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."

 Chapter XII.

    The November rain turns the stadium lights into halos, each droplet a prism fragmenting white into rainbow as it falls. Nate Brooks tastes copper on his tongue - blood from where he bit his cheek during that last hit - mixed with the metallic tang of adrenaline that comes with being down six points in the fourth quarter. Brookswood 27, Riverside 21. One minute and twelve seconds left on a clock that seems to pulse like a heartbeat through the gathering mist.

    Steam rises from the artificial turf in ghostly tendrils, creating a surreal landscape of light and shadow. His cleats sink slightly into the wet field with each step, the familiar grip-and-release that comes from ten years of playing in every kind of weather. But tonight feels different. Electric. Like the air before lightning strikes.

    His right knee throbs where Brookswood''s cornerback - Roberts, number 23, known for playing dirty when the refs aren''t looking - caught him with a late hit in the third quarter. The impact had sent white-hot pain shooting through his leg, but Nate had popped right back up. You don''t stay down, not when there might be Stanford scouts in the stands, not when your girlfriend is watching from her usual spot in the front row, not when your best friend needs his favorite target for the game-winning drive.

    As if his thoughts summon her, his eyes find Amber automatically. Front row, center section, exactly where she''s been for every game since freshman year when she first wore his practice jersey to a JV match. Even through the rain and growing darkness, she glows like something ethereal - blonde hair catching stadium lights in a way that makes his chest ache, blue eyes visible even at this distance because he''s memorized their exact shade. His old jersey - BROOKS 67 - clings to her curves, the white letters stark against royal blue, and for a moment he forgets about everything else. About his throbbing knee, about the score, about the weight of expectations that comes with being Nate Brooks, star receiver, future business major, perfect boyfriend, loyal friend.

    "Wide Trips Right! Eagle Cross on two!"

    Jake''s voice snaps him back to reality, the familiar quarterback cadence carrying layers of meaning that only come from thousands of hours of practice together. Nate lines up wide right, settling into his stance with the kind of fluid grace that makes college scouts reach for their notebooks. He can read Jake''s intention in the play call - they''ve been doing this dance since Pop Warner, back when Jake''s passes barely spiraled and Nate was all skinny legs and uncertain hands.

    The defense shifts in response, their free safety cheating toward Nate''s side. Amateur move. They''ve been setting this up for three plays now, making them think the cross route is coming, when really...

    "Red 27! Red 27! HUT!"

    The ball snaps and the world explodes into controlled chaos. Nate drives hard off the line, his first three steps exactly like the cross route they''ve been running all quarter. Roberts - that bastard with the late hit - flips his hips early, expecting the inside cut. But Nate plants his good leg and breaks toward the sideline instead, a perfect out route that leaves Roberts grasping at air.

    The pass from Jake is absolute perfection - a tight spiral that cuts through the rain like it was designed specifically for this moment. Time slows as Nate tracks the ball, everything else falling away. Not the roar of the crowd, not his screaming knee, not even Amber matters in this split second of pure focus. His hands rise of their own accord, fingers spread wide, meeting the ball at exactly the right moment. The impact sends shocks through his palms as he pulls it into his body, tucking it away before Roberts can recover.

    His cleats find purchase on the slick turf as he turns upfield. One defender to beat. He throws a stiff arm that would make his father proud - former Dartmouth wide receiver James Brooks, whose championship ring sits in a display case in their living room like a constant reminder of legacy. The defender goes down and Nate streaks toward the sideline, pushed out at the thirty-yard line as the crowd erupts.

    His cleats find purchase on the slick turf as he turns upfield. One defender to beat. He throws a stiff arm that would make his father proud - former Dartmouth wide receiver James Brooks, whose championship ring sits in a display case in their living room like a constant reminder of legacy. The defender goes down and Nate streaks toward the sideline, pushed out at the thirty-yard line as the crowd erupts.

    Coach Martinez signals for their hurry-up offense, no time to celebrate the big gain. Jake''s already barking out the next play call, his voice carrying that razor-sharp focus that makes him the best quarterback in the conference. They''ve practiced this scenario countless times - less than a minute left, no timeouts, needing a touchdown to win. Time to make it count.

    That''s when Nate sees it happen.

    Later, he''ll replay this moment a thousand times in his head, wondering if he could have prevented what came next. But in real time, it unfolds like a car crash in slow motion. A Brookswood player - tall, blonde, wearing number 85 - deliberately steps into Jake''s path as they walk back toward the sideline. It''s subtle, the kind of move that looks like an accident to anyone not paying attention. But Nate sees the intent in it, the calculated malice.

    Jake goes down hard, his cleats sliding on the wet turf. His helmet bounces once with a sound that carries across the sudden quiet that''s fallen over the stadium. But it''s what happens next that makes Nate''s blood crystallize in his veins.

    The Brookswood player - 85 - towers over Jake''s fallen form, rain dripping from his facemask as he leans down. His voice carries in the unnatural silence, each word distinct and deliberate: "Fuck you, rapist!"

    Two words. Just two words, but they hit Nate like a physical blow. Because he knows. Dear god, he''s always known, hasn''t he? About Hampton. About all the carefully buried stories that haunt the edges of their perfect lives like ghosts at a feast.

    The rage comes faster than thought, faster than memory, faster than the countless times he''s chosen loyalty over justice. His body moves on pure instinct as he launches himself at player 85, all carefully maintained control evaporating like steam off the turf. His shoulder connects with 85''s midsection, driving them both onto the wet field in a tangle of limbs and curses.

    He feels rather than sees Jeff and Justin joining the fray, their bodies forming a protective wall around Jake even as fists fly and helmets clash. Someone''s elbow catches him in the ribs. He tastes blood again, fresher this time. Through the chaos, he hears the ref¡¯s whistle, sharp and desperate, trying to restore order to a situation rapidly spinning out of control.

    The field erupts into chaos. Nate''s fist connects with 85''s jaw as bodies pile around them. Jeff Thompson''s massive frame barrels through, scattering Brookswood players like bowling pins. Justin Moore has someone in a headlock. Through the melee, Nate catches glimpses of Jake - his best friend since kindergarten - being restrained by Morris as he thrashes and screams, all quarterback poise evaporated like morning dew.

    Whistles pierce the air. Referees in black and white stripes wade into the brawl, pulling apart tangled bodies. Coach Martinez''s voice booms across the field: "BREAK IT UP! NOW!"

    Nate shakes off the hands trying to restrain him, searching for Jake through the dissipating chaos. He finds him at the sideline, face contorted with a rage that makes him almost unrecognizable.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    "I''ll fucking kill him!" Jake''s voice cracks with fury and something else - fear maybe, or shame. "Let me go! I''ll¡ª"

    Nate grabs Jake''s facemask, forcing his friend to look at him. "Listen to me!" He punctuates each word by shaking the helmet. "This is exactly what they want! They''re trying to get in your head, make you lose focus!"

    Through the bars of the facemask, Nate sees tears mixing with rain on Jake''s cheeks. His voice drops lower, meant for Jake''s ears only: "We''ve got one minute. One chance. You want to give them the satisfaction of breaking you? Or you want to show them what Jake fucking Woodland can do?"

    The scoreboard''s red digits mock them: 27-21. They need six points. They need a miracle.

    Jake''s breathing steadies gradually, his quarterback''s mind visibly clicking back into gear. "Deep post," he says finally, voice rough but controlled. "You and Jeff split wide. Just like we practiced."

    Nate nods, relief flooding his system. This is the Jake he knows - the tactical genius who can read defenses like books, who turns chaos into opportunity. "That''s my quarterback."

    The teams line up for what could be their final play. Jake stands in shotgun formation, his stance deceptively casual. Nate positions himself wide right, coiled like a spring. The snap comes.

    Forty-seven seconds left. Jake calls the play with ice in his veins: "Dragon Right, X-Fly on one!"

    Jake drops back, his eyes scanning the field with practiced precision. Jeff breaks across the middle, drawing both safeties'' attention. The offensive line holds, giving Jake the pocket he needs. Nate explodes off the line, feeling the defender''s eyes locked on his every move.

    Time slows. Nate sees the coverage break down just as Jake releases the ball, a perfect spiral cutting through the rain. The safety bites on Jeff''s route, leaving just enough space. But the throw needs to be perfect. The catch needs to be perfect. Everything needs to be perfect.

    Nate plants his right foot - pain be damned - and breaks toward the corner. Jake''s pass is already in the air, a perfect rainbow arcing through the rain. Time stretches like taffy as Nate tracks the ball, everything else falling away. Not the screaming crowd, not his trembling legs, not even the memory of 85''s words. Just him and the ball and destiny.

    His hands reach up, finding the football like they were created for this single purpose. Two steps to get his feet down. One foot hits inside the endline. Then the other.

    Nate fell, arms outstretched, cradling the football like a newborn, as his body skidded into the endzone. Time slowed, every sound muffled by the roar of blood in his ears. The ball crossed the plane, and for a split second, he thought he might have imagined it.

    Then the stands erupted.

    Touchdown.

    Riverside: 30. Brookswood: 27. Time: 0:00.

    The rest of the team rushed toward him, a tidal wave of jerseys and adrenaline. Nate barely got to his feet before Jeff tackled him in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground and shaking him like a rag doll.

    ¡°Bro, you did it!¡± Jeff¡¯s voice cracked, the sheer joy breaking through his usual bravado.

    The huddle engulfed him, the team jumping and shouting like kids in a candy store. Amid the chaos, Nate spotted Jake through the crowd, and they locked eyes. For a brief moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. No words were needed¡ªthey¡¯d been through too many games, too many plays, too many moments like this. Jake¡¯s nod said everything.

    ¡°We did it, man,¡± Nate mouthed, his voice lost in the cacophony.

    Coach Martinez barreled through the group, his whistle dangling uselessly from his neck, tears glinting in his eyes. ¡°Hell of a game, Brooks. Hell of a game. Proud of you. Proud of all of you!¡±

    The stands spilled onto the field as students, parents, and alumni rushed to join the celebration. Nate tried to take it all in, but his eyes caught on one person. Amber. She stood at the edge of the mob, her golden hair catching the stadium lights, her smile brighter than the scoreboard. She was already running toward him, her arms open wide.

    He ripped off his helmet and let it drop to the ground. ¡°Amber,¡± he whispered, though the roar around them swallowed the sound. She jumped into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist, and he caught her effortlessly. Their lips met, and for one perfect moment, the world disappeared.

    ¡°My champion,¡± she murmured against his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair.

    ¡°Anything for you, princess.¡±

    The spell broke as reality seeped back in. Over Amber¡¯s shoulder, Nate saw Jake slipping away from the crowd, his shoulders hunched, his pace quick.

    Nate¡¯s stomach dropped. He knew his best friend better than anyone. He¡¯d heard what that Brookswood linebacker had said during the game, the kind of taunt that aimed for something deeper than pride. He saw the way Jake had clenched his jaw, the way he¡¯d thrown himself into every tackle after that like he was trying to outrun the words.

    ¡°Jake,¡± Nate muttered, gently lowering Amber to the ground.

    ¡°Where are you going?¡± Amber¡¯s voice was sharp with surprise and a hint of hurt. ¡°You just won!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be right back,¡± he promised, but he didn¡¯t stop to explain. Jake needed him.

    He sprinted past the crowd, weaving through the chaos until he found Jake behind the stands, sitting on the cold metal bleachers. His best friend¡¯s chest was heaving, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.

    ¡°Jake.¡± Nate¡¯s voice was soft but firm as he approached. He crouched in front of him, careful not to invade the fragile space Jake had carved out. ¡°Hey, man, it¡¯s me.¡±

    Jake didn¡¯t respond, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His eyes were wide, unfocused, darting around like a cornered animal¡¯s. Nate¡¯s heart ached at the sight.

    ¡°Okay, okay,¡± Nate said gently, sitting on the ground so they were at eye level. ¡°You¡¯re having a panic attack. That¡¯s all it is. I¡¯m here. Just focus on me.¡±

    He reached out, resting a hand on Jake¡¯s arm. Jake flinched but didn¡¯t pull away.

    ¡°Breathe with me,¡± Nate said, taking an exaggerated inhale. ¡°In through the nose, real slow. Hold it. Now out through the mouth.¡±

    Jake¡¯s breathing was still erratic, but he tried to follow Nate¡¯s lead.

    ¡°Good,¡± Nate encouraged. ¡°Just like that. In and out. You¡¯ve got this.¡±

    After a few minutes, Jake¡¯s breaths started to even out, the wild look in his eyes fading. He leaned back, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples. ¡°God, I¡¯m a mess.¡±

    ¡°Nah, you¡¯re human,¡± Nate said, his tone light but sincere. ¡°Even quarterbacks get to have bad nights.¡±

    Jake let out a bitter laugh. ¡°What he said...¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Nate cut in. ¡°You¡¯re Jake Woodland. Best damn QB in the league. One jerk on a losing team doesn¡¯t get to define you.¡±

    ¡°Yeah?¡± Jake looked at him, his expression vulnerable in a way Nate rarely saw. ¡°And what if he¡¯s right?¡±

    Nate¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°He¡¯s not. I know you. Better than anyone. You¡¯re my brother, Jake. You¡¯re enough. Always have been, always will be.¡±

    Nate watched helplessly as Jake dissolved into sobs, his whole body shaking. "Oh god, they know... I''m fucked, Nate. Completely fucked!"

    Nate seized Jake''s shoulders, his grip fierce. "Listen to me. No one knows shit. And if they did? We''d bury them. Just like we always do."

    Jake shook his head wildly,. "You don''t understand! If this gets out--"

    SMACK! Nate''s palm cracked across Jake''s cheek. "Get it together, man! Remember our oath? We swore we''d always have each other''s backs, no matter what. Woodland and Brooks against the world, just like it''s been since we were six years old and you pissed yourself on the playground."

    Jake¡¯s shoulders sagged, and for the first time that night, he let himself lean on Nate. ¡°Thanks, man.¡±

    ¡°Anytime.¡± Nate clapped him on the back. ¡°But if you tell anyone I said all this sentimental crap, I¡¯ll deny it.¡±

    Jake managed a weak smile. ¡°Deal.¡±

    He hauled Jake to his feet. "Now c''mon. We''re the fucking kings of Riverside High. No one can touch us."

    As they walked back toward the lights and cheers, Nate spotted Lisa Chen and Hannah Marshall watching them intently. His stomach clenched. What had they seen? What did they know?

    Shoving the thought aside, he jogged to catch up with Jake. He''d deal with those two later if he had to. But tonight? Tonight was for celebrating their invincibility, even as the shadows of their secrets threatened to swallow them whole.

 Chapter XIII.

    Morning light filters through Amber''s silk curtains, painting patterns across her Egyptian cotton sheets. She lies awake, watching Nate''s chest rise and fall in the gentle rhythm of deep sleep. His dark hair is tousled against her pale pink pillowcase, last night''s victory still etched in the slight smile that plays at the corners of his mouth even in sleep.

    There''s always been something different about post-game Nate Brooks. Something in the way victory sits on his shoulders, transforms his usual careful charm into something electric and untamed. Last night had been no exception - the way he''d looked at her across Jeff''s crowded living room, his eyes dark with promise and victory-fueled confidence. They''d barely made it through their victory toasts before sneaking away, the memory making her cheeks flush even now.

    Amber bites her bottom lip, warmth blooming across her face as the memories of last night crash over her. The way his hands had moved¡ªstrong, sure, as if they were meant to know every inch of her. The way he¡¯d whispered. She swallows hard, her fingers brushing the faint marks on her hips where his grip lingered.

    Her phone buzzes against her nightstand, screen lighting up with her mother''s text: "Breakfast is ready. Are you and Nate joining us?"

    "Nate," she whispers, trailing her fingers along his jaw. "Wake up, sleeping beauty."

    His eyes open, dark and lazy, the weight of his gaze sending a familiar shiver through her. ¡°Morning, princess,¡± he says, his voice rough and amused.

    Amber smirks, trying for casualness, but the way her cheeks flush betrays her. ¡°You need to get up. Mom¡¯s going to freak out if we''re late for breakfast.¡±

    ¡°She can wait,¡± he says, pulling her closer. His lips brush her shoulder, slow and deliberate, and she feels her resolve slipping. ¡°I¡¯m not done with you yet.¡±

    Her laugh is breathless, and she pushes half-heartedly at his chest. ¡°You¡¯re insatiable.¡±

    ¡°Not my fault,¡± he murmurs, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her waist. ¡°You¡¯re irresistible.¡±

    Amber rolls her eyes, but her pulse quickens. ¡°Last night was¡­¡± She pauses, the words catching in her throat.

    ¡°Yeah?¡± he prompts, his tone full of teasing confidence. ¡°Go on.¡±

    She hesitates for a heartbeat longer before meeting his gaze. ¡°It was the best I¡¯ve ever had,¡± she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

    His grin widens, and the mischief in his eyes is almost unbearable. ¡°The best?¡± he repeats, clearly savoring her words.

    ¡°You know it was,¡± she fires back, flustered but unwilling to let him win entirely.

    Nate chuckles, leaning closer until their noses almost touch. ¡°I do. But hearing you say it? That¡¯s something else.¡±

    Amber tries to glare, but it¡¯s impossible when he looks at her like that. ¡°Don¡¯t let it go to your head.¡±

    ¡°Too late.¡± His voice drops, low and full of promise. ¡°And for the record, last night wasn¡¯t just the best for you.¡±

    Her breath hitches as his lips find hers again, the kiss deep and languid, drawing her back into the warmth of the night they shared.

    The sharp buzz of her phone on the nightstand drags her back to reality. She pulls away reluctantly, resting her forehead against his. ¡°We really have to go. My mom¡¯s going to kill me¡ªand you¡ªif we don¡¯t show up soon.¡±

    He groans, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. ¡°Fine. But just so you know, I¡¯m not done breaking records with you.¡±

    Amber can¡¯t help but laugh, throwing a pillow at him as she slips out of bed. ¡°Three minutes, Brooks. If you¡¯re not downstairs by then, you¡¯re on your own.¡±

    As she heads for her closet, his voice follows her, playful and full of that Nate Brooks charm she both loves and hates. ¡°Three minutes, huh? Just enough time for round two.¡±

    She doesn¡¯t look back, but the smile on her face gives her away. Last night might¡¯ve been the best¡ªbut something tells her Nate isn¡¯t done proving her wrong.

    Amber watches as Nate quickly pulls on his jeans and polo from last night, somehow making even rumpled clothes look intentionally disheveled. She chooses a cream cashmere sweater and high-waisted slacks, her movements practiced and precise. Together, they descend the sweeping staircase, their footsteps muffled by imported carpet.

    The Rosenberg kitchen gleams like a magazine spread come to life - all professional-grade appliances and marble countertops. Morning light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the copper pots hanging above the island into miniature suns. Her father sits at the head of the table, Wall Street Journal creating a barrier between him and the world. Tommy bounces in his chair, demolishing a stack of pancakes with the kind of enthusiasm only ten-year-olds can muster. Victoria Rosenberg stands at the Viking range, orchestrating breakfast with the same precision she uses to orchestrate their social lives.

    "Nate!" Tommy launches himself across the kitchen, pancake syrup still glistening on his chin. "That catch was incredible! Like, actually incredible! Dad showed it on his iPad this morning! When you jumped over that guy and¡ª"

    Nate catches Tommy mid-flight, swinging him up like he weighs nothing. "Thanks, buddy! But you should''ve seen your sister''s face when the ball crossed the plane. Pretty sure she screamed louder than Coach Martinez."

    Amber''s heart does that stupid flutter thing as she watches them together. Because this is the Nate Brooks most people don''t get to see - the one who remembers Tommy''s favorite cereal, who helps with multiplication tables even after exhausting practices, who treats her little brother like he''s actually worth listening to.

    "Excellent game last night, son." Richard lowers his newspaper, his approval warming the kitchen like expensive scotch. "That final drive was something special."

    "Thank you, sir." Nate''s charm slides into place as easily as his letterman jacket. "Though honestly, it was Jake''s call that made it happen. He saw something in their coverage¡ª"

    "Sit, sit!" Victoria interrupts, placing a platter of perfectly scrambled eggs on the table. "Amber, darling, have you given any more thought to what you''ll study after graduation? Stanford''s business program is extremely competitive, but with your father''s connections¡ª"

    "I don''t know, Mom." Amber''s voice comes out sharper than intended. "Maybe I want to explore other options."

    The kitchen temperature seems to drop ten degrees. Something dark and familiar starts churning in Amber''s chest - that dangerous cocktail of rage and helplessness that makes her hands shake. She stares at her mother''s perfect makeup, her careful smile, and suddenly wants to throw her plate across the room, wants to scream until all the crystal wineglasses shatter.

    "Other options?" Victoria''s laugh tinkles like breaking glass. "Darling, we''ve had your path planned since before you could walk. The Rosenberg name¡ª"

    "I don''t care about the Rosenberg name!" Amber''s voice rises, wild and uncontrolled. "Maybe I want to be more than just another trust fund princess following Daddy''s footsteps! Maybe I''m sick of you planning every minute of my life like I''m some kind of... of investment portfolio!"

    "Amber Rosaly Victoria Rosenberg!" Richard''s voice cracks like a whip. "You will not speak to your mother that way."

    But it''s Nate''s hand finding hers under the table that anchors her, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. The touch is so familiar, so steady, that she feels the rage begin to recede like a tide pulling back from shore.

    "I''m sorry," she whispers, hating the tears that threaten to spill. "I didn''t mean¡ª"

    "Actually, sir," Nate cuts in smoothly, his voice carrying that particular tone that makes adults lean in despite themselves. "I''ve been meaning to ask your thoughts on something. Jake mentioned your firm is handling the Richardson development''s legal work? His father was telling me about their innovative approach to sustainable urban planning..."

    Richard''s expression shifts instantly, professional interest overtaking parental anger. "Ah, the Richardson project. Now there''s a fascinating case study in modern development..." He launches into an analysis of environmental impact assessments and zoning regulations, his earlier fury forgotten in the face of his favorite subject.

    Amber barely hears them. Her mind drifts, examining her outburst like a scientist studying a particularly volatile compound. These mood swings - they come without warning, turning her from perfect daughter to rage-filled stranger in the space of a heartbeat. Sometimes she wonders if there''s something broken inside her, some fundamental flaw that makes her feel everything too intensely, too deeply.

    She watches Nate nod at exactly the right moments, asking intelligent questions about market projections and sustainability metrics. He''s handling her father like a master diplomat, redirecting Richard''s attention while simultaneously proving himself worthy of the Rosenberg name. But his thumb never stops its gentle movement against her palm, the touch saying what words can''t: I''m here. I understand. You''re not alone.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    Victoria busies herself with clearing plates, her movements slightly too precise, betraying her lingering tension. Tommy has returned to his pancakes, already forgetting the drama in that particular way of children. And Amber sits there, caught between gratitude and shame, wondering how many more times Nate Brooks will have to save her from herself.

    Because these episodes are getting worse, aren''t they? More frequent, more intense, harder to control. Like waves getting bigger and bigger, threatening to pull her under completely. Only Nate''s hand in hers keeps her afloat, but how long before even that isn''t enough?

    Richard and Nate''s discussion of sustainable development carries them through the rest of breakfast, their voices creating a soothing backdrop that helps settle Amber''s frayed nerves. She watches as Nate demolishes his third helping of eggs - a sight that still amazes her even after years of dating a football player with the metabolism of a hummingbird.

    "Richard," Victoria interrupts, consulting her Cartier watch. "It''s nearly noon. We need to leave soon."

    "Where are you guys going?" Amber asks, realizing she''s lost track of their carefully scheduled weekend.

    Victoria''s perfectly shaped eyebrows rise in surprise. "The children''s hospital? Darling, we''ve been planning this for months. The whole board will be there."

    ¡°Right, right,¡± Amber says dismissively, swirling her orange juice. ¡°Another charity where everyone pretends they actually care about sick kids between champagne toasts. Sounds riveting.¡±

    Victoria sighs, choosing not to engage, and begins gathering her things.

    ¡°And Tommy?¡± Amber asks, her tone sharper than intended.

