrible price.

    And some nights end exactly as they''re supposed to¡ªin flight, in fear, in the shattering of illusions long overdue to break.

 Chapter VIII.

    Consciousness returns to Amber Rosenberg like a particularly vindictive hangover, each heartbeat a separate symphony of regret. The faint morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains feels like needles in her eyes, and her mouth tastes like she''s been gargling sand.

    Fragments of the previous night flash through her mind like a horror movie played in reverse: vodka burning down her throat, the diving board vibrating beneath her feet, falling¡ªor almost falling¡ªand then... nothing. Just a black hole where her dignity used to be.

    The silk sheets against her skin feel wrong, different from the Egyptian cotton she''s used to. Her eyes flutter open, and panic hits her system like cheap tequila as she realizes where she is. Nate''s room. The familiar sports trophies and AP certificates watch her from their careful arrangements on the walls, silent witnesses to her complete loss of control.

    But where is Nate?

    "Fuck," she whispers, the word scratching her throat. Her hands pat the bedside table, searching for her phone, finding nothing but empty space and growing dread.

    She swings her legs over the side of the bed, a move she immediately regrets as the world tilts sideways. Her fingers grip the edge of the mattress until the room stops spinning, her knuckles white against the dark sheets.

    When she can finally stand without the floor trying to escape from under her, she makes her way to the full-length mirror mounted on Nate''s closet door. The sight that greets her stops her cold. Her Harley Quinn makeup is gone, every trace of last night''s disaster carefully erased. Her hair falls straight and clean around her shoulders, the temporary pink and blue dye completely washed out. She lifts her arm to her nose¡ªthe familiar scent of Nate''s shampoo fills her senses, triggering a cascade of hazy memories.

    Nate carrying her up the stairs, his arms steady despite everything. The shower running, warm water washing away her mistakes while his voice murmured soft reassurances. Her own voice, small and broken: "I love you, I love you, I''m sorry, please..."

    Horror crawls up her throat as she realizes what she''s wearing: Nate''s old shirt from sophomore year, the one she always steals during their study sessions, and¡ªher stomach drops¡ªa pair of his boxer briefs, the Calvin Klein waistband sitting low on her hips.

    "Oh god," she breathes, pressing her palms against her eyes until she sees stars. She''s Amber Rosenberg. She doesn''t do this¡ªdoesn''t lose control, doesn''t need to be taken care of like some freshman at their first party. She''s supposed to be perfect, untouchable, above the messy reality of human weakness.

    Desperate for her phone¡ªfor some connection to her carefully constructed world¡ªshe returns to the bed, searching between the sheets with increasing urgency. She needs to check the damage, to see what''s been posted, to begin the careful work of reputation management that her mother taught her alongside table manners and social warfare.

    "Looking for something?"

    The voice freezes her in place. She turns slowly, her heart performing a complex gymnastics routine in her chest.

    Nate stands in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, a glass of cloudy liquid in his hand. He''s already dressed in dark jeans and a navy polo. His hair is damp from a shower, curling slightly at the edges in a way that usually makes her fingers itch to touch it.

    But there''s something different in how he holds himself¡ªa careful distance that has nothing to do with physical space and everything to do with the words they hurled at each other last night. Words that are starting to come back to her with horrible clarity.

    He closes the door with his foot, fishing her phone from his pocket. "I charged it on my dad''s charger," he says, tossing it in a gentle arc toward her.

    She catches it automatically, the familiar weight doing nothing to anchor her in this moment that feels like quicksand. Her eyes fix on the glass in his hand as he crosses to sit beside her¡ªnot too close, she notices with a pain that feels like frostbite.

    "What is it?" Her voice comes out raspier than intended.

    "ORS," he replies, clinical as his mother during hospital rounds. "Mixed with aspirin and ibuprofen." A pause, heavy with unspoken words. "Drink it. You''ll feel better."

    Amber takes the glass, their fingers carefully not touching during the exchange. The liquid tastes like artificial citrus and redemption as she drinks, each sip a reminder of how far she''s fallen. How far they''ve fallen.

    Because last night wasn''t just about her losing control. It was about trust, and phones, and Lisa Chen, and all the careful lies they''ve been telling themselves since freshman year when being together seemed as natural as breathing.

    "Nate," she starts, but he''s already standing, putting that careful distance between them again.

    "You should eat something," he says, his voice carrying that particular tone she''s only heard him use with injured teammates¡ªgentle but removed. "I''ll bring up some toast."

    "I''m so sorry," Amber whispers, her voice barely carrying across the space between them.

    Nate remains by the door, his posture carefully neutral. "Your parents know you''re here," he says, each word measured and precise. "I texted them last night. Told them you weren''t feeling well after the party and crashed in our guest room. They don''t know anything else." A pause. "My parents didn''t notice either."

    The clinical way he delivers this information¡ªlike reading a patient chart¡ªmakes something crack inside her chest. "Nate, I''m sorry¡ª"

    "I''ll get you something to eat." He turns toward the door, his hand already on the knob.

    "Please," The word breaks free from her throat, raw and desperate. Tears spill down her cheeks, hot and unstoppable. "I''m such a bitch. After everything you''ve done for me. Ever. Last night¡ª" Her voice catches. "Cleaning me up, taking care of me like that. I love you, Nate Brooks. I love you so much it makes me crazy."

    Nate''s hand falls from the doorknob. He lets out a long breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.

    "I get these..." Amber presses her palms against her eyes, trying to stop the tears. "These moods. These mood swings. I''ve had them my whole life. My mom calls them my ''episodes.'' Says Rosenberg women are just passionate." A bitter laugh escapes her. "Yesterday, when I saw Lisa with you, something just... snapped. Like a string that''s been pulled too tight for too long."

    She looks up to find Nate watching her, his expression unreadable. "I''ve never told anyone," she continues, her voice small. "Can''t let anyone see the cracks in perfect Amber Rosenberg, right? Can''t let them know that sometimes I feel like I''m drowning in my own head, like everything''s too much and not enough all at once."

    The tears flow freely now, years of carefully maintained control crumbling like wet sand. "Sometimes I think that''s why I love you so much. Because when I''m with you, everything makes sense. Everything''s quiet. But then I get so scared of losing you that I¡ª" She chokes on the words. "I try to control everything. And I end up destroying it instead."

    Nate crosses the room in three long strides, sinking onto the bed beside her. His eyes¡ªthose warm brown eyes that still make her heart skip¡ªare bright with unshed tears.

    "Come here," he murmurs, opening his arms.

    Amber falls into his embrace like coming home. His arms wrap around her, strong and sure, one hand cradling the back of her head like she''s something precious. She buries her face in his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his soap, his skin, his essence.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    "I''ve got you," he whispers into her hair. "I''ve always got you."

    In the safety of his arms, with morning light painting patterns on his bedroom walls, Amber Rosenberg finally lets herself be exactly who she is: not the queen of Riverside High, not Richard Rosenberg''s perfect daughter, just a girl who sometimes breaks, held together by a boy who loves her enough to pick up the pieces.

    They break apart slowly, like ice melting in spring. Nate shifts, positioning himself cross-legged opposite her on the bed. Something in his posture remains guarded, but his eyes hold a warmth that makes Amber''s heart flutter traitorously in her chest.

    He reaches for her feet, pulling them into his lap. His hands are warm as they wrap around her cold ankles, thumbs pressing gently against the bones there. Such a simple touch, but it anchors her to this moment, to him.

    "Tell me about these mood swings," he says softly, his eyes finding hers. "How long have they been happening?"

    Amber draws in a shaky breath. "Forever, maybe? I remember being eight, having this complete meltdown because my ballet shoes weren''t exactly the right shade of pink. Mom had to special order them from Paris." She lets out a bitter laugh. "God, that sounds so spoiled."

    "It''s not about the shoes," Nate says quietly, his fingers working gentle circles around her ankles. "Keep going."

    "Sometimes everything feels... too bright. Too loud. Too much." The words come easier now, like his touch is drawing them out. "Like yesterday, seeing Lisa with you. It''s like someone turned up all my emotions to maximum volume. I couldn''t... I couldn''t think straight."

    His hands move to her feet, warming them between his palms. "And other times?"

    "Other times I feel invincible. Like I could conquer the world with one perfectly arched eyebrow." She attempts a smile, but it wobbles. "That''s usually when I do something stupid. Like organize charity galas no sixteen-year-old should be planning, or decide the entire cheerleading squad needs new uniforms because the current ones are ''pedestrian.''"

    Nate''s thumbs press into her arches, making her gasp softly. "Your mom knows?"

    "She calls it ¡®my episodes¡¯." Amber''s voice takes on a mocking tone. "''We''re passionate women, darling. We feel things deeply. Now take your Xanax and fix your makeup.''"

    "Jesus, Amber."

    "A Rosenberg must remain strong," she recites, the words bitter on her tongue. "Must never show weakness. Must always be in control." Her voice cracks. "Even when we''re falling apart inside."

    His hands still on her feet. "Is that why you went through my phone? Because you felt out of control?"

    The question hits her like a slap, but his touch remains gentle, grounding. "I saw how she looked at you in AP Lit. The way she laughed at your stupid Hemingway jokes. And suddenly I couldn''t... I couldn''t breathe. Couldn''t think. I had to know."

    "You could have asked me."

    "Could I?" She meets his eyes. "When every time I brought up Lisa, you got all defensive? When you started spending more time in the library ''studying'' than at practice?"

    His fingers resume their gentle massage. "I was helping her with her Yale application."

    "I know that now." Amber swallows hard. "But in my head, every time I saw you together, it was like... like watching someone prettier, smarter, better stealing the one thing that makes my world make sense."

    "Me?" His voice is soft, questioning.

    "You." She blinks back fresh tears. "Because you''re the only person who''s ever seen past all the... the Rosenberg stuff. Who makes me feel like maybe I don''t have to be perfect all the time."

    "But you still try."