    ¡°Hannah should be here any minute,¡± Victoria replies, fastening her Herm¨¨s bag with a crisp snap.

    Amber freezes, her fingers tightening around her glass. Of course, Hannah. Who else would swoop in to play the perfect, competent savior while Amber is left feeling raw and exposed?

    The sound of the back door opening makes her stomach twist. Sure enough, Hannah Marshall steps into the kitchen, her ever-present aura of quiet, dependable efficiency making Amber¡¯s teeth grind. The sensible shoes, the budget-friendly sweater¡ªHannah doesn¡¯t even try to blend in.

    ¡°Good morning,¡± Hannah says, her tone cheerful but careful as her gaze flicks toward Amber.

    Amber sets her glass down with a deliberate clink. ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t Saint Hannah, here to save the day. What would we do without you?¡±

    ¡°Amber,¡± Nate says softly, his hand brushing hers, but she shakes him off.

    ¡°No, really,¡± Amber continues, her smile sharp as glass. ¡°It must be exhausting, always having to be so¡­ selfless. Does it ever get old, Hannah? Always the reliable little worker bee, buzzing around, doing what you¡¯re told?¡±

    Hannah¡¯s face flushes, but she keeps her posture steady. ¡°I¡¯m just here to help with Tommy,¡± she says simply, her voice calm but tight.

    ¡°Of course you are,¡± Amber says, leaning back in her chair. ¡°Because that¡¯s what you do, isn¡¯t it? You help. You stay in your lane, keep your head down, and hope no one notices when you start acting like you actually belong here.¡±

    ¡°Amber, stop,¡± Nate says firmly, his eyes narrowing.

    Hannah doesn¡¯t respond, focusing on unpacking her bag with mechanical precision, but the faint tremor in her hands doesn¡¯t escape Amber¡¯s notice.

    Victoria finally steps in, her tone brisk and dismissive. ¡°Amber, enough. Hannah¡¯s here to help, not to spar with you. Try to keep it civil.¡±

    Amber gives an exaggerated shrug. ¡°I am being civil. If I weren¡¯t, she¡¯d know.¡±

    Victoria shakes her head, pressing a kiss to Amber¡¯s cheek before addressing Hannah. ¡°We¡¯ll be back by eight. Please make sure Tommy finishes his reading, and no more than an hour of screen time.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Mrs. Rosenberg,¡± Hannah replies, her voice steady but strained.

    As the front door closes, the tension in the kitchen thickens. Tommy is still chattering away, oblivious, while Nate looks at Amber with a mix of disappointment and exasperation.

    Amber doesn¡¯t care. She crosses her arms, leaning against the counter as her gaze sharpens on Hannah. ¡°You know,¡± she says with a sickly sweet smile, ¡°for someone who¡¯s supposed to be so smart, you¡¯d think you¡¯d figure out how to stop looking like you don¡¯t belong. It¡¯s embarrassing for all of us.¡±

    Hannah meets her gaze this time, her eyes steady but filled with quiet defiance. ¡°I¡¯m not here for you, Amber,¡± she says softly.

    ¡°No,¡± Amber replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°You¡¯re here because my parents pay you to be. Don¡¯t forget that.¡±

    Hannah presses her lips together and turns away, focusing on helping Tommy. Amber feels Nate¡¯s disapproving stare but ignores it, her satisfaction outweighing the sting of his judgment.

    The tension in the kitchen becomes unbearable as Nate clears his throat. "We should probably head out," he suggests quietly, his eyes meeting Amber''s with a silent plea.

    "Whatever," Amber mutters, watching Tommy show Hannah his latest video game achievement with unconcealed disdain. The sight makes something twist inside her chest - a complicated knot of emotions she can''t quite untangle.

    Nate''s hand finds her elbow, gently but firmly guiding her toward the hallway. She allows herself to be led, but every step feels like a concession she''s not ready to make. Once they''re out of earshot, she yanks her arm free.

    "Don''t," she hisses, but Nate simply takes her hand and continues toward the stairs, his jaw set in that way that means he''s not backing down.

    The walk to her bedroom feels endless. Each step feeds the fury building in her chest, a dangerous cocktail of rage and shame and something deeper she doesn''t want to examine. By the time Nate closes the door behind them, she''s practically vibrating with pent-up emotion.

    "What?" she demands, her voice sharp enough to cut. The silence that follows only fuels her anger. "WHAT?"

    Nate stands there, maddeningly calm, watching her with those steady brown eyes that usually make her feel safe but now just make her want to scream.

    "Don''t look at me like that!" She shoves his chest, hard enough to make him step back. "Like I''m some... some problem you need to solve!"

    He doesn''t react, doesn''t raise his voice, doesn''t give her anything to push against. It makes her want to hit him, to make him feel even a fraction of the chaos churning inside her.

    When she raises her hands again, he catches her wrists - not roughly, but with enough firmness to stop her. "Sit down," he says quietly, guiding her to the edge of her bed. His touch is gentle but leaves no room for argument.

    She collapses onto the mattress, suddenly exhausted. Nate releases her wrists and crouches in front of her, his eyes level with hers. "Talk to me," he says softly. "What''s really going on?"

    "I hate her," Amber whispers, the words escaping like poison from a wound. "I hate how perfect she is, how... how effortless everything seems for her. She just walks in here with her sensible shoes and her quiet competence and everyone looks at her like she''s some kind of... of saint."

    The words pour out now, unstoppable as a flood. "And Tommy adores her. Did you see his face light up when she walked in? My own brother looks at her like she hung the moon, while I''m just the crazy sister who can''t even get through breakfast without falling apart."

    Her hands shake as she continues, "Sometimes I wake up and I can feel it coming - like storm clouds gathering in my head. Everything gets too bright, too loud, too much. And then I look at someone like Hannah, who''s so... so contained, so in control, and I want to break something. Want to make her feel as chaotic as I do inside."

    Tears spill down her cheeks now, but she barely notices. "What''s wrong with me, Nate? Why can''t I just... be normal? Why do I have to feel everything so intensely it hurts? One minute I''m fine, and the next it''s like there''s electricity under my skin and I can''t... I can''t..."

    She chokes on a sob, wrapping her arms around herself like she might physically fall apart if she doesn''t hold herself together. "Everyone''s always watching, always expecting me to be perfect Amber Rosenberg, but I feel like I''m coming undone. And the more I try to hold it together, the worse it gets, until I just... explode."

    Nate pulls her into his arms, and she crumbles against his chest like a sandcastle at high tide. "Let it out," he murmurs into her hair. "You don''t have to be perfect here. Not with me."

    His shirt grows damp with her tears as she clings to him, her body shaking with sobs that feel like they''re being torn from somewhere deep inside. His hands trace soothing patterns on her back, steady and sure, while she falls apart in the safety of his embrace.

    When he tilts her chin up and kisses her softly, she tastes salt on her lips. "I don''t deserve you," she whispers against his mouth. "I''m such a mess, and you''re just... you''re everything, Nate. How can you even stand to be around me when I''m like this?"

    "Perfect," he says simply, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

    "I''m not¡ª"

    "Perfect for me," he clarifies, pulling her closer. "Every piece of you, even the broken ones. Especially the broken ones."

    Fresh tears spill down her cheeks as she burrows deeper into his embrace. They sit like that for what feels like hours, his heartbeat steady under her ear, his warmth seeping into her bones.

    "How do you do that?" she finally asks, her voice muffled against his chest. "How do you always know exactly what I need?"

    She feels rather than sees his smile. "Years of practice," he says, his fingers combing gently through her hair. "And because you''re not nearly as complicated as you think you are, princess."

    Before she can protest, he shifts slightly. "Come on," he says, wiping her tears with his thumbs. "Let''s get you cleaned up. Shower, warm clothes, and then I''m taking you somewhere."

    "Where?"

    "Away. How about a walk through Ridgeline Hills? Just you and me?" His eyes light up with that particular warmth that still makes her heart skip. "And afterward, we go to La Petite Maison. You know, that little French place tucked away in the hills? The one with those ridiculous croissants you love?"

    The thought of facing the world makes anxiety crawl up her throat, but something in Nate''s expression makes her pause. He''s looking at her like she''s something precious, something worth protecting, even when she feels like a hurricane in human form.

    "Just us?" she asks, hating how small her voice sounds.

    "Just us," he confirms, pressing a kiss to her temple. "No expectations, no pressure. Just you and me and those completely overpriced French pastries you pretend not to inhale."

    A laugh bubbles up unexpectedly through her tears. "I do not inhale them."

    "Princess," he says, his voice warm with affection, "I''ve seen you demolish an entire basket of pain au chocolat in under five minutes. It was terrifying and impressive."

    She smacks his chest lightly, but she''s smiling now - a real smile, not the carefully practiced one she usually wears. Because this is what Nate Brooks does - he takes her storms and turns them into something manageable, something almost beautiful.

    As they head toward her bathroom, his hand warm and steady in hers, Amber realizes something that should probably terrify her but instead feels like coming home: she may not believe in fairy tales anymore, but she believes in this. In them. In the way Nate Brooks looks at her like she''s worth saving, even when she''s not sure she wants to save herself.

    And maybe, just maybe, that''s enough for now.

 Chapter XIV.

    The afternoon light streams through the Rosenbergs'' floor-to-ceiling windows as Hannah listens to Tommy read from his assigned novel, The Lightning Thief. His voice carries the confident cadence of a strong reader, though he occasionally stumbles on the larger Greek names.

    "''Percy stared at the Minotaur''s horn, wondering how he could have possibly killed the beast...''" Tommy reads fluently, fully absorbed in the story.

    Hannah''s attention drifts to movement outside. Through the window, she watches Nate help Amber into his truck¡ªa gesture so practiced it looks choreographed. Amber looks flawless as always in her cream cashmere sweater, her makeup perfect, her smile calculated as she says something that makes Nate laugh. Nothing in her appearance betrays any hint of the morning''s tension.

    The truck''s engine rumbles to life, and Hannah''s heart begins to race. This is it. The opportunity they''ve been waiting for. After a week of dead ends¡ªthe Brookswood game where they couldn''t find Megan Carter or Victoria Reynolds despite searching the entire visiting section, the confrontation with Coach Martinez that ended in threats rather than answers¡ªfinally, a chance.

    "Tommy," she says, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Why don''t you take a break? You''ve been reading for almost an hour."

    His face lights up. "Can I play Fortnite? Nate showed me some new tricks last time he was here."

    "One hour," she agrees, pushing away memories of Halloween night. "Remember what your mom said about screen time."

    She watches him settle into his gaming routine, making sure he''s thoroughly engrossed before slipping upstairs. Each step feels like a betrayal of trust, but she thinks about Lisa''s face when she talks about Hampton Beach, about their frustrating search for the other girls who seemed to have vanished into thin air. About Rachel Martinez, who they''d tried to contact through social media only to find all her accounts deactivated.

    Amber''s bedroom door opens silently, revealing a space that looks like it was decorated by someone who read about teenage girls in magazines but never actually met one. Everything is precisely coordinated in shades of cream and blush pink, from the silk curtains to the tufted headboard. A chandelier that probably costs more than Hannah''s car hangs from the ceiling, casting rainbow prisms across walls adorned with carefully framed fashion prints.

    The room should feel feminine, delicate, but there''s something almost clinical about its perfection. No random clutter, no signs of typical teenage messiness. Even the photos on her vanity¡ªmostly of her and Nate at various social events¡ªare arranged with geometric precision.

    Hannah moves methodically, guilt warring with determination as she searches. The desk yields nothing but expensive stationery and perfectly organized school supplies. Under the bed is equally bare¡ªjust shopping bags from designer stores, their contents still wrapped in tissue paper.

    Her eyes land on Nate''s bag, the number 67 embroidered in gold thread. Her hands shake slightly as she unzips it, the familiar scent of him hitting her like a physical force¡ªclean sweat and expensive cologne and something uniquely Nate that makes her dizzy. She finds herself pressing one of his t-shirts to her face before she can stop herself, breathing in deeply.

    "Hannah?" Tommy''s voice carries up the stairs. "The game crashed!"

    "Coming!" she calls back, hastily shoving the shirt back into the bag. Her heart pounds as she makes one final sweep of the room.

    The mattress. She hasn''t checked the mattress.

    Her fingers slide between the memory foam and the box spring, finding nothing at first. But then¡ªthere. Paper, crisp and official-feeling. She pulls the sheets free just as Tommy calls again.

    "One minute!" Her voice cracks as she unfolds the papers, eyes scanning rapidly.

    When she pulls the papers from between the mattress and box spring, the letterhead makes her breath catch: Riverside Psychiatric Associates.

    The date is from two years ago, but the diagnosis jumps off the page in stark medical terminology: Bipolar Disorder Type II. The words blur together as she reads: "periods of hypomania... depressive episodes... recommend immediate therapeutic intervention... mood stabilizers..."Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    Hannah''s hands shake as she photographs the documents. This is it¡ªthe ammunition they''ve been looking for. Evidence of instability that could destroy Amber''s carefully constructed image. Combined with Lisa''s story, it could bring down the entire house of cards.

    But something stops her as she reads deeper into the medical notes. Phrases jump out: "patient exhibits extreme anxiety about maintaining perfect appearance and behavior" and "shows signs of severe emotional distress when unable to meet perceived expectations."

    Her stomach churns with conflicting emotions. Because this isn''t just ammunition¡ªthis is a teenage girl fighting battles inside her own mind while maintaining a perfect facade for the world. This is someone desperately trying to control her own chaos while controlling everyone around her.

    "Hannah?" Tommy''s voice carries up the stairs.

    "Coming!" she calls back, hastily returning the papers to their hiding place. Her phone feels heavy in her pocket, weighted with photos that could shatter Amber''s world. But now those photos feel less like weapons and more like wounds¡ªevidence of pain rather than proof of weakness.

    As she helps Tommy with his game, her mind races. Because she wanted justice, wanted to expose the corruption and cruelty of Riverside''s elite. But is it justice if it comes at the cost of exposing someone''s private medical struggles? Is bringing down the system worth destroying someone who might be as much a victim of that system as anyone else?

    Some truths, she realizes, are more complicated than simple revenge would suggest. And sometimes understanding your enemy means questioning whether they were really your enemy at all.

    Hannah watches Tommy expertly navigate his character through the game''s virtual landscape, his fingers dancing across the controller with practiced ease. But her mind is elsewhere, turning over this new understanding of Amber Rosenberg like a complicated puzzle.

    It makes sense now - all of it. The intense mood swings, the desperate need for control, the way she clings to Nate like he''s her anchor in a storm. Hannah had always wondered what someone like Nate Brooks - with his easy charm and genuine kindness - saw in Riverside''s ice princess. But maybe he wasn''t staying out of obligation or social expectation. Maybe he saw past the carefully constructed walls to the girl fighting battles no one else could see.

    Her phone buzzes with Lisa''s text: "Did you find anything?"

    Hannah''s thumb hovers over the screen, the weight of her discovery pressing against her conscience. The truth sits in her camera roll like a loaded gun, waiting to be fired. But whose life would it destroy? Not just Amber''s, but Tommy''s too - this sweet kid who loves his sister despite her sharp edges, who doesn''t deserve to see her torn apart by cruel gossip and whispered judgments.

    "Nothing yet," she types back, the lie tasting bitter but necessary.

    The game''s cheerful music provides a stark contrast to her churning thoughts. Her hand drifts to her phone again, opening her camera roll. The clinical language stares back at her: "Patient exhibits signs of severe emotional distress..." She closes the photos quickly, feeling like a voyeur into someone else''s private pain.

    Bile rises in her throat as her mind suddenly shifts to Halloween night - to Jake''s weight pinning her down, his hands insistent and unwanted. The memory makes her skin crawl. Because that''s what real monsters look like, isn''t it? Not troubled girls hiding medical records between their mattresses, but boys who think consent is optional and power is permission.

    The names run through her mind like a dark litany: Lisa Chen, Rachel Martinez, Megan Carter, Victoria Reynolds, Emily Thorne. How many others were there? How many girls had Jake Woodland marked as prey before moving on to his next target? Each name represents a story buried under money and influence, a voice silenced by fear and shame. Three had transferred schools, Emily fleeing all the way to Seattle, while Rachel escaped to California. Only Lisa remained in Riverside, carrying her story like invisible scars.

    "Hannah?" Tommy''s voice pulls her back to the present. "Are you okay? You look kind of sick."

    She forces a smile. "I''m fine, buddy. Just thinking about some stuff."

    But she''s not fine. Because somewhere in Riverside, Jake Woodland is probably planning his next conquest, protected by his family name and his father''s lawyers and a system designed to keep people like him safe while girls like her stay quiet.

    The real enemy isn''t Amber Rosenberg with her hidden diagnosis and desperate need for control. It''s the Jake Woodlands of the world who treat other people''s bodies like territory to be conquered, other people''s lives like games to be played.

    But how do you fight someone like that? How do you get close enough to expose the truth without becoming another victim? The questions circle in Hannah''s mind like hungry wolves, offering no easy answers.

    Because some monsters wear letterman jackets and perfect smiles, and fighting them means risking everything. But staying silent? That''s not an option anymore. Not when she knows what she knows, not when she''s seen what she''s seen.

    The trick would be finding a way to bring Jake down without destroying everyone around him - including the girl whose medical records sit heavily in Hannah''s phone, a secret she never wanted to know but now can''t unknow.

 Chapter XV.

    Lisa Chen''s fork hovers over her wilted cafeteria salad, the lettuce as lifeless as her appetite. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across the standard-issue table where she sits alone, turning even the cherry tomatoes into sad, plastic-looking orbs. Three weeks ago, she would have been sitting at a different table - the one in the corner by the windows, where sunlight catches on jewelry and highlights.

    Now she watches that table from exile, observing the careful choreography of Riverside High''s elite like a anthropologist studying a foreign culture. Amber Rosenberg holds court in her usual spot. Susan Lawrence and Charlotte Whitman flank her like perfectly coordinated bookends, while Sarah Matthews leans in eagerly, desperate to catch every perfectly enunciated word.

    Amber says something that makes the table erupt in practiced laughter - the kind that sounds like expensive wind chimes and calculated inclusion. Lisa remembers that laugh, remembers practicing it in her bathroom mirror until it sounded just right. Just rich enough, just casual enough, just cruel enough to belong.

    The cafeteria doors swing open with practiced confidence, and Lisa''s heart performs an unwanted gymnastics routine in her chest. A sea of letterman jackets floods in, royal blue like some kind of athletic aristocracy. Jake Woodland leads the charge, his swagger carrying that particular brand of entitled grace that makes freshman girls giggle in hallways. Jeff Thompson and Justin Moore follow in his wake, their matching jackets and carefully maintained haircuts making them look like catalogue models for privileged youth.

    And then there''s Nate.

    Lisa''s breath catches as she watches him enter last, something hidden behind his back. Even now, after everything, the sight of him makes her pulse quicken. He moves with that fluid athleticism that comes from years of catching perfect spirals, his dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that still features prominently in her daydreams.

    The cafeteria''s usual chaos dims slightly as other students notice Nate''s purposeful stride toward Amber''s table. Lisa sees phones appear like fireflies, their cameras ready to capture whatever''s about to happen. Because of course - it''s almost Winter Ball. How could she have forgotten? The social event that usually consumes weeks of careful planning and dress shopping and strategic date arranging.

    Her stomach turns to ice as Nate approaches Amber''s table. She knows what''s coming - has imagined this moment a thousand times in her fantasies, only with herself in Amber''s place. The entire room seems to hold its breath as Nate Brooks, star receiver and golden boy of Riverside High, drops to one knee beside Amber''s chair.

    "Amber Rosenberg," his voice carries clearly across the sudden silence, warm and sincere in a way that makes Lisa''s chest ache. He produces a single red rose from behind his back, its petals perfectly unfurled like something from a fairy tale. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to Winter Ball? Though I warn you - my dancing hasn''t improved much since homecoming."

    The joke lands perfectly, drawing appreciative laughter from their audience. But Lisa barely hears it over the roaring in her ears. Because Amber''s face - usually so carefully controlled - transforms with genuine joy. Her smile isn''t the practiced one she uses for Instagram photos or charity galas. It''s real and vulnerable and beautiful in a way that makes Lisa want to scream.

    "Yes," Amber says simply, but her voice carries a warmth that makes the word sound like a prayer. "Though I expect at least three slow dances without you stepping on my toes."

    Nate''s laugh is pure sunshine as he stands, pulling Amber into an embrace that looks like it belongs on a movie poster. The rose catches light between them, its red petals stark against Amber''s cream sweater. The cafeteria erupts in applause and camera clicks, everyone eager to capture their own piece of Riverside High''s perfect couple.

    Lisa forces herself to look away, her salad suddenly even less appealing than before. She was so stupid - thinking that helping Nate with his essays meant something. That their conversations about books and dreams and futures were more than just polite interaction. That someone like Nate Brooks would ever see past her public school background and her parents'' restaurant to the girl who''s loved him since freshman year.

    "You okay?"

    Hannah''s voice makes her jump. She hadn''t noticed her friend''s approach, too lost in her own misery. Hannah slides onto the bench across from her, her sensible shoes squeaking slightly against the linoleum floor.

    "I''m fine," Lisa lies, stabbing a cherry tomato with unnecessary force. "Just watching another episode of ''Riverside''s Perfect Couple: The Continuing Saga.''"

    Hannah''s eyes follow Lisa''s gaze to where Nate and Amber are still wrapped in their picture-perfect embrace. "It''s like watching a Teen Vogue photoshoot come to life," she mutters. "Complete with coordinated outfits and strategic lighting."

    "They probably planned it," Lisa says, but the bitterness in her voice sounds hollow even to her own ears. "Amber wouldn''t risk an unplanned moment ruining her Instagram aesthetic."

    But she can''t quite hide the longing in her eyes as she watches Nate brush a strand of hair from Amber''s face with such tender familiarity it makes her chest physically hurt. Because she knows - even if she''ll never admit it out loud - that what she''s really jealous of isn''t the perfect photos or the designer clothes or even the social status. It''s the way Nate looks at Amber like she''s the answer to questions he never knew to ask.

    "Winter Ball," Hannah says suddenly, pulling Lisa''s attention back. "I almost forgot about it with everything that''s been happening."This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Lisa lets out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, well, between social exile and trying to expose sexual predators, formal dances haven''t exactly been top of mind." She pushes her salad around her plate. "Not that it matters. No one''s going to ask the girl Amber Rosenberg branded as desperate anyway."

    "Has anyone caught your eye?" Hannah asks gently. "Maybe someone outside their circle?"

    "God no," Lisa''s fork clatters against her plate. "I can barely look at guys right now without..." She trails off, her mind automatically shying away from memories of Hampton Beach - of Jake''s hands, his weight, his laugh that still haunts her dreams.

    "Hey," Hannah reaches across the table, squeezing her hand. "What if we went together? As friends?"

    Lisa blinks, surprised by the suggestion. "I never even thought about that."

    "Think about it - no pressure, no expectations. Just two friends showing these trust fund babies that we don''t need their validation to have a good time."

    A smile tugs at Lisa''s lips - her first genuine one all day. "That actually sounds... nice."

    "So let''s make a deal," Hannah proposes, her eyes sparkling with something that looks like hope. "If neither of us gets asked by someone we actually want to go with by the week before - we go together. Dance badly, eat all the fancy hors d''oeuvres, judge everyone''s dresses..."

    "Deal," Lisa says, feeling something loosen in her chest.

    Then, lowering her voice: "Did you find anything? At the Rosenbergs''?"

    Hannah''s expression shifts, something flickering across her face too quickly for Lisa to read. "No," she says after a pause that feels slightly too long. "Nothing useful."

    Lisa''s eyes drift involuntarily to where Jake sits holding court among his fellow athletes. His charm is firmly in place as he tells some story that has his audience captivated, his hands gesturing animatedly. Looking at him now, it''s hard to reconcile this Jake - the charismatic quarterback - with the other Jake. The one from Hampton Beach.

    "We need to get closer somehow," Hannah says, following her gaze. "Find a way inside their circle."

    The memory hits Lisa like a physical blow - Jake''s breath hot against her neck, his weight pinning her down, the sound of waves through the beach house window mixing with her own desperate protests. Her hands begin to shake, and she shoves them under the table.