    "I have to!" The words burst out of her. "Dad''s on the hospital board with your mom. Our families have known each other forever. Everyone expects us to be this perfect power couple, and I just... I can''t be the one who ruins it. Can''t be the crazy girlfriend who can''t keep it together. Can''t be the reason Nate Brooks decides to date someone normal instead of¡ª"

    "Hey." His hands leave her feet, reaching for her face. "Look at me."

    She does, finding his brown eyes serious and intent.

    "You''re not crazy," he says firmly. "You''re human. And maybe..." He takes a deep breath. "Maybe we both need to be better at talking about the hard stuff. No more checking phones. No more pretending everything''s fine when it''s not. Deal?"

    A sob catches in her throat. "Deal."

    His thumbs brush away her tears. "Now, how about that toast?"

    For the first time all morning, Amber Rosenberg actually smiles.

    Amber lets out a shaky laugh. "So I''m sitting here telling you your girlfriend is literally crazy, and you''re worried about whether I''ve eaten?"

    "I meant what I said the other day, Amber." His voice is soft but sure as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "One day, I''m going to marry you."

    The words wrap around her heart like a promise, but then his expression grows serious. "But what you did yesterday was fucked up. And I¡ª" He runs a hand through his hair. "I was drunk too. Said things I shouldn''t have said."

    "Please don''t," Amber whispers, reaching for his hand. "You don''t need to apologize."

    "I have to." His fingers intertwine with hers. "I should have seen it earlier. Should have understood what was happening with you."

    A silence settles between them, heavy with unspoken things. Then Nate takes a deep breath. "Have you ever talked to someone about your ¡®episodes¡¯?"

    "No." Amber''s voice is small. "You''re the first one."

    "No, I mean¡ª" He hesitates. "Someone professional?"

    She stiffens. "You think I''m crazy."

    "No, no." The words tumble out quickly as he brings her hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "It''s just... you''re intense sometimes. And I love that about you¡ªgod, I love it. But yesterday was too much."

    Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "I thought I lost you, Nate..."

    "You did." His words land like stones in still water. He meets her eyes, his gaze steady and serious. "Yesterday, I thought this was it. Thought we were done."

    The admission hits her like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. Because this is Nate Brooks¡ªher Nate, who''s been her constant since freshman year, who knows all her sharp edges and loves her anyway. The idea of losing him feels like losing gravity.

    "What changed your mind?" Amber asks, her voice barely a whisper.

    Nate''s thumb traces circles on her ankle. "This. The real you. Just Amber. The girl who cries at dog commercials and organizes fundraisers because she actually cares, not just for show. The girl I fell in love with."

    "I''m so sorry about everything. The jealousy, Lisa¡ª"

    "Fuck Lisa," Nate cuts her off, his voice hard as steel.

    Amber blinks, surprised by his tone. "But I thought... you two were friends?"

    He lets out a harsh laugh. "Friends? Right. Friends don''t send the kind of pictures she sent me at 2 AM." His fingers tighten on her leg. "You want to know something? What you did wasn''t right, but if some guy tried to come between us like that? If he sent you pictures, tried to¡ª" He breaks off, jaw clenched. "I would have lost it completely. Because you''re everything to me, Amber. Everything."

    A soft laugh escapes her chest.

    "Always." His expression softens, eyes filled with something that makes her heart skip. "Though maybe with less public drama next time."

    "So... what now?" She holds her breath, waiting.

    "Now?" His eyes meet hers, filled with pure adoration. "Now we heal. Today isn''t about the future or the past. Today is about taking care of the most precious person in my world."

    "What do you mean?"

    A gentle smile plays at his lips. "My parents left an hour ago for that medical conference in Boston." His hand finds hers, fingers intertwining. "Which means today is about making you feel cherished. About showing you exactly how much you mean to me."

    "And how do you plan to do that?"

    "First, food, because I need you to be strong and healthy." His thumb traces her palm like he''s memorizing it. "Then? I''m going to spend the whole day proving how much I adore you. Going to give you those back rubs you love, the ones that make you fall asleep smiling. Kiss away every worry line, every trace of stress. Make sure you''re drinking enough water because I can''t bear to see you hurting like this morning."

    His voice is soft, reverent. "Going to hold you while we watch whatever movies you want, even those ridiculous romantic comedies you pretend not to cry at. Order from that little Italian place you love. Just... worship you, the way you deserve. The way I should have been doing instead of letting you doubt for even a second how much you mean to me."

    Amber feels something inside her settle, like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Not because everything''s fixed¡ªshe knows they have work to do, conversations to have, trust to rebuild. But because right now, in this moment, she''s exactly where she belongs: with a boy who sees all her broken pieces and treats them like treasures.

    "Nate Brooks," she says softly, "I don''t deserve you."

    "No," he agrees, pulling her into his arms. "You deserve the world. But until I can give you that, you''re stuck with me."

    And as morning light paints patterns on his bedroom walls, Amber Rosenberg learns that sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let yourself be weak with the right person.

 Chapter IX.

    Hannah''s feet carry her through Riverside''s carefully planned streets like a compass needle seeking north. Past manicured lawns and Halloween, past houses where light spills from windows in warm rectangles, suggesting safety she no longer trusts. Her partially unbuttoned Oxford shirt flutters in the November air, but she barely feels the cold. Her mind keeps replaying the moment in horrifying detail: Jake''s weight pinning her down, the leather couch creaking beneath them, his hands insistent and unwanted against her skin.