    "How?" The word comes out barely above a whisper. "How do you get close to someone like that without..." She can''t finish the sentence.

    "We need leverage," Hannah says quietly. "Something concrete. Not just stories they can deny or twist."

    "They''re careful," Lisa replies, watching Jake laugh at something Jeff Thompson says. "They know exactly how much money and influence protects them. How do you fight that kind of power?"

    Hannah''s expression hardens with determination. "By being smarter. By understanding that their biggest weakness is their own sense of invulnerability." She leans forward, lowering her voice further. "They think they''re untouchable. That makes them careless."

    Lisa watches as Jake rises from his table, his movements carrying that casual grace that once made her heart flutter but now makes her want to run. His path to the trash cans takes him past their table, and she forces herself not to flinch as he passes.

    "The Winter Ball," Hannah says suddenly, her eyes lighting up with an idea. "That''s our chance. Everyone lets their guard down at dances. The alcohol, the drama, the need to show off..." She trails off meaningfully.

    Lisa''s stomach turns as she catches Hannah''s meaning. "You want to use the dance to get evidence?"

    "Think about it - they''ll all be there. Jake, Nate, the whole crew. And they always get sloppy at these things. Remember homecoming? When Jake and Justin snuck that flask in?"

    "That''s dangerous," Lisa whispers, but her mind is already racing with possibilities. "If they catch us..."

    "More dangerous than letting them keep hurting people?" Hannah''s voice is gentle but firm. "More dangerous than knowing what we know and doing nothing?"

    Lisa pushes her abandoned salad aside, leaning closer across the table. "What exactly are we trying to accomplish here, Hannah? What''s the endgame?"

    Hannah''s fingers trace patterns in the condensation left by her water bottle, her expression thoughtful. "Honestly? I don''t know. I just know that doing nothing feels wrong. Like being complicit in their games."

    "Brookswood keeps coming back to me," Lisa says suddenly, her voice dropping even lower. "That fight at the game - something happened on that field. Did you see Jake''s face? I''ve never seen him lose control like that. Whatever that Brookswood player said to him..." She shakes her head. "It was like he''d seen a ghost."

    "What do you think it was about?" Hannah frowns.

    "I don''t know exactly, but think about it - the timing, the way Jake completely lost it, how Nate had to practically drag him off the field..." Lisa leans forward, energy radiating from her words. "And those girls we couldn''t find at the game - Megan and Victoria - of course they weren''t there. How could they be, with Jake on the field? With all of Riverside''s elite watching their every move?"

    Understanding dawns in Hannah''s eyes. "Away from Jake''s influence. Away from the money and the power and the carefully maintained lies."

    "Exactly." Lisa''s voice carries an urgency that makes Hannah lean closer. "We gave up too easily after one failed attempt. But think about it - if you''d been through what they went through, would you show up to a football game where your attacker was being celebrated as a hero?"

    Hannah''s expression shifts as the implications sink in. "We need to try again. But differently this time."

    "No games, no crowds," Lisa nods. "Just us finding them where they feel safe. Where they might actually talk to us."

    The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. Around them, students begin gathering their things, their chatter creating a buffer of white noise. Lisa watches Jake''s table disperse, the letterman jackets moving as a coordinated unit toward the exit. Her hands shake slightly as Jake passes near their table again, but this time there''s something different in her fear - a steely determination underlying the tremors.

    "So," Hannah says quietly as they gather their own belongings. "Brookswood?"

    Lisa''s eyes meet hers, and for the first time in weeks, she feels something like hope stirring in her chest. "Brookswood."

    Because some answers can''t be found in carefully maintained mansions or exclusive parties. Sometimes you have to leave the gilded cage of Riverside behind to find the truth that lives in simpler places, where money doesn''t buy silence and power doesn''t guarantee protection.

    And maybe, just maybe, the girls who escaped Jake Woodland''s world might be ready to help tear it down.

 Chapter XVI.

    The pool house windows reflect the night like dark mirrors, turning Nate''s sanctuary into an island of light floating in the November darkness. The familiar sounds of EA25 fill the space - digital crowds cheering, commentators narrating every play, Justin cursing as Jake''s Manchester United demolishes his Arsenal squad.

    Nate''s phone buzzes again. Amber''s text makes him smile despite his exhaustion:

    *Miss you already. Susan''s being impossible about Winter Ball dresses. Save me?*

    He types back: *Thought you liked Susan*

    *Usually. But she''s in one of her moods. Everything is "too basic" or "too last season." I might murder her with my shoe.*

    Nate watches the typing bubbles appear and disappear, remembering his mother''s words from dinner last week. She''d been discussing one of her patients - "Classic borderline symptoms. The mood swings, the intense relationships, the fear of abandonment." Her eyes had lingered on him a moment too long, and he''d wondered if she was trying to tell him something about Amber without actually saying it.

    His chest tightens as another text comes through: *Plus she keeps talking about Justin asking her to the Winter Ball. Like it''s some huge surprise. They''ve been circling each other since freshman year.*

    The weight of expectations settles on his shoulders. His mother''s carefully planted brochures for medical schools, her casual mentions of "following in my footsteps." But the thought of med school makes his stomach turn. He wants business - or at least he thinks he does. Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if he only chose business to impress his father, to make Richard Rosenberg see him as worthy of his daughter.

    "FUCK!" Justin''s shout jerks Nate from his thoughts. The controller sails through the air, and Nate catches it reflexively. "Your turn, golden boy. Show Jake how it''s done."

    "How''s Amber tonight?" Jake asks, already navigating to team selection. "Still recovering from her little scene at breakfast?"

    Nate''s jaw tightens. "Watch it," he warns, but there''s no real heat in his voice. How can there be, when Jake''s been his best friend since they were trading Pok¨¦mon cards on the playground?

    "Dude," Justin laughs, sprawling across the leather sectional, "she''s got you so whipped you probably have her initials branded on your ass."

    They select their teams - Nate taking Manchester City, Jake sticking with United. As the match loads, Justin props his feet on the coffee table. "Speaking of Winter Ball, guess who''s taking Susan Lawrence?"

    "You didn''t," Jake''s controller nearly slips from his hands. "Susan''s my backup! Everyone knows that!"

    "Should''ve moved faster, quarterback." Justin''s grin is sharp as a knife. "Early bird gets the hot blonde."

    Nate scores with Haaland before Jake can respond, the virtual crowd erupting. "Fuck!" Jake mashes buttons furiously. "Whatever. Half the girls at Riverside would kill to be my date."

    "True that," Justin nods. "Hey, what about Hannah Marshall? She seemed pretty into you at Halloween."

    They all laugh, but something in Jake''s expression makes Nate''s stomach twist. "Yeah," Jake''s voice carries an edge that shouldn''t be there. "Until she went all psycho bitch on me."

    "What actually happened that night?" Nate asks carefully, eyes fixed on the screen. "For real this time. Amber''s not here."

    "Nothing happened," Jake says too quickly. "Told you, she was all over me, then suddenly started acting weird."

    "Total slut," Justin adds. "You should''ve seen her, throwing herself at him like some desperate groupie."

    Nate''s thumbs move automatically, controlling virtual players while his mind races. Because he knows Jake - has known him since before social hierarchy and family expectations turned their lives into carefully choreographed performances. Knows when he''s lying.

    But Jake''s also his best friend. The guy who helped him perfect his routes, who stayed up all night helping him study for AP Bio, who''s always had his back. So Nate does what he''s been doing more and more lately - he swallows his doubts and focuses on the game.

    Virtual Haaland strikes again, the ball curling into the top corner with surgical precision. Nate can''t help but grin as Jake unleashes a string of creative profanity.

    "Since when did you get so fucking good at this game?" Jake demands, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

    "What can I say?" Nate smirks, leaning back into the leather couch. "My great grandmother''s British. Soccer is in my blood, baby."

    "I''m out," Justin announces, pushing himself up from the sectional. "Got that AP Lit paper due tomorrow."

    "Hold up." Nate turns, eyebrows raised. "Since when does Justin Moore do homework before midnight?"

    "Since college acceptance letters are becoming terrifyingly real." Justin runs a hand through his carefully styled hair. "Can''t all ride football scholarships to the promised land like you two."

    After Justin''s departure, the pool house feels different - more intimate, the kind of space where secrets feel safer to voice. Jake unpauses the game, but his movements are distracted.

    "Can''t believe he''s taking Susan," he mutters, barely paying attention as Nate''s De Bruyne dances through his defense. "That''s like breaking some kind of bro code."

    "You actually into her?" Nate asks, watching his friend''s reaction carefully.

    "Nah, man." Jake shrugs, but something flickers across his face. "I mean, she''s hot, obviously. And the Lawrence name carries weight. Perfect match on paper. But she''s more like... I don''t know, a sister or something." He grins suddenly, the expression sharp as a knife. "Gives amazing head though."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Nate laughs because it''s expected, because it''s easier than examining why comments like that have started making his skin crawl.

    "You''re Jake fucking Woodland," he says instead, the words familiar as a script. "You could have any girl at Riverside eating out of your hand."

    "That''s the thing about girls," Jake''s voice takes on an edge that makes Nate''s stomach turn. "They''re all the same underneath those designer labels. Just need to know which buttons to push."

    The silence that follows feels heavy, charged with things Nate doesn''t want to face.

    "About Hannah..." Nate hesitates, remembering the strange tension at the country club, the way Susan had jumped to change the subject, the carefully crafted story that felt too rehearsed. "I was not there that night, Jake. But the way you and Susan talked about it at the club¡ª"

    Jake explodes off the couch, controller crashing to the floor. "What the fuck, Brooks? You calling me a liar?"

    Nate stands too, squaring up to his best friend. They''re exactly the same height, mirror images in different colors - Jake''s blonde to his dark, blue eyes to his brown. "I''m saying something doesn''t add up."

    "Nothing happened!" Jake''s face flushes red. "How many times do I have to say it? The girl got drunk, tried to hook up, then got all weird about it. End of story."

    They stand there for a moment, the game''s menu music filling the tense silence. Nate runs a hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted.

    "Look, whatever," he says finally, his voice deliberately casual. "Just... be careful, alright? We don''t need any more drama this year. Scouts are watching, colleges are looking at us..."

    Jake''s shoulders relax slightly, recognizing the out Nate''s offering. "Yeah," he says, picking up his controller. "I got it. I''m not stupid."

    The words taste like ash in his mouth, but they seem to work. Jake''s shoulders relax slightly, his expression softening into something more familiar.

    They fall back into the rhythm of the game, but something''s shifted in the air between them. Jake''s shoulders remain tense, his movements less fluid than usual.

    "Look, I''m sorry," Jake says suddenly, his eyes fixed on the screen. "I know you''ve got my back. Always have." He swallows hard. "But lately..."

    Nate threads a perfect pass to Foden, who slots it home with mechanical precision. "FUCK!" Jake throws his head back against the couch. He hits pause, the screen freezing on the replay. "I can''t... I can''t focus for shit."

    "Everything''s just..." Jake''s voice cracks slightly. "That fight with Brookswood. That fucking guy calling me... you know. These panic attacks that come out of nowhere. My parents riding my ass about early decisions. Sometimes I feel like my head''s gonna explode, you know?"

    Nate studies his best friend''s profile, seeing the shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. He thinks about Amber, about her own battles with demons no one else can see. For a moment, he considers telling Jake about his suspicions, about how sometimes loving someone means watching them wage war with their own mind. But the words die in his throat.

    Jake reaches into his pocket, producing a perfectly rolled joint with practiced casualness. The gesture is so familiar it makes Nate''s chest ache - how many nights have they spent exactly like this, hiding from expectations behind clouds of smoke?

    "Dude, it''s a school night," Nate says, but there''s no real conviction in his voice.

    "I know." Jake turns the joint between his fingers like a conductor''s baton. "But it''s the only thing that keeps my brain from..." He waves his free hand vaguely. "You know."

    Nate glances over his shoulder through the pool house windows. The main house is dark, his parents'' bedroom windows black against the night sky. Without a word, he gets up and draws the curtains, the heavy fabric cutting them off from the watching world.

    Jake lights up, the flame from his lighter casting momentary shadows across his face. He looks younger in that flash of light, more like the kid who used to share his lunch when Nate forgot his.

    Nate settles back onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. The familiar scent fills the air - not the harsh stuff Coach Martinez''s son sells behind the gym, but the premium quality that comes with having disposable income and connections.

    He watches Jake take a long drag, sees some of the tension leave his friend''s body on the exhale. His own mind feels like a tornado of thoughts - Amber''s mood swings, his mother''s medical school brochures, the weight of being Nate Brooks, star receiver, perfect boyfriend, loyal friend.

    "Let me get a hit," he says finally.

    Jake''s eyebrows shoot up. "What happened to Mr. Clean Living? The carnivore diet and toxin-free pans?"

    "Sometimes," Nate says, taking the joint, "you need a break from being me."

    The first hit burns his throat - it''s been months since he''s done this. He coughs slightly, earning a laugh from Jake.

    "You''re so out of practice, Brooks." Jake takes the joint back. "Remember sophomore year? When we hotboxed my dad''s Porsche before that charity gala?"

    "God," Nate groans, letting his head fall back against the leather. "Your mom kept asking why we were giggling during her speech about endangered butterflies."

    They sit in comfortable silence for a while, passing the joint back and forth. The pool house feels smaller somehow, more intimate, like they''re kids again hiding in Jake''s treehouse sharing secrets.

    "You ever think about how weird it is?" Jake''s voice is softer now, relaxed. "Like, one minute we''re trading Pok¨¦mon cards, and the next we''re supposed to have our whole lives figured out?"

    "Yeah," Nate exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. "Med school, business school, football scholarships... sometimes I feel like I''m just playing a part in someone else''s story, you know?"

    "At least you''ve got Amber," Jake says, but there''s something in his tone that makes Nate turn to look at him. "You guys are like... destined or whatever. The rest of us are just trying not to fuck up too badly."

    Nate thinks about Amber - about her fierce love and her fragile heart. About how loving her feels like trying to hold lightning in his hands.

    "It''s not..." he starts, then stops. The weed is making his thoughts fuzzy, comfortable. "Sometimes I wonder if any of us know what we''re doing. If we''re all just pretending to have our shit together."

    Jake''s laugh is hollow. "Speak for yourself, Brooks. I''m living the dream." But his hand shakes slightly as he stubs out the joint. "Star quarterback, rich parents, whole world at my feet... what more could a guy want?"

    The question hangs in the air between them, heavy with things they can''t or won''t say. Outside, a security light flicks on, casting strange shadows through the curtains.

    "I should head home," Jake says, standing with exaggerated care. "Got that Calc test tomorrow."

    Nate watches his best friend gather his things, seeing double - the Jake of now overlaid with memories of the boy he used to be. Before Hampton Beach, before carefully buried stories and midnight panic attacks.

    "Text me when you get home?" Nate says, the words automatic as breathing.

    "Always do." Jake pauses at the door, his hand on the knob. "Hey, Nate?"

    "Yeah?"

    "Thanks. For... you know. Everything."

    Then he''s gone, leaving Nate alone with the lingering smoke and the weight of secrets he''s not sure he can carry much longer.

    Because some friendships are built on shared history and genuine love. Others survive on carefully maintained lies and collective guilt. And lately, Nate''s having trouble telling which kind he and Jake have become.

    He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over Amber''s name. She''d understand - she knows all about carrying other people''s expectations like crosses. But telling her would mean admitting his own doubts, his own role in maintaining the carefully constructed facade that is life in Riverside Heights.

    Instead, he texts: *Get some sleep, princess. Love you.*

    Her response comes immediately: *Love you more. Sweet dreams, 67.*

    Nate stares at the words until they blur, wondering if any of them deserve sweet dreams anymore.

 Chapter XVII.

    Chapter 17

    The white gown hangs like a promise in Amber''s closet, catching late afternoon light through her silk curtains. She lounges on her bed, watching Susan admire her own emerald silk creation in the full-length mirror. The dress transforms Susan from Riverside royalty to something ethereal, the color making her blonde hair glow like captured sunshine.

    "God, this is literally perfect," Susan breathes, smoothing invisible wrinkles from the fabric. "Though I''m still not sure about the shoes. Maybe the Louboutins would be better than the Jimmy Choos?"

    Amber''s phone buzzes with another text from Nate: Pretty sure Giovanni measured me like twelve times*

    She rolls her eyes, typing back: Because Giovanni is an artist and you''re his masterpiece. Now stop complaining and get that perfect butt of yours to the fitting

    You''re impossible, his reply comes instantly, followed by a string of heart emojis that make her smile despite herself.

    "The white will be stunning," Susan declares, abandoning her reflection to flop onto the bed beside Amber. "Everyone else''s dates will be in basic black, but Nate? In that white jacket? Pure perfection."

    Amber''s chest warms at the thought. She''d spent weeks choosing the perfect ensemble - the beige-white dinner jacket that would make him stand out like a beacon among the sea of standard tuxedos, the crisp black pants, the black bow tie that would tie it all together. Because Nate Brooks deserves more than ordinary. He deserves extraordinary.

    Susan rolls onto her side, propping her head on one manicured hand. "This Winter Ball is going to be absolutely iconic. The decorations, the music, the photos..." Her eyes sparkle with anticipation. "Everyone''s going to be talking about it for years."

    Amber reaches for her best friend''s hand, squeezing it gently. Their friendship spans generations - their grandmothers had attended cotillion together, their mothers had shared wedding planning duties, and now here they are, carrying on the legacy of perfectly coordinated social domination.

    But it''s more than that. Susan has been there through everything - through embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions and social catastrophes, through triumphs and tears. Through Hampton Beach...

    Amber forces the memory away, focusing instead on the warmth of Susan''s hand in hers. "Thank you," she whispers. "For everything. For always having my back."

    "Oh please," Susan waves away her gratitude with practiced elegance. "We''re practically family at this point. The Lawrences and Rosenbergs against the world, remember?"

    Amber''s phone lights up with a photo that makes her breath catch - Nate in Giovanni''s mirror, the white jacket transforming him from star receiver to something that belongs in fairy tales. His dark hair catches light just right, and his smile carries that particular warmth that still makes her heart skip beats.

    "Look at this," she breathes, showing Susan the photo. "How did I get so lucky?"

    "Lucky?" Susan scoffs. "Please. You''re Amber Rosenberg. He''s the lucky one." But her smile is genuine as she studies the photo. "Though I have to admit, you two are going to look absolutely perfect together."

    "Speaking of perfect couples," Amber rolls onto her stomach, watching Susan''s expression carefully. "What''s the deal with you and Justin? Everyone thought you and Jake were like..." She trails off meaningfully.

    A wicked smile plays across Susan''s perfect features. "Jake''s sweet, and he''s amazing arm candy for formal events. But I''m tired of being his backup plan, you know?" She examines her manicure with exaggerated casualness. "Besides, Justin..."

    "Spill!" Amber demands, poking her friend''s side.

    "Well," Susan''s grin turns positively feline. "Let''s just say things got rather... interesting at Jake''s Halloween party. In his father''s study, no less."

    Amber''s jaw drops. "You didn''t!"Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    "We absolutely did." Susan''s laugh is pure mischief. "On his father''s very expensive desk."

    Their laughter fills the room like expensive perfume, two girls sharing secrets in a world they''ve learned to rule together. Because some friendships are forged in designer clothes and careful alliances, while others are built on shared secrets and absolute trust.

    And Susan Lawrence? She''s both.

    "So you and Justin are actually dating?" Amber asks, twirling a strand of perfectly highlighted hair around her finger. "Like, officially?"

    Susan''s smile softens into something almost shy - an expression Amber''s rarely seen on her friend''s carefully maintained features. "Kind of? He took me to Le Bernardin last weekend. And Tuesday, he actually cooked for me."

    "Justin Moore cooks?" Amber sits up so fast her head spins. "The same Justin who once asked if you could microwave a whole chicken?"

    "It was just pasta," Susan laughs, her cheeks flushing slightly. "But he was so proud of himself. Had the whole kitchen covered in flour, trying to make it from scratch. It was... sweet."

    "He is pretty cute," Amber admits, thinking about Justin''s perfect bone structure. "Those cheekbones could cut glass."

    "Oh, he''s gorgeous," Susan agrees. "But sometimes he''s still such a boy, you know? Like yesterday, he spent an hour trying to teach me some complicated football play on his PS5."

    "Please," Amber rolls her eyes. "He''s literally the same age as Nate. They were born like two weeks apart."

    "Yeah, but Nate''s different." Susan''s voice carries a weight that makes Amber look up sharply. "He''s more... I don''t know. Mature?"

    Amber can''t help but laugh. "Mature? The guy who spent twenty minutes this morning sending me dirty Snapchats? Who can''t keep his hands off me for more than five minutes?"

    "Can you blame him?" Susan''s grin turns wicked. "If I looked like you in that white dress..."

    They dissolve into giggles, but something in Susan''s expression shifts as she meets Amber''s eyes - ice blue colliding with emerald green. The laughter fades as Susan''s face grows serious.

    "But for real, Amber," she says softly. "You got lucky with Nate. And not just because he''s hot or good in bed or whatever." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "The way he looks at you... it''s like he''s constantly scanning for threats, you know? Like he''d burn down the world to keep you safe."

    "It''s sweet," Amber says, but Susan shakes her head.

    "Not sweet. Necessary." Susan''s voice drops lower. "The way he handles things - like a man, not a boy. Like at Hampton-"

    The word hits Amber like a physical blow. Suddenly she''s back there - the beach house swimming in her vision, colors too bright, sounds too sharp. XTC turning everything electric and dangerous. A girl''s scream cutting through bass-heavy music. Her own panic rising like waves, threatening to drown her. Then Nate''s voice, steady as an anchor: "I''ve got you, princess. Everything''s going to be okay. Just breathe..."

    "Hey! Amber!" Susan''s voice cuts through the memory like a knife. Her hands find Amber''s shoulders, steadying her as reality reasserts itself. "Come back to me, sweetie. You''re here. You''re safe."

    Susan pulls her close, and Amber breathes in the familiar scent of Chanel and childhood memories. "It''s done," Susan whispers against her hair. "Buried in the sand where it belongs. Just the four of us now - you, me, Jake, and Nate. That''s all that matters."

    Amber forces herself to breathe, to close that door in her mind like her therapist taught her. Lock it tight, throw away the key. Focus on now - on Susan''s warmth beside her, on Nate''s silly texts lighting up her phone, on the perfect white dress hanging like a promise of better things to come.

    Because some memories deserve to stay buried in beach sand, and some secrets are better kept between friends who''d die to protect them.

    "Do you ever think about it?" Amber asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "That night?"

    Susan''s fingers still in Amber''s hair where she''s been absently braiding strands. For a moment, the only sound is the gentle hum of the heating system and their synchronized breathing.

    "Sometimes," Susan admits finally. Her voice carries a careful neutrality that speaks of practiced control. "But we were kids, Amber. High on whatever Jake got from that sketchy dealer, drunk on expensive vodka and summer air." She pauses, choosing her words with surgical precision. "We made mistakes. Terrible ones. But it''s done now. Jake and Nate... they handled it. Like men do."

    Amber focuses on her breathing, on the steady rise and fall of her chest. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just like her therapist taught her.

    "You can''t let one night define your future," Susan continues, pressing a gentle kiss to Amber''s temple. "The door is closed. Locked. The key''s at the bottom of the ocean where it belongs."

    Something in Amber''s chest loosens slightly, like ice melting in spring. Because that''s what Susan Lawrence does - takes chaos and turns it into something manageable, something almost forgettable.

    "God, we need happier subjects," Susan declares suddenly, her voice carrying that particular tone that means gossip is imminent. Her green eyes sparkle with renewed mischief. "Have you heard about Alex Winters? Because apparently, our resident vampire queen has been spotted in some very interesting situations..."

    As Susan launches into the latest Riverside drama, Amber lets herself be carried away by the familiar rhythm of their friendship. Because some stories are better left unfinished, and some nights are better forgotten in the warm light of day.

 Chapter XVIII.