    A car approaches from behind, its headlights stretching her shadow long across the perfect concrete. Hannah''s heart leaps into her throat as she ducks behind a pristinely trimmed hedge, pressing herself against someone''s imported stonework until the vehicle passes. It''s just a Tesla¡ªprobably some tech executive heading home from a late meeting¡ªbut her pulse refuses to slow. Because now every car could be Jake. Every shadow could hide his carefully practiced charm, his designer cologne, his hands that don''t understand the word "no."

    When she finally reaches downtown, the difference is stark as a line drawn in cement. Here, the Halloween decorations are honest in their simplicity¡ªpaper ghosts in apartment windows, jack-o''-lanterns with crooked smiles carved by children rather than professionals. The streets carry the comfortable wear of actual use rather than carefully maintained aesthetics. This is her world¡ªthe real world, where people work for their money and nothing comes wrapped in privilege and assumptions.

    She finds herself outside Lisa Chen''s family restaurant without consciously choosing the destination. The "CLOSED" sign hangs in the window, but light spills from the kitchen, and Hannah can see movement inside. Her hand shakes as she knocks on the glass door.

    Mr. Chen appears from the kitchen, his expression shifting from annoyance to concern as he recognizes her. The locks click, and suddenly Hannah is enveloped in warmth that smells like ginger and soy sauce and childhood memories of afternoons spent doing homework while Lisa''s mom slipped them extra dumplings.

    "Hannah?" Mr. Chen''s accent wraps around her name like a familiar blanket. "What''s wrong? You look¡ª"

    "Is Lisa here?" The words come out stronger than she feels.

    He studies her face, taking in her disheveled appearance with the kind of quiet wisdom that comes from decades of watching people. "In back. Helping with prep for tomorrow." His eyes narrow slightly. "She came home early from party. Not happy."

    Hannah follows him through the familiar restaurant¡ªpast tables where she and Lisa once built homework forts out of textbooks, past the booth where they shared secrets and spring rolls and dreams of futures that seemed so simple then. The kitchen door swings open to reveal Lisa aggressively chopping vegetables, still wearing her Wonder Woman costume minus the boots.

    "Lisa," Mr. Chen says softly. "You have visitor."

    Lisa looks up, her knife stilling mid-chop. For a moment, neither girl speaks. Then Lisa sets down her knife with careful precision.

    "Dad," she says, not taking her eyes off Hannah. "Could you give us a minute?"

    Mr. Chen glances between them, then nods. "I go check inventory. You girls need anything, just shout."

    The kitchen door swings shut behind him, leaving them in a silence broken only by the gentle hum of industrial refrigerators.

    "You look like hell," Lisa finally says.

    A laugh bubbles up from Hannah''s chest, teetering on the edge of hysteria. "You should see the other guy."

    "Jake?" Lisa''s hands clench on the counter.

    Hannah''s head snaps up. "How did you¡ª"

    "Because that''s what Jake does." Lisa''s voice is flat, emotionless. "He picks his target, plays the charming quarterback, and then..." She trails off, but her meaning is clear as crystal.

    "Hampton Beach," Hannah whispers.

    Lisa looks up sharply. "What do you know about Hampton Beach?"

    "Not much," Hannah admits, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. "Just... at the party tonight, before everything happened with Jake, we were all in the pool house. Justin started talking about it ¨C some party there. But Susan cut him off immediately, and Jake..." She shivers, remembering the sudden tension in his arm around her shoulders. "The whole mood changed. Like someone had flipped a switch."

    "And then what happened?" Lisa''s voice is carefully controlled.

    "Justin and Susan left - they were joking around, chasing each other. It seemed so normal at the time." Hannah''s voice catches. "But then I was alone with Jake, and everything just..., pieces clicking into place. "Amber tried to warn me about him earlier. Said something about boundaries, about being careful. God, I was so stupid. It''s all connected, isn''t it? Hampton Beach, Jake, the way everyone just... looks the other way."

    Lisa nods once, sharp as her knife. "Last summer. Jake''s family has this beach house. He invited a bunch of us up for a weekend. Said it would be fun. Said we could all be friends." Her laugh is bitter as over-steeped tea. "Turns out his definition of ''friends'' is pretty specific."

    Hannah''s legs suddenly feel unable to support her. She sinks onto a stainless steel prep table, her Oxford shirt catching on the edge. "Did he..."

    "Try to force himself on me? Yeah." Lisa turns back to her vegetables, her knife moving with precise fury. "But I got lucky. Susan Lawrence found us before..." The knife comes down hard enough to embed in the cutting board. "She pulled him off me, got me out of there. Said she''d make sure everyone knew it was just a misunderstanding."

    "A misunderstanding?" Hannah''s voice cracks.

    "That''s how it works in their world." Lisa yanks her knife free. "Rich boys make mistakes, poor girls get labeled as sluts who asked for it. Tale as old as time." She glances at Hannah''s disheveled appearance. "Did he..."