    The world outside Lisa''s Honda Civic shifts from manicured perfection to something more honest as they leave Riverside behind. Hannah watches the transition through the passenger window¡ªhow the carefully planned landscapes give way to natural growth, how the houses become more modest but somehow more real. The air feels colder with each passing mile, and the faint hum of the car heater is a comfort against the creeping chill of early winter. The late afternoon sun catches on her thrift store cardigan, warming her through the glass, but only just.

    "Five more minutes," Lisa says, her hands steady on the wheel despite the slight tremor in her voice. "Just past that ridge."

    Hannah realizes she hasn''t been to Brookswood in years - not since those Sunday drives with her parents when money was less tight and gas wasn''t a luxury. She remembers ice cream at Jerry''s Diner, the taste of real vanilla mixing with her father''s laughter before insurance claims and medical bills turned him quiet.

    "Do you know Brookswood well?" she asks, watching Lisa''s profile for any reaction.

    "Not really." Lisa navigates around a pothole with practiced ease. "Dad and I come here sometimes for restaurant supplies - they have this amazing Asian market that''s way cheaper than anything in Riverside. And there''s the mall, which is probably our best bet since it''s Saturday. Most kids end up there when there''s nothing else to do."

    Hannah unlocks her phone, pulling up the screenshots they''d managed to find. Megan Carter and Victoria Reynolds smile back at her from carefully curated Instagram profiles that haven''t been updated in months. Both beautiful in that particular way that seems bred into Riverside girls, all perfect teeth and expensive highlights.

    "You must have known them," Hannah says softly, the words escaping before she can stop them. "At Hampton Beach. They were there, right?"

    Lisa''s hands tighten on the steering wheel, her knuckles going white. "There were a lot of people there," she says after a long pause. "We all got pretty drunk. I remember meeting them - basic introductions, you know? They were seniors, so it was like..." She swallows hard. "It was an honor just to be invited into their circle. And then..."

    "And then?"

    ¡°We popped X,¡± Lisa blurts out, like the words are burning her tongue. ¡°Everyone was on it, and I just... I wanted in, you know? Wanted to feel like I mattered to them.¡±

    "Pills?" Hannah can''t keep the surprise from her voice. Because this is Lisa Chen - straight-A student, future valedictorian, the girl who once lectured her for twenty minutes about the dangers of caffeine.

    "Yeah." Lisa''s laugh holds no humor. "Turns out perfect grades don''t make you immune to peer pressure. Jake had this... this way of making you feel special when he offered you things. Like you were being chosen for something exclusive."

    Hannah hesitates, then asks the question that''s been haunting her: "What happened after? After Susan... after she stopped Jake?"

    Lisa flinches slightly, and Hannah immediately regrets asking. "I''m sorry," she says quickly. "You don''t have to¡ª"

    "No, it''s okay." Lisa''s voice is steady but distant. "Susan took me down to the beach. We talked for a while - or she talked, mostly. About how I''d had too much to drink, how these things happen, how I should just forget about it. I was still pretty messed up from everything, so eventually I passed out on one of those fancy beach chairs. When I woke up the next morning..."

    She trails off, and Hannah knows she''s holding something back. "But how did you know?" she presses gently. "About what happened to Megan, Emily and Victoria?"

    "That''s just it - I don''t. Not really." Lisa takes a sharp turn onto the main road leading into Brookswood. "When I got back to the house, everything felt... wrong. Like walking into a crime scene after it''s been cleaned up. Megan, Emily and Victoria were gone, and everyone was acting weird. Susan and Amber kept saying everything was fine, but their smiles were too bright, you know? Like they were trying too hard to prove nothing had happened."

    "And two weeks later, they just... disappeared?"

    "Transferred schools. No warning, no goodbye posts, nothing. Just gone." Lisa''s voice drops to barely a whisper. "And everyone pretended like they''d never existed. Like that whole weekend had never happened."

    Hannah stares out at the Brookswood city limit sign as they pass it, thinking about carefully maintained lies and the price of silence. Because something about this doesn''t add up - the missing pieces in Lisa''s story, the way certain names never get mentioned, the careful dance everyone does around the truth.

    "We''re going to find them," she says with more confidence than she feels. "And we''re going to get answers."

    Lisa nods, but Hannah notices she doesn''t respond. They drive in silence for a while, both lost in thoughts about parties that end in tragedy and girls who disappear like smoke in the night.

    The Brookswood Mall feels almost comically modest after years of Riverside''s carefully curated shopping experiences. The linoleum floors have seen better days, and the fountain in the center court sprays with more enthusiasm than precision. But there''s something honest about it that makes Hannah''s shoulders relax.

    "God, I forgot what normal looks like," Lisa says, gesturing at a rack of non-designer jeans in a store window. "No one here''s trying to convince me I need a thousand-dollar purse to be worthy of oxygen."

    They wander past stores that don''t require appointments to enter, past teenagers who wear whatever they want instead of whatever Amber Rosenberg deemed acceptable this season. The normality of it all feels like taking off too-tight shoes after a long day.

    "Coffee?" Hannah suggests, spotting a local cafe that definitely isn''t Starbucks. "My treat."

    The cafe smells like actual coffee rather than whatever caramel-unicorn-frappuccino concoction is trending on TikTok. Hannah orders for both of them - she still remembers how Lisa takes her coffee from their pre-social-hierarchy days. Two lattes, one with an extra shot because some things never change.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    "So," Lisa says once they''re settled at a slightly wobbly table. "Has anyone asked you? To the ball?"

    Hannah can''t help but laugh. "Who exactly would ask Hannah Marshall to Winter Ball? The girl who babysits their siblings? The charity case who helps with history homework?" She stirs her coffee with unnecessary vigor. "I''m pretty sure I''d need a fairy godmother for that kind of miracle."

    "What about you?" she asks, trying to keep her voice light.

    Lisa''s cheeks flush slightly. "Actually... someone did ask. And I... I said yes."

    Something heavy settles in Hannah''s stomach. She''d been counting on their pact - two outcasts taking on Riverside''s elite together. But she forces a smile, because that''s what friends do. "That''s great! Who''s the lucky guy?"

    "Matthias," Lisa says, then quickly adds, "I know it sounds weird, but¡ª"

    "Matthy?" Hannah''s eyebrows shoot up. "YouTube Matthy?"

    "He prefers Matthias now," Lisa says, but she''s smiling.

    Hannah remembers Matthias from before he started his channel - all gangly limbs and nervous energy, the kind of guy Jake Woodland and his crew used to torment for sport. Now his gaming videos get thousands of views, and his face has filled out in ways that make freshman girls giggle in hallways.

    "He is kind of handsome," Hannah admits, remembering how he''d looked in his latest video about Minecraft redstone mechanics. The braces are gone, replaced by a smile that belongs on movie posters. "In a nerdy-hot way."

    "It''s not just that," Lisa says, tracing patterns in the coffee foam. "He''s... kind. And funny. And he doesn''t care about any of the Riverside drama. Did you know he turned down a sponsorship from Jake''s dad''s company? Said he didn''t want to be associated with them."

    Hannah watches her friend''s face soften as she talks about Matthias, sees the way her eyes light up describing his latest video series. It makes her chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with disappointment about their broken pact.

    Because this is what normal teenage girls should be talking about - cute boys and school dances and YouTube channels. Not carefully buried assault allegations and missing girls and the weight of secrets that threaten to drown them all.

    "I''m happy for you," Hannah says, meaning it despite the lingering disappointment. "Really."

    Lisa reaches across the table, squeezing her hand. "We''ll find you someone," she says. "Someone who sees how amazing you are."

    Hannah thinks about fruit roll-ups shared in third grade, about the way Nate Brooks still sometimes looks at her like he remembers. But those are dangerous thoughts, the kind that led to Halloween night and Jake Woodland''s hands and carefully maintained lies.

    "Yeah," she says, forcing a smile. "Maybe my fairy godmother''s just running late."

    Around them, the mall buzzes with normal Saturday activity.

    Lisa chokes suddenly on her coffee, her eyes going wide as she stares past Hannah''s shoulder. Before Hannah can ask what''s wrong, Lisa''s pointing frantically toward the mall exit, still coughing.

    "Megan!" she manages between coughs.

    Hannah whips around, her heart stopping as she recognizes the girl from their screenshots. But the Megan Carter walking through the mall is different from the polished Riverside princess in their research. Her once-perfect blonde highlights have grown out, showing darker roots. She''s traded designer clothes for simple jeans and an oversized hoodie that looks like it came from Target. But it''s her eyes that catch Hannah''s attention - they''re harder now, more watchful, constantly scanning her surroundings like she''s expecting danger from any direction.

    "Come on," Hannah whispers, grabbing Lisa''s arm. They abandon their coffee, hurrying after Megan as she pushes through the mall''s main doors. The afternoon sun momentarily blinds them, and Hannah''s heart races as she fears they''ve lost her.

    "There!" Lisa points to a figure turning down the side of the building.

    "Go talk to her," Hannah urges, giving Lisa a gentle push.

    "I can''t," Lisa''s voice shakes. "What if she¡ª"

    "She''s getting away!" Hannah gives her friend another push. "Now!"

    "Megan!" Lisa''s voice cracks slightly as she calls out. "Megan Carter?"

    The effect is immediate. Megan freezes mid-step, her whole body tensing like a deer catching a hunter''s scent. When she turns, her face is a masterpiece of careful neutrality, but Hannah sees the fear flickering behind her eyes.

    "Lisa Chen," Megan''s smile is sharp as broken glass. "What an... unexpected surprise."

    "Hi," Lisa''s voice is smaller than Hannah''s ever heard it. "I... this is my friend Hannah. Hannah Marshall."

    Hannah steps forward, offering her hand. Megan''s grip is ice-cold and too tight, her carefully manicured nails digging slightly into Hannah''s skin.

    "Do you live here now?" Lisa asks, clearly struggling to maintain casual conversation. "In Brookswood?"

    "Yes," Megan''s response comes too quickly. Her eyes keep darting between them and the parking lot, like she''s calculating escape routes. "But actually, I need to catch my train, so¡ª"

    "There aren''t any trains in Brookswood," Hannah says quietly, keeping her voice gentle despite the accusation.

    The words land like physical blows. Megan''s careful mask cracks slightly, real fear bleeding through. Her hands begin to shake as she clutches her purse closer.

    "Megan," Lisa steps forward, her voice barely above a whisper. "We need to ask you about Hampton Beach."

    All the color drains from Megan''s face. "No," she says, backing away. "No, no, no. I can''t¡ª I don''t talk about that. I don''t even think about that. You need to leave. Now."

    "Please," Hannah moves closer, keeping her hands visible like she''s approaching a frightened animal. "We know something happened that night. Something they covered up. Something that made you and Victoria leave¡ª"

    "Stop!" Megan''s voice rises to almost a shriek. "You don''t understand. You can''t understand. Do you know what they''ll do if they find out I talked to you? Do you have any idea what kind of power¡ª" She cuts herself off, pressing her hand to her mouth like she can physically stop the words.

    "Please," Hannah moves closer, but Megan backs away like a cornered animal. "We just want to understand what happened at Hampton Beach¡ª"

    "NO!" Megan''s scream echoes off the mall''s brick exterior, making both Hannah and Lisa jump. "You need to leave me alone! All of you!" Her voice cracks with hysteria, tears streaming down her face. "I got out! I finally got out and you¡ªyou can''t just come here and¡ª"

    "Megan, please," Lisa reaches for her arm, but Megan violently jerks away.

    "Don''t touch me!" Her eyes are wild now, darting between them like a trapped thing. "You have no idea what they''ll do! No idea what they''re capable of! Just let it go, for God''s sake, let it go before¡ª"

    She chokes on the words, her whole body trembling. Then something seems to snap inside her. With another strangled cry, she turns and runs, her boots slapping against the pavement as she flees across the parking lot.

    Hannah starts to follow, but Lisa grabs her arm. "Don''t," she says quietly. "Look at her. Really look."

    And Hannah does. She watches Megan Carter - former Riverside royalty, once-perfect princess - sprint away from them like she''s being chased by demons. Her purse bounces against her hip, her hair comes loose, and her terror is so palpable it makes Hannah''s chest ache.

    "What did they do to her?" Hannah whispers, more to herself than Lisa. "What could be so terrible that she''d rather run than even talk about it?"

    They stand there long after Megan disappears from view, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the parking lot. Because sometimes the most terrifying answers are the ones people run from, and sometimes silence speaks louder than any confession.

    "Come on," Lisa says finally, her voice shaking slightly. "We should go."

    But as they walk back to Lisa''s car, Hannah can''t shake the image of Megan''s face - the raw fear in her eyes, the way she''d practically clawed at her own skin trying to get away from their questions. Whatever happened at Hampton Beach, whatever sent Megan Carter running to Brookswood and Victoria Reynolds into hiding, was worse than anything they''d imagined.

    And for the first time since they started this investigation, Hannah wonders if some secrets are better left buried.

 Chapter XIX.

    The first snow of winter drifts down outside Riverside Mall''s towering windows, transforming the world into something softer, more forgiving. Lisa Chen clutches her shopping bag closer, the crisp department store paper crinkling against her coat. Inside, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, lies her Winter Ball dress - a deep burgundy chiffon creation that had made her gasp when she first tried it on. One hundred and forty-nine dollars had felt like a fortune in the fitting room, but watching her reflection twirl, the skirt floating around her like wine-dark clouds, she''d known it was worth every hour of serving dumplings and taking orders.

    Her phone buzzes, Matthias''s name lighting up the screen: "<i>How goes the epic quest for the perfect Winter Ball ensemble? Please tell me you''re not stress-shopping like that time before finals ??</i>"

    A laugh escapes her lips, drawing curious glances from passing shoppers. Because of course Matthias would remember that - how she''d panic-bought three different scientific calculators before their AP Calc exam, convinced each one might give her a slight advantage.

    She types back: "<i>Just shoes left! Then I promise to stop emptying my bank account ??"</i>

    Making her way toward Payless, Lisa tries to ignore the sharp contrast between her destination and the designer boutiques that line the mall''s upper level. She can almost hear Amber Rosenberg''s voice: "Payless? God, why not just wear cardboard boxes on your feet?"

    But those thoughts belong to a different Lisa - the one who used to orbit Riverside''s elite like a desperate satellite, always watching, always wanting, never quite belonging. This Lisa has different priorities, different dreams, different nightmares...

    Her chest tightens as memories of Brookswood surface uninvited. Megan Carter''s face, twisted with terror as she''d fled across that parking lot. The weight of secrets still untold, pressing against her ribs like physical things. She hasn''t told Hannah everything - how could she? Some truths are too dangerous to speak aloud, even to friends who think they understand.

    Another text from Matthias breaks through her darkening thoughts: "<i>Whatever shoes you choose, they''ll be perfect. Because they''ll be on you</i>"

    "Y<i>ou''re such a dork</i>" she replies, but warmth blooms in her chest. Because Matthias sees her - really sees her, not as some social climbing wannabe or a tragic cautionary tale, but just as Lisa.

    Inside Payless, she navigates to the formal section, where rows of sensible heels await. Her eyes land on a pair of strappy sandals in deep silver, their modest height perfect for someone who usually lives in sneakers. The price tag reads $39.99 - practically free compared to the Louboutins that click-clack down Riverside High''s hallways.

    As she slips them on, her mind drifts treacherously to Hampton Beach - to other shoes discarded by a pool house door, to the sound of music, to... No. She slams the door on those memories, focusing instead on how the straps wrap delicately around her ankles.

    "These are nice," she says aloud, testing her balance. In her mind, she sees Matthias''s face when he picks her up for Winter Ball - his kind eyes, his gentle smile that makes his whole face light up. She imagines them dancing, his hand warm on her waist, her head resting against his shoulder. No designer labels required, no carefully maintained facades, just two people choosing each other in a world that too often feels like a battlefield.

    At the register, she hands over her debit card with only slight hesitation. Between the dress and shoes, she''s blown through most of her savings. Her father''s voice echoes in her head: "Money doesn''t grow on trees, little flower." But some things are worth the investment - not in social status, but in moments that might actually matter.

    Outside, the snow falls thicker now, dusting her dark hair with tiny crystals.

    Main Street glitters like something from a Hallmark movie, the first Christmas lights twinkling against freshly fallen snow. Lisa hugs herself against the cold, watching her breath cloud in the frigid air. The world feels magical, transformed ¨C like anything might be possible in this sparkling wonderland.

    Her phone buzzes: "<i>Mom''s making her famous hot chocolate. The one with the chili powder that sounds weird but is actually amazing. Coming over? ??</i>"

    Lisa smiles, warmth blooming in her chest despite the cold. Because this is what Matthias does ¨C he makes everything lighter, simpler, more honest. No games, no careful social calculations, just genuine sweetness that makes her previous crush on Nate Brooks feel like a fever dream.

    "<i>On my way! Save me some marshmallows ??</i>" she types back, already tasting the spicy-sweet combination that somehow perfectly captures the essence of Matthias''s family ¨C unexpected but wonderful.

    Another text arrives as she reaches her car: "<i>Fair warning - I''m definitely going to crush you at Mario Kart. Being your Winter Ball date doesn''t mean I''ll go easy on you ??</i>"

    "<i>In your dreams, YouTube boy ??</i>" she replies, laughing as she tosses her shopping bags into the backseat. The nickname started as a gentle tease about his growing subscriber count, but now it feels like an endearment.

    She''s still smiling at her phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard to type another response, when twin beams of light suddenly flood her car''s interior. The brightness is disorienting, turning everything stark and harsh. A sleek Range Rover glides into the space directly in front of her Honda, blocking any chance of escape.

    Lisa''s heart stops, then restarts with painful force. Because she knows that car ¨C has ridden in it countless times during her brief orbit of Riverside''s elite. The perfect detailing, the custom rims, the license plate that reads RSNBRG1.

    Amber''s Range Rover.

    The high beams cut off abruptly, leaving Lisa blinking away afterimages. Through the windshield, she can make out two figures ¨C Amber behind the wheel, perfectly posed as always, and Susan Lawrence in the passenger seat. They stare at her through the glass like predators sizing up prey.

    "No, no, no," Lisa whispers, her hands beginning to shake. Because this isn''t supposed to happen ¨C not here, not now, not when she''s finally starting to feel safe again.

    Susan emerges from the Range Rover with liquid grace, her Stuart Weitzman boots and cashmere coat somehow making even winter weather look expensive. Each crunch of snow under her feet sounds like a countdown in Lisa''s head.

    Panic rises in her throat as Susan approaches, designer coat swirling around her like dark wings. Lisa''s finger hovers over the window control, torn between protecting herself and knowing that resistance will only make things worse.

    When Susan''s knuckles rap against the glass ¨C two sharp taps that sound like gunshots in the quiet parking lot ¨C Lisa jumps. Slowly, fighting every instinct screaming at her to flee, she lowers the window a few inches.

    "Get in," Susan says, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes it clear this isn''t a request. "Don''t worry, this won''t take long." Her smile is perfect and terrifying, like a shark dressed in Chanel.

    "I... I can''t," Lisa manages, hating how her voice shakes. "I''m supposed to meet¡ª"

    "Matthias?" Susan''s perfectly shaped eyebrow rises. "Don''t worry. We''ll text him that something came up. You wouldn''t want him getting... concerned."Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    The threat lands exactly as intended. Lisa''s phone suddenly feels heavy in her hand, Matthias''s sweet messages mocking her with their innocence. Because he doesn''t know ¨C can''t know ¨C about Hampton Beach, about carefully buried secrets, about the price of silence in Riverside Heights.

    "Please," Lisa whispers, but she''s not sure what she''s pleading for. Mercy? Understanding? The chance to keep pretending the past can stay buried under designer clothes and careful lies?

    Susan''s smile never wavers, but her eyes are cold as December frost. "Now, Lisa. Amber hates waiting. You remember how she gets when people waste her time, don''t you?"

    In the Range Rover, Amber hasn''t moved. She sits like a statue carved from ice, one manicured hand resting casually on the steering wheel. But Lisa knows that posture, that careful stillness that precedes storms.

    With trembling fingers, Lisa sends one final text to Matthias: "<i>Something came up. Rain check?</i> "

    Then she steps out into the snow, each footstep feeling like surrender as she follows Susan toward the waiting Range Rover. Because some choices aren''t really choices at all, and some nightmares don''t end just because you''ve woken up.

    The last Christmas lights twinkle mockingly as Lisa slides into the backseat, the leather interior still smelling exactly like she remembers ¨C Amber''s signature perfume mixed with wealth and carefully maintained facades. As they pull away from her stranded Honda, Lisa catches a glimpse of her shopping bags through the rear window ¨C the dress she''d chosen so carefully, the shoes she''d imagined dancing in.

    The Range Rover''s engine purrs like a well-fed predator as Amber guides it through Riverside''s emptying streets. Lisa sits perfectly still in the backseat, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turn white. The silence feels physical, pressing against her eardrums like deep water.

    They pass the mall, then the carefully maintained park where kids build snowmen under their nannies'' watchful eyes. Each turn takes them further from the well-lit main streets, until finally, Amber steers them around the hulking shadow of the abandoned McDonald''s.

    Lisa remembers when it disappeared ¨C how one day the golden arches simply vanished, like Riverside had rejected this common intrusion into its carefully curated perfection. Now it stands like a ghost, its empty windows staring blindly into the gathering darkness.

    The Range Rover''s headlights illuminate the crumbling drive-through lane before Amber kills the engine. In the sudden silence, Lisa can hear her own heart pounding against her ribs. The location feels deliberate ¨C a reminder that some things don''t belong in Riverside''s golden world.

    With practiced elegance, Amber adjusts her rearview mirror until Lisa finds herself trapped in the reflection of those ice-blue eyes. They remind her of frozen lakes ¨C beautiful but deadly if you break through the surface.

    "Would you like to explain yourself?" Amber''s voice carries that particular tone that makes Lisa''s stomach drop ¨C soft and deadly as poisoned honey.

    "I-I don''t..." Lisa''s words tangle in her throat. Because how do you explain something when admitting knowledge is as dangerous as lying?

    "Really?" Susan turns in her seat, her cashmere-wrapped arm draped across the console. "So your little field trip to Brookswood was what ¨C shopping for discount winter wear?"

    The blood drains from Lisa''s face so quickly she feels lightheaded. They know. Oh god, they know about Megan.

    "I warned you at Jake''s party," Amber continues, her perfectly manicured fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "I actually tried to protect you. But you just couldn''t help yourself, could you? You and Hannah Marshall, playing detective like this is some kind of Nancy Drew mystery."

    "Please," Lisa''s voice cracks. "I didn''t mean to ¨C I''ll do anything, just¡ª"

    Amber''s laugh cuts through the air like broken glass. "Anything? Oh sweetie, you''ve already done enough. Stalking Megan Carter? Did you really think that would go unnoticed?"

    "What exactly were you hoping to find?" Susan''s voice drips with false concern. "Some tragic story to share with your new bestie? Something to make you feel less pathetic about your own...situation?"

    Lisa''s hands begin to shake as panic claws up her throat. "It wasn''t ¨C we weren''t¡ª"

    "Stop." Amber''s command cracks like a whip. "You''re embarrassing yourself with these lies. We know exactly what you and the babysitter have been up to. Poking around in things that don''t concern you, disturbing people who just want to be left alone."

    "I''m sorry," Lisa whispers, tears threatening to spill. "Please, Amber, I won''t¡ª"

    "Won''t what?" Amber''s eyes in the mirror are merciless. "Won''t keep trying to destroy people''s lives? Won''t keep pretending you''re some kind of justice warrior instead of a sad little girl who couldn''t handle rejection?"

    The words land like physical blows, each one precisely targeted. Because that''s what Amber Rosenberg does ¨C she finds the cracks in your armor and slides poison into them with surgical precision.

    "Let me be very clear," Amber continues, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "This isn''t just about you anymore. Your little investigation? It stops. Now. Before someone gets hurt."

    "What do you want from me?" Lisa''s voice comes out small, broken.

    Amber''s eyes find hers in the mirror again, and for a moment, something almost like regret flickers across her perfect features. "Believe it or not, I don''t hate you, Lisa. I actually liked having you around. But you crossed a line with Nate, and now?" She shakes her head. "Now you''re crossing even bigger ones."