    "No." Hannah wraps her arms around herself. "I got away. But if you knew¡ªwhy didn''t you warn me?"

    "Would you have believed me?" Lisa''s voice is gentle now. "Over Jake Woodland, Captain of the football team, son of Riverside''s most powerful family? Over your precious Nate Brooks''s best friend?"

    The name hits Hannah like a physical blow. "Nate... does he know?"

    "What do you think?" Lisa''s knife resumes its steady rhythm. "They''ve been best friends since kindergarten. You really think he doesn''t know exactly who Jake is? What he does?"

    Hannah feels something inside her chest crack. Because of course Nate knows. Of course he''s seen the pattern, watched it play out summer after summer, party after party. And he''s done nothing. Said nothing. Just kept playing his role of golden boy while his best friend preys on girls who dare to dream above their station.

    "I''m such an idiot," she whispers.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "No." Lisa sets down her knife again, coming around the prep table. "You''re just the latest girl to believe in fairy tales. To think that maybe the rules don''t apply to you. That maybe you could cross that line between their world and ours without getting burned."

    She reaches for Hannah''s hand, her fingers warm and solid. "But here''s the thing about fairy tales¡ªthey''re just stories rich people tell to make themselves feel better about having everything while the rest of us serve them dumplings and babysit their kids."

    The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, the industrial appliances closing in like chrome witnesses to their shared disillusionment. Hannah watches Lisa return to her vegetables, each precise cut of her knife a punctuation mark in their conversation.

    "What about Amber?" Hannah asks finally.

    Lisa''s knife stills. Her shoulders tense, and Hannah watches her struggle with words that clearly taste bitter. The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken acknowledgment. Hannah had been there, after all¡ªstanding behind Amber when she''d shown the picture on Nate''s phone. She''d seen Lisa''s name on the message thread, seen the thumbnails before Amber had slammed the phone down.

    "By Monday," Lisa finally says, her voice barely above a whisper, "half the school will know about the picture." She resumes chopping, each movement sharp and precise. "By Wednesday, I''ll be the desperate scholarship kid who threw herself at someone else''s boyfriend. By Friday..." The knife comes down with particular force. "Well, you get the idea."

    Hannah watches Lisa''s back, noting how rigidly she holds herself, how carefully she avoids meeting Hannah''s eyes. There''s shame there, and fear, but mostly anger¡ªat Amber, at herself, at a world where one mistake can cost you everything.

    "But why? Why would she¡ª"

    "Because I dared to look at something that belongs to her." Lisa sweeps the chopped vegetables into a container with practiced efficiency. "Because Nate helped me with my Yale application, and we started spending time together. Because I laughed at his jokes and let myself believe that maybe..." She shakes her head sharply. "I forgot my place in the carefully ordered world of Riverside High."

    Hannah thinks about Amber at the Halloween party, all perfect makeup and calculated moves. Thinks about how quickly that perfection crumbled, leaving something raw and human in its wake. "I think," she says slowly, "maybe Amber''s just as scared as we are. Just... differently."

    Lisa''s laugh is sharp as her knife. "Scared? Amber Rosenberg? Please. Girls like her don''t know what fear is. They''ve never had to worry about college loans or wonder if this month''s tips will cover next month''s rent. Their biggest fear is showing up in last season''s Prada."

    "No," Hannah shakes her head. "I''ve seen her with Tommy. When she thinks no one''s watching. And tonight, at the party..." She trails off, remembering Amber''s collapse, the way her carefully constructed facade had shattered like expensive crystal.

    "So that makes it okay?" Lisa''s voice rises slightly. "To humiliate me? To turn the whole school against me because I dared to be friends with her boyfriend?"

    "Of course not." Hannah slides off the prep table, her feet hitting the industrial tile with a soft thud. "But maybe... maybe we''re all just doing what we think we have to. To survive. To protect what matters to us."

    "Deep thoughts from someone who smells like Jake Woodland''s cologne." But Lisa''s voice has lost its edge, softened by something like understanding.

    Hannah looks down at her rumpled Oxford shirt, at the buttons hastily redone in the wrong order during her flight. Shame burns in her chest, hot as the industrial ovens that surround them. "I should go home. Shower for about six years."

    "Wait." Lisa disappears into the walk-in freezer, returning with a plastic container. "Mom made extra red bean buns today. Said they help with broken hearts." She pauses. "And other kinds of broken things."

    Hannah takes the container, its familiar weight anchoring her to this moment. To this kitchen where she and Lisa once shared dreams and dumplings and the unshakeable belief that hard work and good grades could overcome any obstacle.

    "Lisa?" She turns at the kitchen door. "I''m sorry. About before. When you needed a friend and I..."

    "Chose to stay safe?" Lisa''s smile is sad but understanding. "That''s what they count on, you know. The Amber Rosenbergs and Jake Woodlands of the world. That we''ll all be too scared to stand together."

    "Maybe it''s time that changed."

    Lisa''s eyebrows rise slightly. "What are you thinking?"

    Hannah''s hand tightens on the container of red bean buns, determination settling in her chest like armor. "I''m thinking maybe it''s time we stopped playing by their rules."