    Susan''s smirk gleams in the darkness like a knife. With deliberate slowness, Amber reaches for her phone, the screen''s glow casting harsh shadows across her face. She holds it up, and Lisa''s world stops spinning.

    There, in horrifying high definition, is the photo she''d sent to Nate that night ¨C stupid, desperate to be wanted. Her own body, carefully posed, with the damning Snapchat timestamp and "<i>For your eyes only, Nate ??</i>" still visible beneath it. The evidence of her pathetic attempt to steal someone else''s boyfriend, now a weapon in Amber''s perfectly manicured hands.

    "God, can you imagine?" Susan''s voice drips with cruel amusement. "Sweet little Matthias, finding out his girlfriend is nothing but a pathetic homewrecker who sends nudes to other girls'' boyfriends? I mean, what would his precious followers think?" She lets out a melodic laugh. "One click and your sad little attempt at stealing Nate goes viral. Wonder how many views that would get on his channel?"

    A tear escapes before Lisa can stop it, rolling down her cheek like a confession. Everything she''s built with Matthias ¨C the tender moments, the genuine connection, the future that felt possible ¨C suddenly balanced on a knife''s edge.

    "Please," she whispers, the word tasting like surrender. "I''ll do anything. Just... please."

    Susan reaches back, her finger catching Lisa''s tear with false tenderness. "Shhhh, don''t cry. You can still have everything you want. The perfect senior year. Winter Ball with your sweet YouTube boyfriend. A good college far from here. Your happily ever after."

    Lisa forces herself to breathe past the vice crushing her chest. "What''s the price?"

    "Break it off with Hannah Marshall," Susan says simply. "Stop digging into the past. Some stories don''t need telling, Lisa. Some secrets are better left buried."

    In the front seat, Amber scrolls through Matthias''s Instagram with exaggerated interest. "Oh, look at this," she coos with poisonous sweetness. "All these wholesome gaming videos, such a perfect Christian boy image. You know what would really spice up his content?" She turns, eyes glittering with malice. "A slutty girlfriend scandal. Those always boost engagement numbers."

    Terror floods Lisa''s system, turning her blood to ice. Because they''re right ¨C one click and everything she has with Matthias would shatter. His career, his reputation, his family''s trust ¨C all destroyed because she''d been stupid enough to throw herself at Nate Brooks. She can already see the YouTube comments, the Twitter threads, the Instagram stories tearing her apart. And worse, she can see Matthias''s face when he realizes what kind of girl he''s really dating.

    "I promise," she whispers, defeat settling over her like a heavy blanket. "I''ll stay away from Hannah. From all of it. Just... please don''t..."

    "Get out." Amber''s command is sharp as a slap. "And Lisa? Don''t make us have this conversation again."

    The night air hits Lisa like physical force as she stumbles from the Range Rover. Her legs feel unsteady beneath her as Amber''s tires crunch over snow, leaving her alone in the shadow of abandoned golden arches.

    The Range Rover''s taillights disappear around the corner, red bleeding into the darkness like dying stars. Only then does Lisa let herself break, tears flowing freely now as she collapses against the crumbling brick wall.

    Above her, the empty McDonald''s sign stands like a skeleton against the winter sky ¨C another dream that didn''t survive contact with Riverside''s carefully maintained reality. Snowflakes catch in her hair, on her eyelashes, melting with her tears until she can''t tell the difference anymore.

    Her phone buzzes in her pocket ¨C probably Matthias, wondering why she cancelled, still believing in simple things like truth and justice and love untainted by secrets. But Lisa Chen stands alone in the gathering darkness, learning the hardest lesson Riverside has to teach:

    Some silences are bought at prices too steep to measure. And some chains are forged not of iron, but of carefully captured moments we pray never see light.

 Chapter XX.

    The first real snow of winter transforms Riverside Heights into something ethereal, each perfectly maintained mansion glowing softly behind curtains of white. Nate Brooks guides his truck carefully along familiar streets, hyperaware of the precious cargo beside him. Every few seconds, his eyes drift from the road to steal glances at Amber, his heart performing the same complicated dance it did four years ago at freshman camp.

    He remembers that night with perfect clarity ¨C the way the stars had seemed impossibly bright, how his hands had trembled as he finally worked up the courage to talk to her, the exact moment her smile had transformed from careful poise to genuine joy. Now, watching her adjust the skirt of her white silk gown, that same feeling washes over him ¨C equal parts awe and disbelief that she''s actually his.

    Ten minutes earlier, he''d been standing in the Rosenbergs'' marble foyer, discussing Stanford with Richard while trying not to fidget in the white tux Amber had selected. Then she''d appeared at the top of the stairs, and his world had stopped spinning.

    The dress was everything she''d promised and more ¨C delicate beading catching light like fresh snow, the silk floating around her as if gravity was merely a suggestion. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves, secured with vintage pearl clips that had belonged to her grandmother. But it was her eyes that caught him, bright with a vulnerability she showed only to him.

    Now, guiding his truck through the winter wonderland that Riverside has become, Nate feels like the luckiest person alive. Streetlights catch in Amber''s hair, turning each carefully styled wave into spun gold. She hums softly along with the radio, completely unselfconscious in a way she rarely allows herself to be.

    "Cold?" he asks, noticing her bare feet propped on his dashboard, designer heels discarded in her lap. The sight makes his chest tight ¨C this private version of Amber Rosenberg that only he gets to see.

    "Mmm, perfect actually," she wiggles her toes closer to the heating vent. "Though Susan''s going to kill me if these shoes aren''t back on perfectly when we get there."

    They turn onto Lawrence Lane, where old money sleeps behind wrought iron gates and carefully pruned hedges. The Lawrence estate looms ahead ¨C all Georgian architecture and historical preservation, its windows glowing warm against the gathering dusk. Unlike the Rosenbergs'' modern mansion or his own family''s architectural statement piece, the Lawrence house bears the weight of generations with quiet dignity.

    Nate guides his truck under the porte-coch¨¨re where Justin''s Audi already gleams like polished obsidian. Before Amber can reach for her shoes, he''s out and around to her door, dropping to one knee on the heated brick.

    "Allow me, princess," he says softly, taking one delicate heel from her lap. Her laugh ¨C genuine and unguarded ¨C echoes off ancient brick as he slides the shoe onto her foot with exaggerated ceremony.

    "My very own Prince Charming," she teases, but her voice catches slightly as he presses a kiss to her ankle.

    "You have no idea," he murmurs against her skin, "how beautiful you are." His thumb traces small circles on her heel as he secures the second shoe. "Not just tonight ¨C though god, Amber, this dress is something else. But all the time. Every version of you."

    Her hand finds his cheek, turning his face up to meet her eyes. The vulnerability there makes his breath catch. "Even the crazy versions?" she asks softly.

    "Especially those." He rises smoothly, offering his hand. "They''re my favorites, actually. Because they''re real. They''re just... you."

    Their fingers intertwine as he helps her from the truck, and the touch sends him back to that first kiss ¨C how the campfire had painted shadows across her face, how his heart had threatened to burst from his chest. She''d been wearing his football hoodie, stolen earlier that evening when the temperature dropped. The way she''d looked up at him through those impossible lashes, all her careful defenses temporarily lowered. He''d been terrified of ruining everything, but then she''d risen up on her tiptoes, her lips brushing his with a gentleness that still haunts his dreams. That kiss had tasted like marshmallows and possibility, and he''d known right then that Amber Rosenberg would own his heart forever.

    "What are you thinking about?" Present-day Amber asks, squeezing his hand as they walk toward the Lawrence''s imposing front door. "You''ve got that look."

    "Just remembering freshman camp," he says, pulling her closer against the cold. "How beautiful you looked in my hoodie."

    "God, I still have that hoodie," she laughs. "It''s in my bottom drawer, even though it barely smells like you anymore."

    "I should be annoyed that we''re taking the limo," he says, changing subjects as they climb the slate steps. "But I guess Susan''s parents'' insistence has its perks." He smirks, thinking of the flask Jake had pressed into his hand earlier. "Like not having to worry about designated drivers."

    "The Lawrences never do anything halfway," Amber says, carefully navigating the slate in her heels. "Susan said her dad practically had a coronary when she suggested they just take Justin''s car. Something about ''proper protocols for formal events.''" She mimics Mr. Lawrence''s precise diction perfectly, making Nate laugh.

    "Besides," she adds, reaching up to straighten his bow tie, "This way we can actually enjoy Jake and Jeff''s contribution to the evening."

    The door swings open before Nate can reach for the bell, revealing Susan Lawrence in all her carefully curated glory. Her emerald silk dress catches the foyer lights like liquid money, the cut somehow managing to be both classic and daring. Even Nate, who generally notices fashion about as much as he notices quantum physics, can tell the dress probably cost more than his truck.

    "Oh my god, look at you two!" Susan''s voice carries that particular tone of calculated enthusiasm that seems bred into Riverside''s elite. "Amber, you absolute goddess! And Nate ¨C who knew white could look so perfect on you?"

    Nate can''t help but notice how Susan''s designer heels make her exactly Justin''s height, how her blonde hair falls in waves that probably took hours to look effortless. Everything about Susan Lawrence is precise as a business merger, from her expertly applied makeup to the family diamonds glittering at her throat.

    "Are your parents around?" he asks as they step into the warmth of the foyer, helping Amber out of her wrap. "Should we say hello?"

    Susan''s laugh tinkles like expensive wind chimes. "Aspen," she says, leading them through the house. "Daddy''s closing some ridiculous deal, and Mother couldn''t possibly miss the social season there. Which means..." Her smile turns mischievous. "We can start the party early."

    The Lawrence living room looks exactly like old money should ¨C all antique Persian rugs and oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors. Crystal decanters catch light from a fireplace big enough to roast a small cow, while leather-bound books line walls in perfectly coordinated colors.

    Justin Moore rises from one of the leather armchairs like an advertisement for genetic perfection. His black tuxedo fits like it was poured onto him, making Nate suddenly self-conscious about his own carefully tailored ensemble. But Justin''s grin is genuine as he pulls Nate into a back-slapping embrace.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    "Looking sharp, Brooks!" Justin''s cologne probably costs more than most people''s monthly rent. "Though I still say you should''ve gone classic black. White''s a bold choice."

    "Bold wasn''t exactly my choice," Nate laughs, catching Amber''s eye. She blows him a kiss from where she''s settled onto a leather sofa that probably witnessed the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

    "Drinks?" Susan''s already at the bar cart, her hands moving with practiced efficiency over crystal bottles. "Daddy just got this amazing small-batch bourbon. Though personally, I''m thinking champagne is more appropriate for the occasion."

    "Dealer''s choice," Nate says, sinking into the chair beside Amber. Her hand finds his automatically, their fingers intertwining with the ease of long practice. The fire throws dancing shadows across her face, making her look almost ethereal in her white silk.

    Susan pours with the confidence of someone who''s been mixing drinks since middle school, the amber liquid catching firelight as it flows. She hands out crystal tumblers with careful grace, saving one for herself before perching on the arm of Justin''s chair.

    "To us," she raises her glass, diamonds flashing at her wrist. "May this be a night worth remembering ¨C or worth forgetting completely."

    They all laugh, crystal clinking against crystal. The bourbon burns pleasantly in Nate''s throat as he watches Amber from the corner of his eye. The liquor''s strong enough to make his eyes water slightly, but Amber takes another sip with perfect poise, not even a flicker of discomfort crossing her features. His princess, always proving she can handle anything thrown her way.

    "When''s the limo scheduled?" he asks, his thumb tracing circles on Amber''s wrist.

    Susan checks her phone, the designer case catching firelight. "Nine. Plenty of time to enjoy Daddy''s bourbon before we switch to Jake''s contribution." Her smile turns wicked. "Though between the Patr¨®n he''s smuggled in and those White Claws Morris insisted on bringing, we''ll be set for the evening."

    Nate laughs, shaking his head. "Pretty sure there''s more alcohol stashed in the men''s bathroom than Main Street Liquors has in stock. Jake went a little overboard."

    "Speaking of Jake - who''s he bringing?" Justin leans forward, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

    Before Nate can respond, Amber''s voice carries that particular tone that means gossip is about to drop. "Olivia Reeves," she says, satisfaction evident in every syllable. "You know, that girl from the CrossFit gym by the country club? The one who can probably deadlift more than most of the football team?"

    "Olivia?" Susan''s eyebrows shoot up. "How did Jake manage that? She''s turned down half the lacrosse team this year."

    "You should''ve seen it," Nate says, remembering the scene at the gym. "Jake walked in on her doing some insane workout - like, hanging upside down from gymnastics rings or something. Started matching her rep for rep until she finally agreed to spot him." He shakes his head, admiring his best friend''s technique despite himself. "By the time they finished, she was practically asking him to Winter Ball herself."

    Susan takes another sip of bourbon before making a face. "God, this is like drinking lighter fluid. Justin, be a dear and grab that bottle of Veuve from the kitchen? The ones behind Mother''s ''special occasion'' vodka? And the Waterford flutes ¨C you know, the ones with the gold rim?"

    Justin rises immediately, eager as a golden retriever with a new task. "The crystal cabinet by the window?"

    "That''s the one." Susan''s smile is sweet as arsenic honey. "Third shelf, toward the back."

    As Justin''s footsteps fade toward the kitchen, Amber raises an perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Look at you, having him trained already."

    Susan''s laugh is musical, but there''s an edge to it that makes Nate''s skin prickle. She waits until Justin''s steps fade completely before leaning forward, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

    "It''ll take him at least ten minutes to find those glasses," she says, all pretense of casual conversation evaporating. "And we need to talk about something..."

    Nate leans forward, his hand tightening instinctively around Amber''s. The memory of Susan bursting into his pool house last week is still fresh ¨C how she''d interrupted them in a moment of heated intimacy to deliver news that had turned their carefully maintained world sideways. Lisa Chen and Hannah Marshall, playing detective in Brookswood, stirring up ghosts better left buried.

    "Lisa''s been handled," Susan whispers, her voice barely carrying over the crackle of expensive firewood. "Though I have to say, that photo was a stroke of genius, Amber."

    Nate watches his girlfriend''s profile, seeing the careful mask slip into place. He hadn''t liked it ¨C using Lisa''s moment of weakness as leverage ¨C but when Amber had explained the necessity, he''d understood. Some prices were worth paying to protect the people you love.

    "The little bird won''t be singing anymore," Amber confirms, taking another deliberate sip of bourbon. Her voice carries that particular tone that makes Nate''s chest tighten ¨C like ice forming over deep water. "But Hannah Marshall..."

    "She''s alone now," Nate offers, remembering how Hannah had looked in history class yesterday, isolated at her usual table. "Cut off from her only ally."

    "That''s what makes her dangerous," Susan leans closer, her diamonds catching firelight. "She has nothing left to lose. Those are the most unpredictable players."

    Amber shifts beside him, and he watches her toe off one designer heel, a gesture that would look nervous on anyone else but somehow appears calculated on her. "She''s not going to let this go," she says softly. "I know that look in her eyes. She''s like a dog with a bone."

    "So what''s the plan?" Nate asks, though something in his stomach turns to lead as the words leave his mouth.

    Susan and Amber exchange a look that makes his blood run cold ¨C the kind of silent communication that comes from years of orchestrating social executions together.

    "What?" he demands, not sure he wants the answer.

    Susan''s smile is sharp as broken glass. "Everyone sees how she looks at you, Nate. The way she has since elementary school. Those longing glances in the hallway, the way she blushes when you say hi..."

    "No." The word explodes from his chest as understanding dawns. "Absolutely not. You can''t be serious."

    "You think I like this idea?" Amber''s voice cracks slightly. "Watching you pretend to... to notice her? But it''s the cleanest solution. Get close, find out what she knows, what evidence she might have. Then..."

    "We''ve played our parts," Susan says, her voice carrying an edge of steel beneath the velvet. "Now it''s your turn to protect what matters. Find her weakness, exploit it. One broken heart in exchange for everyone''s safety. It''s simple mathematics"

    "This is madness," Nate whispers, running a hand through his carefully styled hair.

    "It is," Amber says softly, and something in her voice makes him turn to look at her. Her fingers twist in her lap, the only sign of distress she''ll allow herself to show.

    "It''s not just Jake facing prison, Nate." Susan''s words land like stones in still water. "We all played our parts that night. Every single one of us."

    Nate''s attention shifts to Amber, really seeing her now. The careful way she holds herself, like something might shatter if she moves too quickly. He remembers that night at Hampton Beach ¨C how she''d found him afterward, mascara streaking her cheeks, hands shaking as she''d told him what happened. How they''d all come together in the aftermath, spinning stories like spider silk, each thread connecting them more tightly to the lies they''d created.

    Images flash through his mind ¨C Amber at freshman camp, starlight in her hair as she leaned in for their first kiss. Their first real date at the Riverside Cinema, how she''d hidden her face in his shoulder during the scary parts. The way she''d blushed when he''d asked her to be his girlfriend by her locker. Their first time together in his pool house, how vulnerable she''d looked afterward, curled against his chest. And just tonight, appearing at the top of those stairs like something from a dream he never wants to wake from.

    "I''ll do it," he says finally, the words tasting like ash. "For you. For us."

    Susan''s smile is a masterpiece of satisfied calculation. Beside him, Amber presses a kiss to his cheek, her lips trembling slightly. "I''m so sorry, baby," she whispers against his skin. "I hate this as much as you do."

    Justin''s return breaks the heavy moment, the bottle of Veuve Clicquot glinting like liquid gold in his hands. "Found them!" he announces triumphantly, completely oblivious to the tension he''s walking into. "Though your mom''s crystal cabinet is like a maze, Sue."

    "Give it to Nate," Susan commands smoothly, all traces of conspiracy vanishing from her voice. "He''s got the steadiest hands on the football team."

    "Just don''t hit Great-Grandfather Lawrence," Justin laughs, passing Nate the bottle. "Pretty sure that painting''s worth more than my college tuition."

    Nate rises, muscle memory taking over as he positions his thumbs exactly as his father taught him during countless country club events. The pop echoes off ancient walls as foam cascades over his hands, but none touches the priceless carpet. He pours with practiced precision, the bubbles rising like tiny stars in each crystal flute.

    His hands don''t shake at all, and he wonders what that says about him ¨C that he can calmly serve champagne moments after agreeing to break an innocent girl''s heart. But when Amber''s fingers brush his as she takes her glass, he remembers why he''s doing this. Because some loves are worth any price, even if that price is your own soul.

 Chapter XXI.

    Amber watches her reflection in the gym''s glass doors, her white silk dress catching the fairy lights strung across the entrance. The December wind carries snowflakes that melt against her bare shoulders, but she barely feels the cold. Tonight, she is untouchable. Tonight, she is exactly who she''s supposed to be.

    "Justin, I swear to god, if you make us late for the first dance..." Susan''s voice carries that perfect mix of affection and exasperation as she adjusts her emerald dress for the hundredth time. Justin fumbles with his boutonni¨¨re, the white rose trembling slightly in his fingers.

    "Here," Susan sighs, batting his hands away. "Let me do it before you destroy a perfectly innocent flower." Her movements are quick and precise as she pins the rose, her fingers lingering perhaps a moment too long on his lapel.

    Amber can''t help but smile, remembering how they''d all placed bets on when Susan and Justin would finally get together. She''d won, of course. Amber Rosenberg always wins.

    "Come on, princess." Nate''s hand finds the small of her back, guiding her toward the waiting photographer. His touch is warm through the silk of her dress, grounding her in this perfect moment. "Can''t keep your subjects waiting."

    "The first dance..." she starts, but he cuts her off with that smile that still makes her pulse skip.

    "What''s a Winter Ball without its Queen?" His voice carries a warmth that melts any protest. "Pretty sure the DJ knows better than to start without Amber Rosenberg gracing the dance floor."

    The photographer positions them with practiced efficiency ¨C Nate''s arm around her waist, her hand resting perfectly on his chest. The white of his dinner jacket matches her dress exactly, a detail that had taken weeks of coordination with Giovanni.

    "They look like movie stars," a freshman girl whispers loudly from somewhere behind them.

    "Seriously, how does anyone look that perfect?" another voice mutters enviously. "It''s not even fair."

    "I heard he spent weeks planning the proposal," someone in the growing crowd adds. "Like, coordinated everything with her dress and everything."

    "Man, they make the rest of us look bad" a boy groans.

    But it''s Nate''s whisper that makes her heart stumble in her chest: "You don''t just look like a queen tonight," his lips brush her ear. "You are one. My queen."

    The camera flashes capture them in that perfect moment ¨C her smile genuine and unguarded, his eyes fixed on her like she''s the answer to questions he never knew to ask.

    "Ready?" Nate offers his arm with exaggerated formality once the photos are done. She takes it, feeling the solid strength of him beneath the expensive fabric.

    The gymnasium doors swing open, revealing a transformation that takes her breath away. The usual fluorescent harshness has been replaced by thousands of twinkling lights, creating the illusion of stars captured indoors. Crystal chandeliers ¨C Susan''s contribution, borrowed from some Lawrence family collection ¨C cast prismatic patterns across walls draped in midnight blue silk. Paper snowflakes drift from the ceiling, catching light like diamonds, while actual ice sculptures create a winter wonderland effect that makes the room feel more like a palace than a high school gym.

    "They outdid themselves," she murmurs, taking in the details she and Susan had spent months planning. The photo area with its throne-like chairs and backdrop of silver birch trees. The refreshment tables with their tiered displays of petit fours and chocolate-covered strawberries. The dance floor, transformed into a frozen lake complete with frosted edges that catch the light like actual ice.

    Couples are already gathering for the first dance, their formal wear creating a kaleidoscope of color against the winter white decor. Jake towers over Olivia in her crimson dress, while Susan practically glows in Justin''s arms. Charlotte and Morris take their places, her lavender tulle floating like morning mist.

    The first notes drift through the air ¨C Tchaikovsky''s Waltz of the Snowflakes, a piece that instantly transports Amber back to childhood ballet recitals and dreams of sugar plum fairies. Nate''s hand finds her waist with practiced ease as he guides her to the center of the floor.

    "Remember the first time we danced together?" he whispers as they begin to move. "Freshman formal, when I stepped on your dress three times and nearly face-planted into the punch bowl?"

    She laughs softly, remembering his teenage awkwardness, how endearing his nervousness had been. "And now look at you," she murmurs. "Leading like you were born to it."

    "I was born for this," he says, but his voice carries a weight that makes her look up. His eyes meet hers with an intensity that steals her breath. "Born to dance with you, to hold you, to love you. Even when I mess up the steps or nearly crash into the punch bowl ¨C I was born to be yours, Amber Rosenberg."

    The music swells around them as he spins her in a perfect turn, her dress floating like fresh snow. In this moment, surrounded by crystal light and paper stars, Amber allows herself to believe in fairy tales. Because some loves are worth any price.

    Nate pulls her closer as they dance, and she breathes in the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with leather and winter air. His heart beats steady against her cheek, a rhythm more familiar than her own. This is what safety feels like, she thinks. This is what forever tastes like.

    "I love you," she whispers, the words carrying more weight than any carefully crafted speech or social power play ever could. Because in this moment, she is not Amber Rosenberg, Queen of Riverside High. She is just a girl, dancing with the boy who holds her heart in his gentle hands, praying he never discovers how dark that heart truly is.

    "I love you too," Nate whispers back, and Amber''s world narrows to just this ¨C his arms around her, the music wrapping them in their own private symphony, the way his eyes never leave hers as they move across the dance floor.

    The next hour passes like a dream, the kind Amber wishes she could bottle and save forever. Her silk dress floats around her legs, catching light like fresh snow, while Nate guides her through each dance with the same precision he uses to run perfect routes on the football field.

    They eventually join their group near the refreshment tables, where Jake''s busy "improving" the punch with vodka smuggled in his jacket pocket. Amber watches him pour with practiced efficiency, remembering other parties, other drinks. She pushes those thoughts away, focusing instead on how perfect everything is right now.