    "You want to go up against Amber Rosenberg?" Lisa sets down her knife, giving Hannah her full attention. "The girl who got Mr. Willink transferred to remedial English just because he gave her an A-minus?"

    "Not just Amber." Hannah''s voice grows stronger with each word. "The whole system. Jake, his crew, the way they make us feel like we should be grateful just to exist in their orbit." She starts pacing the kitchen, her sensible shoes squeaking against the industrial tile. "Think about it, Lisa. How many other girls has Jake targeted? How many others are there like us, keeping quiet because we think we''re alone?"

    Lisa leans against the prep table, something shifting in her expression. "Susan Lawrence," she says quietly. "She acts like Jake''s biggest defender, but sometimes... sometimes I see her watching him when she thinks no one''s looking. Like she''s waiting for him to strike again."

    "Hampton Beach," Hannah nods. "Amber told me there were three girls who transferred schools. Three girls whose stories got buried under lawyers and money and carefully crafted rumors."

    "Four," Lisa corrects. "Everyone forgets about Rachel Martinez."

    "Coach Martinez''s daughter?" Hannah stops pacing. "But she moved to live with her mom in California..."

    "Right." Lisa''s voice drips with sarcasm. "In the middle of junior year. Two weeks after Jake''s New Year''s party. Total coincidence."

    The implications hit Hannah like a physical blow. Coach Martinez ¨C the man who treats Jake like a son, who looks the other way when half the team shows up to practice high. Who must know exactly why his daughter fled across the country, but still lets Jake command his offense like nothing ever happened.

    "We need proof," Hannah says suddenly. "Not rumors or implications. Real proof."

    "Of what? Jake being Jake? Good luck. His dad''s lawyers are basically on speed dial."

    "No." Hannah moves closer, lowering her voice despite the empty restaurant. "Everything. The Hampton Beach incident. Rachel Martinez. The way they use money and influence to make problems disappear." Her eyes lock with Lisa''s.

    Understanding dawns in Lisa''s eyes. "You want to expose them."

    "All of them. The whole corrupt system." Hannah''s heart races with the magnitude of what she''s suggesting. "But we''d need help. Other girls who''ve been hurt. People with access to information."

    "You mean like someone who spends time in the Rosenberg house?" Lisa''s eyebrows rise meaningfully. "Someone who could potentially access phones, computers, conversations?"

    "I would never betray Tommy''s trust," Hannah says quickly. "He''s just a kid."

    "But Amber isn''t." Lisa pushes off from the prep table, energy radiating from her movements. "And from what you''ve told me, she might be more vulnerable than we think."

    The kitchen door swings open, making them both jump. Mr. Chen steps in, his eyes moving between them with paternal concern. "Everything okay? Hear lot of serious talking."

    "Everything''s fine, Dad." Lisa''s smile is bright but doesn''t quite reach her eyes. "Hannah and I were just... reconnecting."

    Mr. Chen studies them for a moment longer, then nods slowly. "Good. Friends important. Especially when storm coming." He gestures at the wall of windows, where clouds are gathering over downtown Riverside. "Should get home before rain, Hannah. Streets not safe at night."

    The irony of his warning isn''t lost on either girl. Because the streets aren''t safe ¨C but not because of weather or darkness. They''re unsafe because of boys in designer clothes who think consent is optional, because of girls in Prada who weaponize rumors like precision strikes, because of a system that protects predators as long as their families donate enough to the right causes.

    "I''ll drive you," Lisa says, already reaching for her keys. "Just let me change out of this costume."

    Hannah looks down at her own rumpled Oxford shirt, at the evidence of Jake''s unwanted attention written in wrinkled fabric and misaligned buttons. "Yeah," she says softly. "I think we''re both done playing dress-up."

    Ten minutes later, they sit in Lisa''s elderly Honda Civic, watching raindrops begin to speckle the windshield. The container of red bean buns rests between them like a peace offering, like a promise.

    "You know," Lisa says as she turns the key, the engine protesting slightly before catching, "if we do this ¨C if we really try to take them down ¨C there''s no going back. They''ll come after us with everything they have."

    Hannah thinks about Jake''s hands on her skin, about Amber''s carefully constructed walls crumbling, about Nate Brooks standing silent while his best friend preys on girls who dare to dream too big. She thinks about Tommy Rosenberg, who deserves better role models than a sister who uses fear as currency and a babysitter who stays silent in the face of injustice.

    "Good," she says, her voice steady as the rain now falling in earnest. "Let them come."

 Chapter X.

    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¡ªexactly 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¡ªlike 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¡ªthe real one, not his camera-ready version¡ªmakes 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¡ªher eyes, really¡ªthat 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¡ªfirm 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¡ªhow''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¡ªconnections 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¡ªthe Halloween disaster, the Lisa drama, all of it¡ªwe''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¡ª"

    "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.

 Chapter XI.

    Lisa Chen''s fingers are numb despite her thick mittens, but she barely notices the cold. Her attention is fixed on the field below, where Nate Brooks''s number 67 jersey flashes between other players like lightning captured in royal blue and gold. Even through the biting November wind, she can hear Coach Martinez''s whistle, sharp and demanding as the players run another drill.