    The room spins pleasantly as she accepts another red cup from Nate. She''s not drunk ¨C Amber Rosenberg doesn''t get drunk at school functions ¨C but there''s a warm buzz under her skin that makes everything sparkle a little brighter. Around them, their carefully curated court has assembled: Jake with his new conquest Olivia (who actually looks decent in that crimson dress), Justin hovering near Susan like a lovesick puppy, Morris and Charlotte swaying slightly to the music, Jeff with whatever cheerleader he''s managed to charm this week. Even Sarah and that lacrosse player ¨C Noah something ¨C orbit their circle at a respectful distance.

    "Oh my god, look at this!" Susan thrusts her phone into Amber''s face, nearly spilling her punch in her excitement. The screen shows a series of snapchat stories ¨C Amber and Nate''s first dance captured from multiple angles. They look ethereal, otherworldly, exactly like the power couple Riverside expects them to be.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    Amber steals a glance at the real Nate, watching him laugh at something Jake''s saying. Even now, after four years together, the sight of him makes her breath catch. The white dinner jacket that matches her dress perfectly, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, how his smile transforms his whole face into something that belongs in dreams.

    "You hit the absolute jackpot with that one," Susan whispers in her ear, following her gaze to Nate. Her words are slightly slurred ¨C apparently Jake''s punch improvements are working their magic.

    "I know," Amber murmurs back, unable to keep the satisfaction from her voice. Because she does know ¨C knows exactly how lucky she is to have Nate Brooks, to be the girl he looks at like she''s the answer to every question.

    Susan drains her cup, making a face at the too-sweet punch. "Okay, I''m done with this amateur hour stuff. Time for those White Claws the boys stashed in the bathroom."

    "How do you even know about that?" Amber asks, though she shouldn''t be surprised. Susan Lawrence knows everything that happens at Riverside High, especially when it involves contraband alcohol.

    "Some people won''t shut up about them," Susan rolls her eyes fondly. "Morris here thinks they''re ''like, totally revolutionary'' or whatever."

    "Best stuff in the world!" Morris exclaims, nearly spilling his punch in his enthusiasm. "It''s like drinking stars, but make it alcohol!" His declaration makes Amber wince. She''s pretty sure fancy seltzer water isn''t exactly changing the beverage game, but Morris''s earnest excitement is almost endearing.

    "Slight problem," Amber gestures to her dress, the silk whispering against her legs. "Not exactly dressed for a covert bathroom operation."

    "I got you, ladies." Nate materializes beside them, offering both arms like some kind of knight in a dinner jacket. "Allow me to escort you on this noble quest."

    Amber watches Susan hesitate, catching the shadow that crosses her best friend''s face.

    "Relax, Sue," Nate laughs, his voice deliberately light, trying to dispel the heaviness of their shared secret. "Just escorting my two favorite ladies on a covert mission."

    As they make their way toward the hallway, Amber feels that familiar warmth in her chest ¨C the one that comes from knowing Nate Brooks would do anything to protect her. To protect them all. Even if that means breaking an innocent girl''s heart into pieces too small to ever put back together.

    The hallway stretches ahead like a dark promise as they make their way toward the men''s room, the music from the gym growing fainter with each step. Susan hobbles dramatically beside them, her designer heels clearly taking their toll.

    "I swear these Louboutins are actually torture devices," Susan groans, leaning heavily on Nate''s arm. "Like, did Christian personally hate women or something?"

    Amber''s own feet throb in protest, but she wouldn''t trade these moments for anything ¨C not even comfort. Every pinched toe and forming blister is worth it for how perfect they all look, for how this night feels like something stolen from a dream.

    "Don''t worry, beautiful," Nate murmurs against her ear, his voice carrying that mix of charm and sincerity that still makes her heart skip. "Later tonight, those heels come off, and I''ll remind you why you keep me around." He winks, and Amber feels her cheeks flush despite herself.

    They''re almost at their destination when the music changes. The heavy bass line of "Levels" by Avicii floods the hallway, and suddenly Amber isn''t at Winter Ball anymore.

    She''s at Hampton Beach.

    The memories hit like physical blows: sand between her toes, still warm from the summer sun. That chemical euphoria flooding her system, making everything feel limitless and electric ¨C each sensation amplified until even the air touching her skin felt like silk, colors blazing too bright, her body light as if gravity had forgotten her. The beach house''s strobing lights fracturing into kaleidoscope patterns as the music pulsed through her blood like liquid starlight.

    Then Emily Thorne''s face appears in her mind ¨C mascara streaked down her cheeks, eyes wide with terror, mouth open in a scream Amber still hears in her nightmares. The way Emily had looked at her, begging without words, before¡ª

    The world tilts sideways.

    Her knees buckle, but Nate''s reflexes are faster than gravity. His arms catch her before she hits the ground, and dimly she hears Susan''s panicked voice: "Nate! Help me get her in here!"

    The world blurs into smears of color and movement. She''s vaguely aware of being half-carried, half-dragged through a doorway. The darkness of what must be an empty classroom envelops her like a blanket, but it''s not enough to keep the memories at bay.

    "Amber? Baby, look at me." Nate''s voice cuts through the chaos in her head. His hands cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. When did she start crying? "You''re here. You''re safe. Just breathe with me, okay?"

    She tries to nod, but her head feels disconnected from her body. Everything is too much ¨C the silk of her dress suddenly suffocating, the lingering bass from the gym mixing with phantom music from that terrible night.

    "Here." Susan materializes beside them, pressing something cool into Amber''s hands. A water bottle. "Small sips, A. Just like Dr. Harrison taught you."

    The plastic is slick against her trembling fingers, but Nate''s hands steady hers as she brings it to her lips. The water is shockingly cold, helping to anchor her in the present moment. Gradually, the classroom comes into focus ¨C desks casting strange shadows in the dim light filtering through the windows, a periodic table hanging crookedly on one wall.

    "Better?" Nate''s voice is so gentle it makes her chest ache. He''s crouched in front of her chair, his white dinner jacket probably getting dirty on the classroom floor, but his eyes never leave her face.

    "I''m sorry," she manages, hating how weak her voice sounds. "I just... the song..."

    "Don''t." Susan''s hand finds hers, squeezing tight. "Don''t you dare apologize. Not for this. Not ever for this."

    Amber focuses on their faces ¨C the two people who know all her darkest parts and love her anyway. Nate, who would burn down the world to keep her safe. Susan, who''s been beside her through every triumph and tragedy since they could walk.

    The music has changed again, something current and harmless floating down the hallway. But Amber knows she''ll never hear "Levels" without being transported back to that beach, that night, that moment when everything changed. Some songs carry memories like poison, and no amount of time or therapy can fully extract their venom.

    "Do you want to go home?" Nate asks softly, his thumb tracing circles on her wrist. "We can make up some excuse. Food poisoning or something."

    The offer is tempting. But Amber Rosenberg didn''t get to where she is by running from her demons. She built her throne on carefully buried secrets and midnight tears, and she''ll be damned if she lets one panic attack rob her of her crown.

    "No," she says, forcing steel into her voice. "Just... give me a minute. Please?"

    In the darkness of the empty classroom, Amber finds her anchor in twin points of contact ¨C Nate''s steady hand on her thigh, Susan''s gentle pressure on her shoulder. They don''t speak, don''t push, just exist there with her in the aftermath of her panic. It''s a choreography they''ve perfected over months of similar moments, each knowing exactly what she needs without asking.

    Amber forces herself to remember Dr. Harrison''s techniques. Breathe in for four counts, hold for seven, release for eight. Focus on what''s real right now: the scratch of chalk dust in her nose, the distant thrum of bass from the gym, the warmth of Nate''s palm through her silk dress. Not the beach house. Not that night. Not Emily''s face or the weight of secrets that never quite stop crushing her chest.

    "How bad is my makeup?" she finally manages, her voice steadier than she feels. It''s such a superficial concern after what just happened, but sometimes holding onto superficial things is the only way to keep from drowning in deeper waters.

    Susan springs into action like she''s been waiting for her cue. Her fingers move with practiced precision, erasing tear tracks and fixing smudged mascara. "A little touch-up here... blend this... and..." Her voice carries that particular tone she uses when she''s taking care of Amber, the one that somehow makes everything feel fixable. "There. Like it never happened."

    Amber manages a smile, small but genuine. Because that''s what they do ¨C make terrible things disappear behind perfect makeup and practiced smiles. They''re artists of erasure, specialists in making nightmares look like dreams.

    "That fucking song." Nate''s voice cuts through the darkness as he starts pacing, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor. The movement reminds Amber of a caged animal, all contained energy and barely controlled rage. "The second I heard those first beats..." He trails off, running a hand through his carefully styled hair.

    "Which is exactly why we need to do this." Susan''s voice drops lower, taking on that edge that means she''s shifted from best friend to strategist. "We can''t keep living like this, jumping at shadows, waiting for the next thing to trigger us. We need to..."

    She doesn''t finish, but she doesn''t have to. Amber''s eyes find Nate''s in the dim light, and she sees the moment his resistance crumbles. Because Nate Brooks ¨C golden boy, star receiver, perfect boyfriend ¨C is about to become something else entirely. Something that goes against everything he believes in, everything he is.

    He nods once, short and sharp, like ripping off a bandage. "For you," he says simply, and those two words carry the weight of everything he''s willing to sacrifice to keep her safe.

    Amber watches him in the darkness, this boy who loves her enough to corrupt his own soul. The white dinner jacket that had looked so perfect in photos now seems almost ironic ¨C a symbol of false purity, of choices that can never be unmade.

    Because some salvations require sacrifice, and some heroes have to become villains to protect the things they love. Even if those things are built on foundations of carefully maintained lies and midnight confessions in empty classrooms.

    The music from the gym changes again, something current and harmless floating through the walls. But Amber knows they''ve all changed too, right here in this moment.

 Chapter XXII.

    Lisa Chen''s heart flutters as Matthias guides her through another dance, his hands steady and warm at her waist. She still can''t quite believe he''s here with her - this boy who''s grown from awkward freshman to something unexpectedly wonderful. The stage lights catch in his blonde waves, turning them almost silver, and his blue eyes sparkle with genuine joy behind wire-rimmed glasses that somehow make him look distinguished rather than nerdy. His suit may not be designer, but it fits him perfectly in all the ways that matter - highlighting the lean strength he''s developed from hours of swimming, the quiet confidence that comes from being exactly who he is.

    "You''re staring," he teases, his smile doing illegal things to her pulse. "Do I have punch on my tie or something?"

    "Just appreciating the view," she replies, surprising herself with her boldness. But that''s what Matthias does - makes her brave in ways she never expected.

    He spins her gently, careful not to step on her dress. "Speaking of views - you look absolutely incredible tonight. Though I think you could probably wear a potato sack and still be the most beautiful girl here."

    Lisa laughs, the sound coming straight from her heart. "A potato sack might actually be more comfortable than these heels. Who knew dancing could feel like running a marathon?"

    "Want to take a break?" His concern is immediate and genuine. "I could grab us some drinks? I hear Jake Woodland''s contribution to the punch bowl is particularly... festive."

    "That would be amazing." She squeezes his hand gratefully. "I''ll meet you by the bleachers? Give my feet a chance to remember what life was like before torture devices disguised as shoes."

    "Don''t move," he grins, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek that makes her blush. "I''ll be right back with medicinal refreshments."

    Lisa watches him weave through the crowd, his movements carrying that particular grace that comes from being completely unselfconscious. Her chest feels full of something warm and wonderful - possibility maybe, or hope. The kind of feeling that makes her think maybe there''s life after Riverside''s carefully maintained hierarchies.

    Her feet protest with every step as she makes her way toward the bleachers, but she barely notices the pain. Because for once, everything feels right. Simple. Real.

    "Lisa?"

    The voice hits her like a bucket of ice water, turning her blood to frost in her veins. She knows that tone, would recognize it anywhere - Hannah Marshall''s particular mix of determination and vulnerability that makes lying to her feel like kicking a puppy.

    "Why are you avoiding me?" Hannah''s voice carries genuine hurt as she steps into Lisa''s path. "You won''t answer my texts, you switched lab partners in AP Chem... what''s going on?"

    Lisa''s hands begin to shake as Amber''s threats echo in her mind - the carefully captured photo that could destroy everything she''s built with Matthias, the promise of consequences that would reach far beyond Riverside''s carefully maintained borders.

    "Nothing''s going on," she says, forcing steel into her voice. "I''ve just been busy."

    "Busy?" Hannah''s eyes narrow slightly. "Too busy to return a single text about Megan? About everything we found-"

    "Stop." The word explodes from Lisa''s chest with more force than intended. "Just stop, okay? There is no ''we.'' There''s nothing to find because none of it was real."

    "What are you talking about?" Hannah takes a step closer, confusion written across her features. "We were there. We saw Megan-"

    "I made it up!" Lisa''s voice rises despite her best efforts to control it. "All of it. For attention, okay? Because I was pathetic and jealous and wanted to feel important." The lies taste like poison on her tongue. "So just... leave me alone. Go back to your perfect little babysitting job and stop trying to drag me into your desperate need to matter."

    She watches the words land like physical blows, sees the moment Hannah''s heart breaks behind her eyes. Without another word, Hannah turns and flees toward the exit, her midnight blue dress floating behind her like broken wings.

    Lisa''s legs give out as she collapses onto the nearest chair. Her hands shake as she yanks off her heels, tears threatening to spill despite her best efforts to maintain control. Because some prices are too high to measure, and some chains are forged not of iron but of carefully captured moments we pray never see light.

    "Mind if I join the pity party?"

    The voice makes Lisa''s blood freeze. Susan Lawrence settles beside her with practiced grace, her emerald silk dress rustling against the chair. The diamonds at her throat catch stage lights as she kicks off her own heels with a sigh of relief.

    "These heels are absolutely murdering me," Susan says, massaging her feet. "Though I guess that''s the price of being fabulous, right?"

    Lisa''s fingers dig into her dress, creating tiny constellations of wrinkles in the burgundy fabric. Her mind races with escape routes, but her body remains frozen in place.

    "That was quite a performance with Hannah," Susan continues, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes Lisa''s stomach turn - sweet as arsenic, sharp as broken crystal. "I have to say, I''m impressed. Didn''t think you had it in you."

    Lisa stares at her own bare feet, unable to meet Susan''s carefully calculating gaze. From the corner of her eye, she catches glimpses of her old world - Amber and Nate swaying together like something from a fairy tale, Jake throwing his head back laughing at something Justin''s said, Charlotte and Morris creating their own gravity well of perfect coupledom. The sight makes her chest ache with a complicated mix of longing and relief.

    "You know," Susan''s voice drops lower, more intimate, "we actually miss having you around. Before... everything." Her perfectly manicured hand gestures vaguely. "You fitted so well with us. Remember that weekend at my lake house? How we stayed up all night planning senior year, trading secrets about boys, dreaming about college?" A soft laugh escapes her. "God, you were the only one who could keep up with Amber''s color-coding system for our matching outfits."

    "Don''t." The word escapes Lisa''s throat before she can stop it.

    "Going after Nate was stupid," Susan continues as if Lisa hasn''t spoken. "Like, monumentally stupid. But honestly? We''ve all done stupid things for boys. Remember when I drunk-texted Jake that time after Homecoming? Total disaster."

    Her hand finds Lisa''s back, the touch feeling like frost spreading across skin. "You made two really dumb moves, sweetie. The Nate thing, and then... well." Her voice hardens slightly. "But Amber and I have been talking. What''s done is done. Can''t change the past, right?"

    Lisa''s head snaps up, shock coursing through her system. "What?"

    "Don''t look so surprised." Susan''s smile is perfect as a knife''s edge. "We''re not monsters, Lisa. No one actually enjoys making threats or destroying lives. But we do what we have to do to protect our own. You understand that now, don''t you?"

    Lisa''s mind spins like the crystal snowflakes hanging above them. Because this can''t be happening. After everything - the threats, the carefully maintained distance, the weight of secrets pressing against her chest...

    "Join us tonight," Susan says, and something in her voice makes Lisa look up sharply. "What happened with Nate? Ancient history. The other stuff?" She waves her hand dismissively. "Better left buried where it belongs. Amber gets it, believe it or not. She knows what it''s like to want something so badly you''d do anything."

    "But you... you said..." Lisa''s voice shakes slightly.

    "We said what we had to say to keep everyone safe." Susan''s eyes find hers, and for once there''s no calculation in them. "That''s how it works here. You know that now. Sometimes we have to be cruel to be kind." Her laugh tinkles like expensive wind chimes. "God, that sounds so after-school special, doesn''t it? But it''s true. We protect our own, even from themselves sometimes."

    "Here you go, beautiful."

    Matthias''s voice breaks through Lisa''s spiraling thoughts as he appears with two red cups, his smile warm and genuine in a way that makes her chest ache. He hands her one before settling beside her, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies her face.

    "Everything okay?" he asks softly, and suddenly Lisa wants to scream. No, nothing is okay. Nothing has been okay since Hampton Beach, since that photo appeared on Amber''s phone, since she had to break Hannah''s heart to save herself. She wants to tell him everything - about the carefully maintained lies, about the weight of secrets pressing against her ribs, about how every breath feels like a negotiation between survival and truth.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    But then her eyes drift back to that corner where her old life glitters like captured starlight. She remembers what it felt like to be part of that world - not just the superficial trappings of status, but the doors it opened. The college counselor who suddenly had time for extra meetings, the teachers who smiled more easily at her answers, the way everything seemed possible when you had the right people backing your dreams.

    Because that''s the truth no one talks about - success isn''t just about grades and determination. It''s about connections, about having the right people whisper the right words in the right ears. And god, she wants it. Wants that future where her parents'' restaurant is just a charming story to tell at cocktail parties rather than a reminder of boundaries she couldn''t cross.

    "Lisa''s absolutely fine," Susan cuts in smoothly, her smile perfect as polished silver. "I don''t think we''ve officially met - I''m Susan Lawrence." She extends her hand with practiced elegance. "I''ve heard so many wonderful things about you. Your YouTube channel is absolutely brilliant."

    Matthias shakes her hand, surprise flickering across his features. "You... watch my content?"

    "Are you kidding? That Elden Ring boss guide you posted last week was absolutely insane. My brother wouldn''t shut up about it¡ªhe says you saved him twenty hours of dying to Malenia." Susan¡¯s laugh follows, warm and confident, like she¡¯s in on every detail of what she just said. But the slight pause before her words and the way she avoids Lisa''s eyes make it clear¡ªshe has no idea who or what Malenia even is. "Actually, I was just inviting Lisa to join us for some... enhanced refreshments. You''re more than welcome too. Jake always brings the good stuff."

    Lisa watches Matthias process this invitation, sees the moment he realizes what it means - social currency more valuable than gold in Riverside''s carefully maintained hierarchy. His eyes find hers, questioning but not pushing.

    Across the transformed gymnasium, Amber catches Lisa''s eye. The smile she offers is small but genuine, carrying none of the sharp edges Lisa''s come to expect. Just a simple nod, an acknowledgment that maybe some wounds can heal if we let them.

    "Come on, sweetie." Susan rises with liquid grace, retrieving Lisa''s discarded heels. "Put these torture devices back on and let''s show these peasants how it''s done."

    Something shifts in Lisa''s chest as Matthias kneels to help her with her shoes, his touch gentle and grounding. Because maybe this is what growing up means - learning to navigate between worlds without losing yourself completely. Maybe she can have both - Matthias''s honest love and the future she dreams of, real connections and strategic alliances.

    "There," Matthias says softly as he secures the last strap. "Ready to rejoin society?"

    Lisa takes his offered hand, letting him pull her to her feet. Susan''s already moving toward the corner where their old world waits, her emerald silk floating around her like expensive mist.

    "Ready as I''ll ever be," Lisa whispers, and lets Matthias guide her toward a future that feels both terrifying and possible.

    Lisa''s heart pounds against her ribs as she approaches their carefully curated corner of the gymnasium. The group''s energy hits her like a physical force - all designer perfume and practiced charm and carefully maintained alliances.

    "Holy shit, Lisa Chen lives!" Justin''s voice booms across the space as they approach. He''s sprawled in his chair like privilege personified, his bow tie already artfully loosened. "Where''ve you been hiding? The calc study sessions aren''t the same without your explanations."

    "Busy," Lisa manages, the word coming out with just the right mix of casual dismissal and social grace. It''s like muscle memory - how to speak their language, how to move in their world.

    "Whooooo!" Jake raises his cup in an exaggerated toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!" His charm is firmly in place, golden boy swagger on full display. "And she brought fresh blood!"

    Charlotte leans forward, her deep blue gown catching light as she moves. "Speaking of fresh blood - who is this absolutely gorgeous specimen you''re hiding from us, Lisa?"

    Lisa''s fingers find Matthias''s hand automatically, drawing strength from his steady presence. "Everyone, this is Matthias. Matthias, this is... everyone."

    The group''s reaction is a masterclass in calculated welcome. Jeff and Morris offer fist bumps while Charlotte and Sarah coo over his "absolutely incredible" bone structure. Jake launches into some story about his own brief YouTube career ("Three subscribers, man - I was basically famous"), making everyone laugh with practiced ease.

    Nate approaches them with that easy grace that seems bred into him, offering his hand to Matthias. "Welcome to the circus," he says with a warm smile, before turning to talk with Jake about something involving football practice.

    In that moment, Amber appears at Lisa''s side. Not with her usual calculated entrance, but almost hesitantly. For a second, Lisa sees past the perfect makeup and designer dress to the girl who used to stay up late at sleepovers, sharing dreams and fears and terrible romantic comedies.

    "I miss you," Amber says quietly, her voice perfectly modulated but carrying an undertone Lisa hasn''t heard since before Hampton Beach. "What I did with the photo..." She pauses, choosing her words with characteristic precision. "It wasn''t about hurting you. You were my first real friend in this place, before all the... complications."

    Her eyes meet Lisa''s, ice-blue and steady. "I protect what''s mine. Maybe too much sometimes. But you knew that about me - you used to understand it." She produces a fresh cup with practiced elegance, though Lisa notices the slight tremor in her perfectly manicured fingers. "We were good together, weren''t we? Before everything went sideways."

    Lisa nods, not trusting her voice. Her eyes dart to where their phones rest - hers in her small clutch, Amber''s in some hidden pocket of that perfect dress. Somewhere in that digital space lives a photo that could destroy everything.

    As if reading her mind, Amber produces a fresh cup, the liquid inside clear as promises. "Peace offering," she says, extending it like an olive branch dipped in vodka. "Courtesy of Jake''s private stock."

    Lisa stares at the cup, her mind racing. Because taking it means something - means trust, means surrender, means believing that the girl who once threatened to destroy her life might actually be offering redemption.

    "The picture," she manages, the words barely above a whisper.

    Amber''s perfect features shift slightly as she bites her lower lip - a tell Lisa remembers from countless study sessions, the only sign that Amber Rosenberg is actually calculating moves rather than just reacting.

    "Monday," Amber says finally. "Before first period. Main hallway, by your locker. I''ll delete it right in front of you." A pause, heavy with implication. "Fresh start?"

    Lisa studies Amber''s face - the careful makeup, the practiced smile, the eyes that hold something almost like regret. Then she looks past her to where Matthias stands with Nate, his hands moving animatedly as he explains something about game mechanics. He looks... comfortable. Like maybe he could belong here too.

    Slowly, deliberately, Lisa takes the cup from Amber''s perfectly manicured fingers.

    Amber''s smile blooms like expensive flowers, and suddenly she''s pulling Lisa into a brief, fierce hug. Her lips brush Lisa''s cheek, leaving a perfect impression of MAC Ruby Woo. "Welcome back, bitch," she whispers, the words carrying equal parts threat and affection.

    And just like that, Lisa Chen steps back into a world she thought she''d lost forever. The vodka burns sweet across her tongue as she watches Matthias laugh at something Jake says, as Susan loops an arm through hers with practiced casualness, as Charlotte starts planning their next study session like the past few months never happened.

    But something has changed. Because this time, Lisa sees the strings that move their carefully constructed puppet show. This time, she understands the price of admission to their glittering world.

    And this time, she chooses it anyway.