    "Stop staring," Hannah murmurs beside her, her breath visible in the frigid air. "You''re being obvious."

    Lisa tears her gaze away, cheeks burning despite the cold. "I wasn''t¡ª"

    "You were." Hannah''s voice is gentle but firm. "And Amber''s already looked up here twice."

    As if summoned by her name, Amber Rosenberg''s laugh carries across the stands, clear as crystal breaking. She holds court in the front row, a vision in a cream-colored Burberry coat that probably costs more than Lisa''s parents make in a month. Susan Lawrence and Charlotte Whitman flank her like perfectly coordinated bookends, their designer scarves fluttering in the wind like flags.

    "I was so stupid," Lisa whispers, more to herself than Hannah. The words crystallize in the cold air, as sharp as the memory of taking that photo. She''d spent hours getting the angle right, convincing herself that Nate''s recent kindness meant something more than pity or politeness. "So incredibly stupid."

    "Hey." Hannah''s hand finds hers, warm even through their gloves. "You weren''t stupid. You were brave. There''s a difference."

    Lisa wants to believe her. Wants to find comfort in this rekindled friendship that feels both familiar and strange¡ªlike putting on an old sweater and finding it fits differently than you remember. Two weeks ago, she would have sworn Hannah Marshall was lost to her forever, claimed by the careful distance that Riverside High enforces between its social classes. Now here they sit, united by shared trauma and growing determination.

    "We''re not here for Nate," Hannah reminds her, voice dropping even lower. "Remember the mission."

    Right. The mission. Lisa''s eyes shift to Coach Martinez, pacing the sidelines like a caged predator. His whistle hangs around his neck like a talisman, and Lisa thinks about his daughter Rachel¡ªabout California sunshine and hasty departures and carefully maintained lies.

    "Did you get the¡ª" Lisa starts.

    "Not here." Hannah''s eyes scan the stands, noting how sound carries in the cold air. "Tonight. My place."

    On the field, Nate catches a perfect spiral from Jake Woodland, their teamwork as precise as their matching letterman jackets. Lisa''s stomach turns as she watches Jake celebrate the catch, his movements carrying that casual grace that makes freshman girls giggle in hallways. She thinks about Hannah''s story from Halloween night, about her own memories of Hampton Beach, about all the other stories waiting to be told.

    "Sometimes I think about telling everyone," Lisa admits, her voice barely a whisper. "Just standing up in the cafeteria and shouting the truth. About Jake. About all of it."

    "That''s what they''re counting on," Hannah replies, her eyes still on the field. "That we''ll act alone. That we''ll be easy to discredit, to dismiss, to destroy." She turns to Lisa, and there''s something fierce in her expression that makes Lisa''s breath catch. "But we''re not alone anymore. And we''re done playing by their rules."

    Below them, Coach Martinez''s whistle splits the air again, and Lisa watches Jake jog back to the huddle. His charm is firmly in place, his smile practiced and perfect. But Lisa knows what lies beneath that carefully maintained facade. They all do.

    And soon, everyone else will too.

    "That''s it for today!" Coach Martinez''s voice booms across the field, followed by scattered cheers from both players and spectators. The team''s exhaustion is visible even from the stands, their breath creating small clouds in the frigid air as they wave to their audience.

    Lisa''s heart performs an unwanted somersault as Nate pulls off his helmet, his dark hair damp with sweat despite the cold. She watches - because she can''t help watching, even though it hurts - as he jogs to the sideline where Amber waits. Their kiss is brief but claiming, a casual display of ownership that makes bile rise in Lisa''s throat.

    "Come on," Hannah whispers as the stands begin to empty, people hurrying toward warmth and dinner plans. "This is our chance."

    They descend the metal bleachers carefully, their boots clanking against the frost-covered steps. Coach Martinez and his assistants are gathering the last of the equipment, their movements efficient with end-of-practice routine.

    Lisa''s about to step onto the track when she sees them - Amber, Susan, and Charlotte approaching like a designer-clad storm front. Her feet freeze mid-step, fight-or-flight instinct screaming in her ears.

    "Fuck," she breathes, the word visible in the cold air. A week ago, she would have been part of that group, laughing at whatever cutting remark Amber had just made about someone''s knockoff boots or last-season coat. Now...Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    Amber''s ice-blue eyes find Lisa''s, and Lisa braces for the smirk, the raised eyebrow, the casual cruelty she''s come to expect. But there''s... nothing. No emotion crosses Amber''s perfect features as she glides past, Susan and Charlotte in perfect formation beside her. It''s like Lisa''s become invisible, less than air, not even worth acknowledging.

    The absence of attack somehow hurts worse than any verbal assault could have. Lisa feels herself dissolving, becoming less substantial with each click of Amber''s designer boots against the track.

    "Coach is heading in," Hannah''s urgent whisper pulls Lisa back to reality. Her hand closes around Lisa''s arm, warm and solid and real. "It''s now or never."

    They catch up to Coach Martinez just as he reaches the field house door, his clipboard tucked under one arm.