    The vodka turns everything soft around the edges, transforming the winter wonderland into something dreamlike and possible. Lisa watches her worlds collide and merge - Matthias laughing at something Jake whispers in his ear, Sarah teaching Amber the TikTok dance they''d spent countless sleepovers perfecting, Justin and Morris attempting increasingly ridiculous spins with their dates.

    It feels surreal, like someone took all the pieces of her life and rearranged them into something better. The careful distance of the past few weeks dissolves with each sip from the perpetually refreshed cups that appear in their hands. Even the memory of Hannah''s betrayed face fades under the weight of belonging.

    Through the pleasant haze, Lisa notices Amber''s fingers dancing across her phone screen, her eyes scanning the transformed gymnasium with increasing frequency. The absence of white tuxedo beside her seems to create its own gravity well.

    "Looking for someone?" Lisa asks, surprising herself with her boldness. But that''s what vodka does - makes her brave, makes her forget the carefully maintained boundaries that usually govern their world.

    Amber''s smile is genuine but distracted. "Nate''s on a mission. Getting my Nikes. These heels are gorgeous but deadly." She catches Lisa''s questioning look. "You''re coming to the garden house after, right?" Amber asks casually, scrolling through her phone. "Susan''s parents are already in Aspen, so..."

    "The glass one in our backyard," Susan chimes in, swaying slightly from the vodka. "Come on, it''ll be fun. Small group, good drinks, actual comfortable shoes."

    "I don''t know if Matthias-"

    "Matthias can absolutely come," Susan cuts her off with a wicked grin. "My room''s all yours if you need some... private time."

    Heat floods Lisa''s cheeks. "We haven''t even kissed yet."

    "WHAT?" Susan''s screech draws attention from nearby dancers. She spins around, scanning the crowd until she spots Matthias deep in conversation with Jake. "This is an emergency. This needs to be fixed immediately."

    Before Lisa can protest, Susan''s dragging Matthias toward them with surprising strength for someone who''s had this much vodka. "Dance party!" she declares, creating their own little island in the sea of formal wear.

    The music shifts to something slower, more intimate. Susan''s hands find Lisa''s waist, guiding her closer to Matthias with all the subtlety of a nuclear explosion. Amber joins their circle, her movements carrying that particular grace that makes everything look choreographed.

    But Lisa barely notices them anymore. Because Matthias is looking at her like she''s something precious, something worth seeing. His hands settle at her waist with careful reverence, and suddenly the rest of the room fades away - all the carefully maintained facades, all the complex alliances, all the weight of secrets and survival.

    His eyes catch the ethereal lighting, turning them to liquid gold behind his glasses. One hand leaves her waist to brush a strand of hair from her face, the touch so gentle it makes her chest ache.

    "Lisa Chen," he whispers, and her name has never sounded more like poetry.

    She rises on her tiptoes (when did she kick off her heels?), her hands finding his shoulders for balance. Time seems to slow, crystallizing into this single perfect moment.

    When their lips finally meet, it feels like every clich¨¦ she''s ever rolled her eyes at - fireworks and shooting stars and possibility distilled into a single touch. His mouth is soft against hers, tasting of spiked punch and promise. His hands tighten at her waist, steadying her as the world spins in lazy circles around them.

    Somewhere in the background, Susan whoops in triumph. Amber''s laugh carries across the space like expensive wind chimes. But Lisa Chen is floating in a universe that contains only this - Matthias''s heartbeat under her palms, his breath mingling with hers, and the sudden certainty that some moments are worth every price we pay to reach them.

 Chapter XXIII.

    The winter air bites at Hannah''s cheeks as she pushes through the gymnasium''s side door, desperate to escape the suffocating press of formal wear and carefully maintained facades. Music pulses through the walls behind her, the bass line following her like an unwanted shadow as she stumbles across frost-covered ground.

    Tears blur her vision, turning the school''s carefully strung lights into abstract watercolors. Her midnight blue dress - purchased with such hope, such foolish dreams of belonging - catches on dead flower stems in the winter-dormant gardens. She doesn''t care. Let it tear. Let it stain. What does it matter now?

    Lisa''s words echo in her head, each syllable a fresh wound: "I made it all up for attention." The careful way she''d avoided Hannah''s eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders, the slight tremor in her voice that spoke of fear rather than truth. Something had happened between their confrontation with Megan Carter and tonight. Something that had turned her only ally into another carefully constructed lie.

    The main entrance teems with late arrivals and cigarette-seeking seniors, their laughter carrying across the frozen grounds like mockery. Hannah veers away, seeking somewhere - anywhere - that might offer shelter from watching eyes. Her heels sink slightly into the frozen earth as she makes her way around the building''s corner, where math class windows stare blankly into the December night.

    She finds refuge on a low decorative wall, the same one where she sometimes eats lunch when the cafeteria feels too much like a battlefield. The stone is ice-cold through her dress, but she barely notices. What''s a little physical discomfort compared to the hollow ache in her chest?

    Somewhere inside, Alex and David are probably still wrapped in their own private world, discovering each other with the kind of single-minded focus that makes the rest of the universe disappear. She doesn''t blame them - how could she? Their happiness is genuine, untainted by social hierarchies and carefully maintained lies. But their absorption leaves her adrift, alone with thoughts that spiral darker with each passing moment.

    Hannah Marshall. Such a simple name for such a complicated position - too smart to be invisible, too poor to be accepted, too stubborn to stop fighting battles she can''t win. The words taste bitter on her tongue as more tears threaten to fall.

    The sound of expensive shoes on frozen ground makes her chest tighten. She doesn''t look up, doesn''t want to see which of Riverside''s elite has come to witness her breakdown. The footsteps pause, and something in their rhythm feels familiar in a way that makes her heart perform unwanted acrobatics.

    "Hey."

    One word. Just one word, spoken in that particular tone that still features in her daydreams, and Hannah''s world tilts sideways. Because of course it would be him. Of course Nate Brooks would find her here, looking like a prom dress disaster and feeling like a kicked puppy.

    "Hey," she manages, hating how her voice catches on that single syllable. She keeps her eyes fixed on the disturbed frost beneath her feet, not ready to face whatever expression he''s wearing.

    "I''d ask if you''re okay," he says after a moment, his voice carrying that gentle understanding that makes her want to simultaneously kiss him and punch him, "but that seems kind of redundant given the current situation."

    A laugh escapes before she can stop it - wet and broken but genuine. Because trust Nate Brooks to know exactly how to pierce her carefully constructed walls with nothing but honest observation.

    She risks a glance up and immediately regrets it. The white tuxedo transforms him from star wide receiver to something that belongs in fairy tales, all clean lines and careful grace. His dark hair catches moonlight like it''s been waiting all evening for this moment, and his eyes - god, his eyes still hold traces of the boy who shared fruit roll-ups in third grade.

    "Want to talk about it?" he asks, and the genuine concern in his voice makes fresh tears threaten to fall.

    Hannah shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. Because how do you explain to someone that your whole world is unraveling? That every attempt to fight for justice seems to end in deeper wounds? That sometimes the hardest part isn''t the battle itself but the loneliness of fighting it?

    "Alright then," Nate says with such easy acceptance that it makes her chest ache. "I''ll talk about something else." Without waiting for permission, he settles beside her on the wall, close enough that she can smell his cologne - something expensive and subtle.

    A metallic glint catches moonlight as Nate produces an elegant silver flask from his pocket.

    "Liquid warmth?" he offers, his smile carrying that particular mix of mischief and charm that still makes her heart skip beats. "Fair warning - it''s not exactly school-approved refreshment."

    Hannah shakes her head, but something about the way he holds the flask reminds her of shared secrets in elementary school hallways. He shrugs, unscrewing the cap with practiced ease before taking a careful sip.

    "Your loss," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand - a gesture so un-Riverside it makes her smile despite herself. "It''s actually pretty good. Sweet, kind of fruity." His eyes catch hers, and something playful dances in their depths. "Reminds me a bit of fruit roll-ups, actually."

    The words hit her like a physical force. Because of course he remembers. Of course Nate Brooks would casually reference their shared history like he''s been carrying it around all these years too.

    "You remember that?" The question escapes before she can stop it, her voice smaller than intended.

    His laugh is warm as summer memories. "Are you kidding? Hannah Marshall, trading her fruit roll-ups  for my apple slices every day in third grade? That was the highlight of my lunch period." He grins, and suddenly she''s eight years old again, watching him carefully unwrap those coveted treats. "Pretty sure I developed a permanent sweet tooth thanks to you."

    Something shifts in her chest - not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but some complicated mix of both. Her eyes drift to the flask still dangling from his fingers. Maybe a little liquid courage wouldn''t be the worst thing right now.

    "Changed your mind?" he asks, reading her expression with uncanny accuracy. When she nods, he passes the flask with exaggerated ceremony. "Just don''t tell Coach Martinez. Pretty sure this violates about twelve training rules."

    The liquor burns sweet across her tongue - some expensive blend that probably has a French name she couldn''t pronounce. But he''s right - there''s something almost nostalgic about the fruity undertones, like childhood memories distilled into alcohol.

    "Remember that time in fourth grade," he says as she passes the flask back, "when Mrs. Davidson caught us trading snacks and made this huge deal about ''proper nutrition''?" His impression of their old teacher is so perfect it startles a laugh from her chest.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    "And then you tried to convince her that fruit roll-ups were basically the same as real fruit?" Hannah finds herself smiling at the memory. "What was it you said? ''It has fruit right in the name, Mrs. D!''"

    "Hey, that was solid nine-year-old logic!" He takes another sip before continuing. "Though not as solid as your argument that since apples have natural sugar, processed sugar must be natural too."

    A shiver runs through her that has nothing to do with their conversation. Nate''s eyes narrow slightly as he studies her face.

    "You''re cold."

    "I''m fine," she lies, but her goosebumps betray her.

    "Right, because shivering is totally a sign of being warm enough." Before she can protest, he''s shrugging out of his beige jacket, the movement smooth as water. The white dress shirt beneath stretches across his shoulders in a way that makes her mouth go dry.

    "Nate, don''t-" she starts, but he''s already draping the jacket around her shoulders. The fabric carries his warmth, his scent - that subtle cologne mixed with something uniquely him that makes her head spin more than the alcohol.

    "Can''t have Hannah Marshall turning into an ice sculpture," he says casually, as if he hasn''t just performed the kind of gesture that belongs in romance novels. "Though I guess you''d make a pretty one. All that dark hair frozen in waves, probably catch moonlight like something from a fairy tale."

    He launches into another story about elementary school adventures before she can process that casual compliment - something about the time they tried to convince the cafeteria lady that chocolate milk counted as a vegetable because chocolate comes from beans. But Hannah barely hears him over the thundering of her own heart.

    "So," Nate''s voice breaks through the comfortable silence they''ve built, "are you going to tell me why Hannah Marshall is sitting out here alone instead of dancing with some lucky guy who finally worked up the courage to ask her?"

    "Why is Nate Brooks hiding from his own kingdom?" she counters, surprising herself with her boldness. Maybe it''s the alcohol warming her blood, or the weight of his jacket on her shoulders making her brave.

    His laugh carries no trace of his usual careful charm. "Alright, fair enough." He takes another sip from the flask before continuing. "Truth? Sometimes it''s just... too much in there. All the expectations, the perfect smiles, the endless performance of it all."

    "You?" Hannah can''t keep the surprise from her voice. "But you''re Nate Brooks.  What could possibly be too much for you?"

    He''s quiet for so long she thinks he won''t answer. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a weight she''s never heard before. "It''s Amber," he says softly, his eyes fixed on the falling snow. "Don''t get me wrong, I love her. God, I love her more than anything. But sometimes she gets so... intense. Like she''s burning too bright, and I can''t..." He trails off, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. "There are moments when I just need to breathe."

    Hannah''s heart performs complicated acrobatics in her chest. The medical records she found between Amber''s mattress flash through her mind - clinical terms describing mood swings and manic episodes. She could tell him now. Could explain why his girlfriend sometimes burns too bright, why she needs his steady presence like an anchor in a storm.

    But some secrets aren''t hers to tell, even to the boy who''s finally showing her his own carefully hidden truths.

    "I''ve never told anyone that," Nate admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not even Jake. How messed up is that? My best friend since kindergarten, and I can''t tell him that sometimes I need to escape from my own girlfriend."

    "It''s not messed up," Hannah says softly. "Sometimes the people we love the most are the hardest to talk about."

    He turns to look at her then, really look at her, and something in his expression makes her breath catch. "How do you do that?" he asks.

    "Do what?"

    "Make everything seem... simpler. Clearer." His eyes catch moonlight like they''re gathering stars. "You''ve always been able to do that, you know? Even back in elementary school, you had this way of cutting through all the noise to what actually matters."

    They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching snowflakes dance in the space between them. Hannah feels the weight of unspoken things pressing against her chest - the medical records, the careful lies, the way his jacket feels like armor against more than just the cold.

    "Your turn," he says finally, nudging her shoulder gently with his. "Since apparently we''re doing impromptu therapy sessions at Winter Ball."

    Hannah hesitates, her fingers twisting in the soft fabric of her dress. But Nate has trusted her with his truth, hasn''t he? Maybe she owes him a piece of hers in return.

    "Lisa," she says finally, the name tasting bitter on her tongue. "We were friends again, real friends, not just... whatever we were before. Working on something important together. And then tonight she just..." Her voice catches as the memory of Lisa''s cold dismissal washes over her. "She basically told me everything we''d been doing was a lie. That she''d made it all up for attention."

    "Everything you''d been doing?" Nate''s voice carries a careful neutrality that makes her look up sharply. But his expression gives nothing away as he watches snow gather on the dormant rosebushes.

    Hannah''s heart pounds against her ribs as she studies Nate''s profile in the moonlight. Does he suspect? Could he possibly know about their investigation, about the careful questions they''d asked, about Megan Carter''s terrified face in that Brookswood parking lot? No. It''s impossible. Unless...

    The memory of Lisa''s words floats back to her: "Nate was there." He''d been at Hampton Beach that night, had seen everything, had chosen loyalty to Jake over truth. The realization settles like ice in her stomach. Of course he can''t be trusted. He''s part of their carefully constructed world of privilege and protection, where monsters wear letterman jackets and good girls look the other way.

    "Oh, you know," she forces a laugh that sounds hollow even to her own ears, "just typical girl stuff. Shopping, homework, trying to figure out which shoes go with which outfit..." The lies taste like copper on her tongue.

    "Mhmm." Nate''s voice carries a dangerous gentleness as he turns to face her fully. "That answer took you about three years too long to come up with." His eyes find hers in the darkness, and suddenly Hannah feels pinned like a butterfly to cork. "Is there something you want to tell me, Hannah?"

    Panic claws up her throat as she meets his gaze. Because this is Nate Brooks - the boy who shared fruit roll-ups in third grade, who still sometimes looks at her like he remembers every shared secret. But he''s also Nate Brooks who stood by while Jake Woodland destroyed lives, who helps maintain the careful facade that keeps Riverside''s elite safe from consequences.

    "No," she manages, but her voice shakes on that single syllable.

    To her surprise, his face breaks into that familiar warm smile - the one that still makes her heart perform illegal gymnastics. "Okay," he says simply, like he hasn''t just sent her into an internal spiral of terror. "I was just messing with you."

    His hand finds her back, warm and steady through the layers of his jacket and her dress. The touch should be comforting, but it makes her skin prickle with awareness of every secret she''s keeping.

    "What Lisa did?" he continues, his voice gentle. "That''s rough. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially not you."

    "Thanks," she whispers, relief flooding her system as the moment of danger passes.

    "Why don''t you come inside?" He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing hers. "Hang with us for a bit, have a few drinks. Better than freezing out here alone."

    "Us?" The question comes out sharper than intended.

    "Yeah, you know - me, Amber, Justin, Susan..." He pauses, and something in her chest tightens as he adds, "Jake..."

    The name hits her like a physical blow, making bile rise in her throat. Because suddenly she''s back in that pool house, feeling Jake''s weight pinning her down, his hands insistent and unwanted against her skin.

    "I mean, don''t get me wrong," Nate continues, oblivious to her internal horror, "sitting out here with you has been great, but I''m pretty sure important parts of my anatomy are about to freeze solid."

    Hannah shrugs off his jacket, forcing her hands not to shake as she hands it back. "Thanks, but I should probably find Alex and David." The lie comes easily now, practiced as breathing. "Make sure they haven''t accidentally suffocated each other with all that making out."

    "Fair enough." His laugh carries no trace of suspicion as he stands, offering his hand to help her up. The gesture is pure Nate Brooks - thoughtful and automatic, like kindness is coded into his DNA. "Though if you change your mind, you know where to find us."

    Hannah takes his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. His fingers are warm despite the cold, and for a moment she allows herself to imagine a different world - one where she could tell him everything, where he would choose justice over loyalty, where the boy who shared fruit roll-ups grew into a man who fights monsters instead of protecting them.

 Chapter XXIV.

    Nate''s head throbs with the particular kind of regret that comes from mixing expensive champagne with Jake''s contraband vodka. The winter sunlight streaming through Amber''s windows feels like needles in his eyes, even though it''s already fading into December twilight. His fingers move carefully over Amber''s battered feet, applying antibiotic cream to each blister with the kind of precision that would make his mother proud.

    "Ouch," Amber hisses as he touches a particularly angry spot near her heel. She''s perched in her vanity chair, one foot propped in his lap while she applies mascara with practiced efficiency. Her black cocktail dress - some designer name he can''t pronounce - makes her look like a Renaissance painting come to life.

    "Sorry, princess," he murmurs, his touch gentling further. "These shoes really did a number on you last night."

    Last night. The words echo in his mind like accusations. Because while everyone remembers the perfect couple in matching white, while Instagram stories still circulate of their carefully choreographed dances, all Nate can think about is Hannah Marshall sitting alone in the cold, her midnight blue dress catching moonlight like broken dreams.

    "You''re in your head again," Amber''s voice carries that particular huskiness that comes from too much champagne and not enough sleep. She studies him in her vanity mirror, her ice-blue eyes missing nothing.

    The truth burns in his throat like bile - how he wants to scream that he can''t do this anymore, can''t keep playing these careful games with people''s hearts. But then he remembers why he has to, remembers what''s at stake, what he''s protecting. So instead, he focuses on applying a bandage with exaggerated care.

    "Just thinking your feet look like a war zone," he says, keeping his voice light. "Sure you want to attempt heels again tonight?"

    "Please," she scoffs, but affection warms her tone. "It''s our first Christmas Eve dinner with both our families. I''d wear these even if my feet were literally bleeding."

    "At least let me wrap the worst spots," he says, reaching for more bandages. He works carefully, his hands steady as he winds the gauze around her foot, wincing at the angry red blisters. The contrast between her flawless exterior and the raw, tender skin feels almost poetic.

    Something inside him twists as he thinks about Hannah''s face last night, the vulnerability in her eyes when she''d talked about Lisa. The game they''re playing feels worse than any hangover.

    "My hero," Amber murmurs, turning back to her makeup routine.

    Nate pushes himself up from the floor, his muscles protesting every movement. In her full-length mirror, he adjusts his black tie with hands that want to shake. The suit fits perfectly - of course it does, Amber picked it out - but somehow he feels like he''s wearing a costume. Playing a part in someone else''s story.

    Their eyes meet in the mirror''s reflection, and something in her expression makes his chest tighten.

    "Did she say anything?" Amber asks quietly, her fingers stilling on her lipstick. "Hannah?"

    "We talked," he says carefully, remembering snowflakes catching in Hannah''s dark hair, the way his jacket had looked draped over her shoulders. "But she''s not exactly opening up yet."

    "Keep digging," Amber''s voice carries an edge that makes his stomach turn. "We need to know what she knows."

    He nods, the gesture automatic as breathing. What choice does he have? Some prices are worth paying to protect the people you love, even if those prices keep you awake at night.

    "Help me with my stockings?" Amber asks, breaking through his dark thoughts. Her smile in the mirror carries that particular warmth she saves just for him.

    Nate takes the silk stockings from the bed, kneeling before Amber with a look that has nothing to do with innocence. His fingers trace deliberately slow patterns up her calf as he rolls the first stocking into place.

    "You have that look again," Amber purrs, watching him through hooded eyes.

    "What look?" He glances up, his hands sliding higher, teasing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

    "The one that says you''re thinking very inappropriate thoughts about your girlfriend right before a family dinner," she replies, her breath catching slightly as his fingers dance along the edge of the stocking.

    "Hard not to," he murmurs against her knee. "Especially after this morning."

    "Please," she laughs, but it''s breathier than intended. "You''re just insatiable when you''re hungover. Remember after homecoming?"

    His smile turns predatory as he reaches for the second stocking. "That was different. You weren''t wearing stockings then."

    "And now I am," she reminds him, her voice carrying that husky quality that drives him crazy. "Very proper, very appropriate, very ''meeting the parents.''"

    Nate looks up at her from his position between her legs, desire coursing through his veins like expensive whiskey. He presses a kiss to her inner thigh, just above where the stocking ends.

    Amber''s heel catches him in the chest, pushing him back. "Down," she commands, though her pupils are dilated with wanting. "You had plenty this morning."

    "Never enough of you," he growls, his hands sliding up her legs again.

    "Parents," she reminds him firmly, though her skin flushes at his touch. "Arriving soon. And you''re not even properly dressed."

    "I''m dressed," he protests, but his mind is definitely focused on getting her undressed.

    "Really?" Her eyebrow arches perfectly. "That sports watch with formal wear? And where''s the cologne I specifically picked out?"

    "So demanding," he teases, but he''s already standing to comply. Because that''s what loving Amber Rosenberg means - following her carefully orchestrated plans while fantasizing about messing them up completely.

    He swaps watches and applies the cologne, all while watching her in the mirror with barely concealed hunger. Tonight will be about proper appearances and careful manners, but after dinner¡­

    "Ready?" Nate asks, watching Amber slip into her heels with practiced grace.

    "How do I look?" She turns slowly, the black dress catching light like liquid money.

    "Stunning," he says, his voice rough with wanting. "Absolutely fucking stunning."

    "Is that your dick talking or your eyes?" She smirks, adjusting her perfectly styled waves.

    "Both," he grins, pulling her close. "Always both with you, princess."

    Her laugh echoes through the room as they step into the hallway, her arm sliding through his with practiced ease. They haven''t really talked since stumbling home at dawn - too busy relearning each other''s bodies, too caught up in hangover sleep. But now, descending the sweeping staircase, something nags at his mind.

    "Lisa''s back in the fold," he says quietly, watching Amber''s profile for reaction.

    "Keep your friends close," she replies, her smile sharp as expensive crystal.

    "And your enemies closer." He finishes the thought, understanding flowing between them like expensive wine.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    The Rosenberg living room takes his breath away - transformed into something from a designer Christmas catalog. Crystal snowflakes catch light from dozens of perfectly placed spotlights, while garlands of white roses and evergreen wrap around every surface. Even the massive tree looks professionally curated, each ornament placed with surgical precision.

    "Your mom''s outdone herself," he whispers, genuinely impressed by Victoria Rosenberg''s attention to detail.

    They find their families gathered in the kitchen, the space smelling of  spices and carefully maintained traditions. His father James and Richard Rosenberg occupy the head of the table like matching kings, while their mothers orchestrate what promises to be an epic feast.

    "Look who finally decided to join us," Richard''s voice carries that particular warmth he reserves for Nate. "Sleep well?"

    Katherine Brooks abandons her cooking station to press a kiss to Nate''s cheek. "How was the dance, sweetheart? Everything you hoped?"

    "It was nice," Nate starts, but Amber swoops in like a perfectly timed rescue.

    "Oh my god, Mrs. Brooks, let me show you the pictures!" She produces her phone with practiced enthusiasm. "Nate was absolutely perfect - you should have seen him in that white tux. And the way he handled those slow dances..."

    Nate shoots her a grateful look as she commandeers his mother''s attention, buying him time to settle between their fathers. James Brooks claps him on the shoulder with careful affection.

    "Quite a night, son?" Richard asks with a knowing smile, passing Nate a crystal tumbler of something amber and expensive. "Jake mentioned the afterparty at the Lawrences'' was... memorable."

    "What happens at the Lawrences'' stays at the Lawrences''," Nate replies smoothly, earning appreciative chuckles from both men. This is the dance he knows - careful charm and measured responses, protecting their carefully constructed world one conversation at a time.