    "Coach!" Hannah calls out, her voice stronger than Lisa expected. "Can we talk to you for a minute?"

    He turns, his expression neutral but watchful. "Practice is over, ladies. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow."

    "It''s about Rachel," Lisa says, and watches his face close like a steel trap.

    "My daughter''s doing great in California," he replies automatically, the words worn smooth with repetition. "The weather''s better for her asthma."

    "Funny," Hannah''s voice carries a sharp edge. "I didn''t know asthma got worse after New Year''s parties."

    Coach Martinez goes very still, his clipboard creaking under his suddenly tight grip. "I don''t know what you''re implying¡ª"

    "We''re not implying anything," Lisa cuts in, heart hammering against her ribs. "We''re asking why your daughter really left. What happened at Jake Woodland''s party that made her run three thousand miles away?"

    "You need to stop right there." His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "You have no idea what you''re talking about. No idea what kind of fire you''re playing with."

    "Actually," Hannah takes a step closer, either brave or foolish or both, "I think we know exactly what kind of fire it is. The same kind that burned other girls at Jake Woodland. The same kind that¡ª"

    Coach Martinez moves so fast Lisa barely registers it, his hand shooting out to grip Hannah''s arm. "Listen to me very carefully," he growls, all pretense of the friendly coach gone. "You''re smart girls. Too smart to stick your noses where they don''t belong." He releases Hannah''s arm like it burns him.

    Without waiting for an answer, he yanks open the field house door. "And ladies?" He pauses, silhouetted in the doorway. "If I hear you''ve been asking questions about my daughter again, we''re going to have a very different conversation. One that might involve your college recommendations. Or who knows what else." His smile is nothing like the one he wears during pep rallies. "Riverside''s a small town. Be a shame if it got too small for your families to live in."

    The bitter wind whips around them as Lisa and Hannah trudge across the darkening parking lot, their boots crunching on frozen gravel. Lisa''s hands shake as she digs for her car keys, though whether from cold or adrenaline, she''s not sure.

    "That went well," she mutters, anger and fear warring in her chest.

    Hannah kicks at a chunk of ice, sending it skittering across the asphalt. "He threatened us. Actually threatened us." Her laugh holds no humor. "I guess that means we''re onto something."

    "Or it means we''re way over our heads." Lisa finally locates her keys, metal biting into her palm through her mittens. "Maybe Susan¡ª"

    "Don''t." Hannah''s voice is sharp as the November air. "Susan won''t help us. She''s one of them, can''t you see that? She chose her side a long time ago."

    "But she was there. At Hampton Beach. She saw¡ª"

    "And what did she do? Pull Jake off you and then help bury the whole thing under parties and rumors and careful lies." Hannah''s breath clouds in front of her face like frustrated ghosts. "She''s protecting them. They all are."

    Lisa slumps against her car, the cold metal seeping through her coat. "Then who? Everyone who was there that weekend is part of their world now. Amber, Susan, Charlotte, Nate, Jake, Justin, Jeff, Morris..." The names taste bitter on her tongue. "They''re all bound together."

    "Maybe we need to look somewhere else." Something shifts in Hannah''s voice ¨C a note of calculation that makes Lisa look up sharply.

    Lisa frowns. "What do you mean?"

    "Seattle''s a dead end - that''s where Emily vanished to. It''s like she''s become a ghost. But Megan and Victoria? They''ve been right under our noses this whole time, hiding out at Brookswood High."

    "And you just happened to stumble across this information?" Lisa''s tone is skeptical.

    Hannah rolls her eyes. "Welcome to the digital age. A quick search pulled up their names on Brookswood''s student roster. Interesting thing though - their online presence? Complete radio silence. "

    Lisa''s boots crunch to a halt on the icy gravel. "Hold up - you''re absolutely certain about Brookswood?"

    "One hundred percent." Hannah''s eyes take on a dangerous gleam in the fading light. "Here''s the real kicker - check who''s on our game schedule this Friday."

    The implications hit Lisa like a physical blow. She knows Brookswood - Riverside''s longtime rival, just thirty minutes away. A working-class town where Megan and Victoria could disappear without the suffocating pressure of Riverside''s social hierarchy. Where Jake Woodland''s family name wouldn''t carry the same weight.

    "You think they''d talk to us? After everything?"

    "Only one way to find out." Hannah starts pacing again, her energy almost visible in the cold air. "Think about it - they''ve had time away from Jake''s influence, away from the money and the pressure. Maybe they''re ready to tell their stories."

    "Friday''s game," Lisa says slowly, thinking about Megan and Victoria at Brookswood High. "If we could just talk to them..."

    "That''s why we need more people," Hannah''s voice is quiet but determined. "People who aren''t afraid of Jake or Amber or any of them. People who might actually help."

    "It''s dangerous," Lisa''s hands tighten on the steering wheel. "If we do this - if we really do this - there''s no going back. We''d be taking on everything. Everyone."

    Hannah reaches across the center console, squeezing Lisa''s hand. "Maybe it''s time someone did."

    "Okay," Lisa whispers, squeezing Hannah''s hand back. "Let''s do it. Let''s find Megan and Victoria."