    Across the kitchen, Amber holds court with their mothers, her laugh musical as she shows carefully curated photos of their perfect night. She plays her role flawlessly - the devoted girlfriend, the perfect daughter, the crown princess of their carefully maintained kingdom.

    Hours melt away like expensive scotch on tongues, Nate''s hangover dissolving under the influence of Victoria Rosenberg''s legendary champagne-whiskey cocktails. The dining room glows with carefully curated warmth as he savors each bite of carpaccio - paper-thin slices of raw tuna dressed with black truffle and aged balsamic, the kind of dish that speaks of wealth without shouting about it.

    A delicate pressure against his crotch makes him nearly choke on his wine. He glances up to find Amber watching him with calculated innocence, her heel tracing dangerous patterns under the table. Her smirk could melt ice caps.

    "...and of course, Stanford''s business program is absolutely stellar," his mother''s voice drifts across imported linens. "Though I''ll admit, I needed time to accept that my son wouldn''t be following me into medicine."

    "The business world needs minds like Nate''s," Victoria agrees, topping off Katherine''s crystal glass. "Especially with how digital markets are evolving."

    Nate catches Richard Rosenberg and his father exchanging approving glances, their matching Rolex watches catching candlelight as they reach for their drinks. Richard catches his eye, giving him the subtlest of nods - a promise of conversation to come.

    "Victoria, this carpaccio is exceptional," James Brooks offers, ever the diplomat. "The truffle really elevates it."

    "Thank you, James. Just wait until you try the duck confit - it''s nearly ready for the oven."

    Richard pushes back from the table with practiced casualness. "Nate, mind helping me fetch more firewood? Getting a bit chilly in here."

    "Of course, sir." Nate rises, catching the ghost of a smile playing at Richard''s lips. This dance of excuses and carefully maintained appearances - it''s as much a part of their world as the crystal glasses and imported wine.

    As he follows Richard toward the door, Nate feels Amber''s eyes on him, knowing and hungry. Some conversations require privacy, after all. Even on Christmas Eve.

    December wind whips through the Rosenberg estate''s manicured grounds, catching snowflakes like diamonds in the spotlights that illuminate carefully sculpted hedges and imported marble fountains. The path beneath their feet radiates gentle heat, melting each snowflake before it can settle.

    "Cuban," Richard says, producing an ornate wooden case from his dinner jacket. The cigars inside rest like soldiers in velvet beds. "Marriage ended an embargo, but connections maintain quality."

    "Not much of a smoker," Nate admits, accepting one anyway. "Though I''m guessing firewood was just a convenient excuse?"

    "Sharp as ever." Richard''s laugh echoes across the snow-covered garden as he strikes a match, cupping the flame against the wind. "That mind of yours - it''s why I knew you were different."

    They walk in comfortable silence until they reach the property''s edge, where Riverside Heights falls away into a valley of twinkling Christmas lights. From up here, the city looks like scattered stardust - beautiful, distant, carefully arranged.

    "I have got cologne waiting inside," Richard says, noting Nate''s slight hesitation with the cigar. "Been doing this longer than you''ve been alive, son."

    The tobacco tastes like money and secrets as Nate inhales, watching his future father-in-law study the kingdom spread beneath them.

    "Freshman year," Richard begins, his voice carrying the weight of memory, "when she first mentioned your name... I gave it six months. Maybe less." He taps ash into immaculate snow. "Teenage romance - volatile as nitrogen, twice as explosive. Especially with Amber."

    City lights paint shadows across Richard''s face as he turns to study Nate. "But here you stand, four years and countless storms later. Still at her side."

    "Wouldn''t want to be anywhere else, sir." The words flow honest as blood.

    "My daughter," Richard''s voice softens slightly, "she burns hot. Like a star that can''t help but scorch everything it touches." Another drag from the cigar, another moment of careful consideration. "She overwhelms most people. Hell, some days she overwhelms me. But you..."

    Nate watches his breath fog in the December air, mixing with  cigar smoke.

    "You steady her," Richard continues. "Ground her when she''s flying too close to the sun. And you do it with a grace I wouldn''t have thought possible in someone so young."

    "That''s what any man would do," Nate offers, but Richard''s laugh cuts him off.

    "No, son. That''s what boys do when they''re in love." Richard''s eyes reflect city lights as he studies Nate''s profile. "But men? Men protect what matters, no matter the cost."

    Smoke curls into the winter darkness as Nate savors another draw from the cigar, letting the expensive tobacco ground him in this moment.

    "Strange time, your age," Richard muses, brushing snow from his sleeve. "No clear line anymore between boy and man. No ritual, no passage. Just one day you''re playing video games, and the next..." He trails off, studying the city below. "The next, you''re making decisions that define the rest of your life."

    Nate takes another hit from the Cuban cigar. It burns slightly in his lungs, but he doesn''t cough.

    "You''re not a boy anymore, Nate." Richard''s voice cuts through the darkness in his mind. "This summer proved that. When everything went sideways at Hampton Beach..."

    He pauses, choosing his words with careful precision. "Lesser men would have broken. But you? You did what had to be done."

    A flashback hits Nate like physical force - dead weight dragging through wet sand, the body heavy and awkward, his muscles screaming with each step. He blinks hard, forcing the memory back into its carefully locked box.

    "Had no choice, sir." The words scrape his throat like sand.

    "There''s always a choice," Richard counters sharply. "You could have panicked. Called the police. Run away. Taken the easy path." His eyes lock onto Nate''s with laser focus. "Instead, you handled it. Like a man should."

    "I did it for Amber." The words taste like ash and truth on his tongue.

    "I know." Richard''s voice softens slightly. "When you called me that night... I heard it in your voice. Not some scared teenager, but a man protecting what matters."

    Pride blooms in Nate''s chest despite himself, warring with the dark memories that pulse behind his eyes - lifeless weight being pulled across endless beach, choices that echo like waves in the night. He takes another drag from the cigar, letting the burn chase away phantom sensations of cold flesh against his palms.

    "Never properly thanked you," Richard says quietly. "For what you did."

    "Don''t have to." Nate''s voice comes out steadier than he feels. "I''d do it all again. For her."

    Richard studies him through the gathering snow, something like approval warming his usually calculating gaze. "She means that much to you?"

    "Everything." The word carries the weight of absolute truth.

    The cigar smoke hung thick in the winter air as Richard studied him with that particular gaze that had made lesser men crumble in boardrooms across the country.

    "Stanford," Richard said, tapping ash into pristine snow. "Application''s in?"

    "Yes, sir. Early decision." Nate watched his breath fog in the December air, mixing with  Cuban tobacco. "Should hear back any day now."

    A smile played at Richard''s lips as he surveyed the kingdom of lights spread beneath them. "Cardinals could use a fresh wide receiver. Been a few disappointing seasons." His eyes gleamed with calculated promise. "Interesting coincidence, don''t you think?"

    Nate''s heart performed a complicated dance in his chest. "Coach Martinez mentioned spotting their scouts at a few games." He took another careful drag from the cigar, letting the burn steady his voice. "Though they could be watching Jake. Or Jeff. Both have solid stats this season."

    "Mmm." Richard''s noncommittal hum carried worlds of meaning. He studied his cigar like it held secrets to the universe, then met Nate''s eyes with that shark-like smile that had built empires. "Let me see what I can do about that. After all," he gestured expansively at the glittering city below, "connections are currency in our world. And I''ve been making deposits longer than you''ve been alive."

    The implications settled around Nate''s shoulders like  scotch - warm, dangerous, and impossible to refuse. Because this was how their world worked, wasn''t it? Not just money and privilege, but carefully maintained networks of favors and promises, each one binding them tighter into this gilded cage they called home.

    As they turned back toward the warmth of the house, Nate caught one final glimpse of Riverside spread beneath them - a tapestry of Christmas lights and carefully maintained facades, each one hiding its own collection of secrets and lies. He wondered, not for the first time, if the price of belonging would ever stop increasing.

    But then he thought of Amber waiting inside, of her smile that still made his heart skip beats, of all the careful lies they maintained to protect what mattered most. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would pay whatever price their world demanded.

 Chapter XXV.

    The Aspen air tastes different than Sankt Moritz, Amber thinks, watching snowflakes dance against the inky evening sky. Less refined, more commercial - like comparing department store perfume to Chanel. But tradition is tradition, and the annual holiday ski trip with the Lawrences and Woodlands predates her opinions on European versus American slopes.

    Besides, this year is different. This is Nate''s second time joining them - a calculated gift from her parents who understood that a week with Jake Woodland required significant compensation. Her lips curve into a smile as she remembers last year''s invitation, how her father had presented it at breakfast like some kind of royal decree: "The Brooks boy should join us this year. Assuming his technique on snow matches his performance on the field."

    Now, fresh from another endless Woodland family dinner, Amber''s boots crunch against pristine snow as they approach their private lodge. Jake leads their small procession.

    "Jesus Christ," Jake groans, fumbling with the keycard. "I thought Dad would never shut up about his new development project. Three hours about sustainable architecture or whatever the fuck."

    Amber can''t help but laugh, remembering William Woodland''s increasingly animated gestures as the wine flowed freely. "At least he didn''t break into song this time. Remember two years ago? The impromptu performance of ''New York, New York''?"

    "Don''t," Jake warns, but he''s grinning. "I''m still in therapy for that one."

    The lodge door swings open, revealing a space that screams old money without having to raise its voice. Everything is exactly as Amber remembers - hand-hewn beams stretching overhead, antique furniture that probably witnessed the signing of important documents, a massive stone fireplace that dominates one wall. The opposite wall is pure glass, framing the snow-covered slopes like a perfectly composed photograph.

    "I''m getting supplies," Jake announces, already heading for the hidden liquor cabinet that''s probably worth more than most cars. "Dad''s speech requires significant chemical intervention."

    Amber settles onto one of the leather sofas near the fireplace, her muscles pleasantly sore from a day on the slopes. Without prompting, Nate kneels before her, his hands moving to her boot clasps with practiced ease.

    "You''re spoiling me," she murmurs, but they both know it''s expected. Four years of careful devotion have set certain standards.

    "That''s the plan," he replies, his movements gentle as he eases off her first boot. His thumbs press into her arch, drawing a soft sigh from her lips.

    "God, I wish Justin was here," Susan sighs, settling beside Amber on the obscenely expensive sofa. Her blonde hair catches firelight like captured sunshine, even after a full day on the slopes.

    "Come here, little sis," Nate says, reaching for Susan''s boots. "Can''t have my favorite Lawrence suffering after those double blacks."

    Something dark and familiar stirs in Amber''s chest as she watches Nate''s hands work Susan''s buckles with the same careful attention he''d shown her. The rage builds like waves against a shore - irrational, unstoppable, burning hot enough to melt snow.

    Then Nate''s eyes find hers across the space between them, dark and steady and full of everything that matters. He reads her like a language only he speaks, understanding flowing between them without need for words.

    Jake returns with an armful of bottles. "Single malt for the gentleman," he announces with exaggerated ceremony, "and some fancy French vodka for the ladies. Though personally, I think eighteen-year-old scotch is wasted on Brooks here. Man still drinks like a freshman."

    Susan''s attention shifts to Jake like a flower tracking the sun, leaving Nate free to focus entirely on Amber. He moves with liquid grace to settle beside her, one hand finding her waist with practiced ease.

    "Hey princess," he murmurs against her hair, his voice carrying that particular warmth that still makes her heart skip beats. "Come back to me. Whatever''s happening in that beautiful head of yours? It''s not real. This is real. Us. Here. Now."

    The rage recedes like tide pulling back from shore as Nate''s lips find hers. He kisses her like he''s spelling promises against her mouth, each touch an anchor holding her steady in the storm of her own mind.

    "Drinks!" Jake''s voice breaks through their moment, crystal glasses appearing like magic in their hands. "To family traditions, overpriced ski equipment, and friends who are basically family anyway."

    Amber takes a careful sip of the vodka, letting it burn away the last traces of her earlier darkness. Because this - the warmth of the fire, the weight of Nate''s arm around her shoulders, the careful choreography of their shared world - this is what matters. This is real.

    The firelight dances across Nate''s features as he stares at his phone, each shadow deepening the lines of frustration etched across his face. Amber watches him send another message, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack diamonds.

    "Still trying to crack the Marshall code?" Amber aims for lightness, but something in Nate''s expression makes her voice waver. She''s never seen him like this - not even during championship games or college interviews.

    "Jesus Christ, Brooks," Jake drawls from his position by the bar, "You''re acting like you''re defusing a bomb instead of texting a girl."

    Nate rises suddenly, startling them all. The crystal tumbler in his hand catches firelight like trapped lightning. "Tell me something, Woodland. This place clean?"

    Jake''s trademark smirk spreads across his face. "Cleaner than my browser history. Dad''s paranoid as hell since that thing with the SEC. Weekly sweeps, military-grade jammers - we could plan a presidential assassination in here."

    "Nate?" Amber keeps her voice soft, controlled, even as anxiety claws up her throat. "What aren''t you telling me?"If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    He starts pacing, expensive boots wearing tracks in even more expensive carpet. "I''ve tried everything. Every fucking angle. Played the childhood friend card, the study buddy routine, even let her think she was getting somewhere with that ridiculous social justice crusade of hers. But she''s just..." His hand tightens around his glass. "It''s like she''s got some kind of immunity to me."

    "Oh please," Susan waves her hand dismissively, "That girl''s been in love with you since elementary school. Just turn up the charm."

    "Don''t you get it?" Nate''s voice cracks like thin ice. "She''s not some freshman who''ll melt because I remember her coffee order. She''s..." He drains his whiskey, adam''s apple bobbing sharply. "She''s looking for something specific. And if she finds it-"

    Amber''s never heard him sound like this - like he''s one wrong move away from shattering. It reminds her of that night at Hampton Beach, when everything went sideways and the only thing holding their world together was Nate''s steady hands.

    "Baby," she rises, crossing to him with careful steps. The rage that usually burns in her chest is replaced by something colder, more dangerous. "Let me help. Whatever this is-"

    "It''s all of us, Amber." His eyes find hers, dark and desperate. "If she connects the dots... if Megan talked, or if Victoria-"

    "Both neutralized," Susan interjects smoothly. "Megan practically tripped over herself warning me about their little Brookswood adventure. And Victoria?" Her laugh tinkles like expensive wind chimes. "Let''s just say her father''s new development project requires certain... approvals."

    But Nate''s still wound tight as a spring, muscles coiled beneath his cable-knit sweater. "And what happens when that''s not enough? When she finds the one person who''ll talk? Because she will - Hannah''s like a fucking heat-seeking missile when she thinks she''s fighting for justice."

    "Then what''s your play?" Jake''s voice cuts through the tension, suddenly serious. All traces of the perpetual party boy vanish, replaced by something darker, more calculated.

    Nate stares into his empty glass like it''s a crystal ball. "We need help." His eyes flick to Susan and Amber. "You handled Lisa beautifully, but Hannah... she''s different. She''s..."

    The firelight catches something dangerous in Jake''s eyes - a darkness Amber recognizes from that night at Hampton Beach.

    "If we do this," Jake''s voice carries a weight that makes the expensive vodka in Amber''s stomach turn to ice, "there''s no taking it back. No more playing nice."

    Nate buries his face in his hands, shoulders heavy with invisible weight. "I know. God, I know."

    "Do what?" Amber asks, though part of her already understands. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.

    "The people who helped us last time," Nate says quietly, his words barely carrying over the crackling fire. "The ones who... cleaned everything up."

    The memories hit Amber like physical force - her father''s carefully controlled voice on the phone, William Woodland''s precise instructions, Richard Lawrence''s connections making problems vanish like morning mist. She remembers how quickly everything had been handled, how efficiently their carefully constructed world had been preserved.

    "You''re catastrophizing," Susan cuts through Amber''s spiraling thoughts, crossing to where Nate sits wound tight as a spring. "We don''t need the nuclear option. Not yet."

    She perches on the sofa''s arm, all calculated grace and careful confidence. Amber''s fingers find Nate''s shoulders automatically, working tension from muscles that feel like steel beneath his sweater.

    "Think about it," Susan continues, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes everyone lean in despite themselves. "Megan and Victoria are locked down tight - our fathers made sure of that. The rest?" She waves her hand dismissively. "Lisa was passed out by the pool, Jeff and Justin were on some stupid beer run, and Charlotte and Morris were probably setting a record for longest make-out session in Hamptons history. It''s just us now. The four who really know."

    Susan leans down, wrapping Nate in a fierce hug. "Come on, golden boy. This isn''t like you - where''s that Brooks backbone? The guy who carried us through that night?"

    "Thanks, Sue." Nate''s fingers find Amber''s, squeezing like she''s his only anchor in a storm. "I just... I can''t lose this. Any of it. You guys are my whole world - my best friend, my little sister, the love of my life." His voice cracks slightly. "And I helped bury it. All of it."

    Something dark and familiar rises in Amber''s chest as she watches Nate struggle. Because this is her fault, isn''t it? Jake might have started it, but she''d been the one who... She slams that mental door shut before the memories can surface.

    "Baby," she whispers against his ear, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with expensive whiskey. "We''ll figure it out. We always do."

    Jake rises suddenly, his movement carrying predatory grace. "We handle it ourselves first," his voice holds no trace of his usual charm. "But if that doesn''t work?" A smile splits his face like a knife wound. "Then we let my father deal with it. And trust me - after that, our little songbird won''t make another peep."

    The words settle around them like fresh snow, beautiful and cold and absolutely final. Because that''s what their world does - buries uncomfortable truths under layers of privilege and power, until even the echoes fade to silence.

    "You don''t have to carry this alone," Amber says suddenly, an idea crystallizing in her mind like frost on glass.

    "Meaning?" Nate''s eyes find hers in the firelight.

    A smile plays across her lips as the plan takes shape. Because isn''t this perfect? Nate - her sweet, golden boy with his gentleman''s code - he''s not built for the kind of warfare this requires. But she and Susan? They''ve been crafting social executions since middle school.

    "Take Nate to that new club at the resort," she suggests, her voice honey-sweet. "He could use a break from all this...."

    "Sue?" She turns to her partner in crime. "I need those particular skills of yours. The ones that made Jessica Thompson transfer schools junior year."

    "I know that look," Nate says, something between admiration and fear crossing his features. "You''re about to do something terrifying, aren''t you?"

    "Phone." She holds out her hand imperiously, though her eyes soften as they meet his. "Let me help you, baby."

    Nate surrenders his iPhone with a slight shake of his head. Amber''s heart does that stupid flutter thing as she sees their lockscreen - the two of them on her family''s yacht last summer, her hair wild from salt air, his smile brighter than the Caribbean sun.

    "Code?"

    "6767," he smirks. "Like you haven''t known that since sophomore year."

    "God, you''re deliciously evil," Susan practically purrs, settling closer to watch the show. "I''ve missed this version of you."

    "Do you trust me?" Amber asks Nate, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "To handle this... delicately?"

    His laugh carries genuine warmth as he rises. "Princess, there''s no one I trust more." He presses a kiss to her temple. "You two are literally the scariest people I know."

    "Come on, Brooks," Jake claps him on the shoulder. "Let''s leave the ladies to their social warfare. That new DJ from Berlin is playing tonight - heard he makes molly feel like baby aspirin."

    After the boys disappear into the snowy night, Susan curls up beside Amber like a particularly elegant cat. "Ready to break a heart?"

    Amber opens WhatsApp, finding Hannah''s conversation thread. Her fingers fly across the keyboard:

    "<i>Hey... sorry for being weird lately. Just got a lot on my mind.</i>"

    They watch the typing bubbles appear almost immediately.

    "<i>Everything ok? You seemed off</i>"

    "<i>Can I tell you something? Something I haven''t told anyone?</i>"

    Susan returns with a bottle of Chateau Margaux.  "This feels like a red wine kind of destruction."

    The bubbles appear again: "<i>Of course. You can tell me anything</i>"

    Amber''s smile turns predatory as she begins crafting their carefully constructed trap. Because some battles require brute force, but others? Others need a more delicate touch. And no one does delicate destruction quite like Amber Rosenberg.

 Chapter XXVI.

    The Edison Coffee House glows like a warm beacon against the winter afternoon, its exposed brick walls and leather couches offering refuge from Riverside''s carefully maintained perfection. Hannah curls deeper into her favorite corner, an ancient copy of "The Secret History" resting on her knees. The holiday season has transformed her usual study spot into something almost magical - fairy lights twining through industrial pipes overhead, the scent of cinnamon and espresso filling the air.

    Her phone buzzes with another Snapchat notification, and her heart performs its usual acrobatics when she sees the name: NateBrooks67. She opens it with fingers that definitely aren''t trembling, and there he is - perfect as a magazine ad in a ski lift somewhere in Aspen. Even through his helmet visor, those eyes still make her breath catch. That smile - the one that haunts her dreams - gleams bright against the backdrop of snow-covered peaks. "<i>Another day on the tracks ????</i>" the caption reads, and Hannah hates how just seeing his handwriting makes her stomach flutter.

    Things have shifted since Winter Ball, like someone rewrote the rules without telling her. Suddenly Nate Brooks - who used to exist only in careful distance and occasional Instagram likes - is sending her daily snaps, asking about her day, remembering things she mentioned weeks ago. It feels surreal, like she''s starring in someone else''s story.

    Hannah angles her phone carefully, capturing herself against the coffeehouse''s brick wall. She scrutinizes the image - her dark hair falling in waves around her face, winter light catching just right through the industrial windows. She hits send before she can second-guess herself.

    His response is immediate: "<i>Love what you''ve done with your hair. The waves suit you ??</i>"

    Hannah reaches up self-consciously, touching the curls she''d spent an embarrassing amount of time creating this morning. They do look different - softer somehow, more romantic than her usual practical style.

    "<i>Thanks!</i>" she types, then hesitates. The cursor blinks at her like a dare. Before she can talk herself out of it, she adds: "<i>Though nothing compared to your perfect helmet hair ??</i>"

    The moment after hitting send feels like free-falling. Did she go too far? Was that too obvious? But then his response appears - a selfie of him biting his lower lip, eyes sparkling with something that makes her insides turn to liquid.

    Suddenly her phone disappears from her hands, snatched away with surgical precision. Hannah looks up to find Alex Winters looming over her, all black leather and careful concern.

    "Hannah. Marshall." Alex''s voice carries equal parts affection and exasperation. "What did I tell you about getting between Amber Rosenberg and her property?"

    "We''re just friends!" Hannah protests, heat flooding her cheeks. "We went to elementary school together. He''s just being nice."

    "Nice?" Alex arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Nate Brooks doesn''t do ''nice'' unless he wants something. Trust me on this - that boy is bad news wrapped in a very pretty package."

    She tosses Hannah''s phone back with practiced nonchalance before settling into the opposite armchair, combat boots landing on the coffee table with careful irreverence. Steam rises from the cup in her hand - probably that weird lavender honey latte she''s been obsessed with lately.

    "I know what I''m doing," Hannah mutters, but the words sound hollow even to her own ears.

    "Do you?" Alex''s dark lips curve into something between a smile and a warning. "Because from where I''m sitting, it looks an awful lot like playing with fire. And not the fun kind."

    Hannah twists her hands in her lap, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on her thrift store sweater. "I promise I''ll be careful," she says.

    "You better be." Alex''s dark nails tap against her coffee cup, creating a rhythm that sounds like warning bells. "Because people who get too close to their world? They have a habit of vanishing. Like Emily Thorne."

    Hannah''s head snaps up. "You knew Emily?"

    "We weren''t best friends or anything." Alex shrugs, but something flickers across her face. "Just smoked together sometimes behind the gym. She was cool though - didn''t give a shit about designer labels or social hierarchy. Until..."

    "Until what?"

    "Until she started hanging with Jake''s crew. Nate, Susan, the whole golden circle." Alex''s voice carries an edge Hannah''s never heard before. "Then one day - poof. Gone. Some bullshit about moving to Seattle. Instagram deleted, Snapchat dead, not even a goodbye."

    The name hits Hannah like a physical blow. With everything that''s happened - Lisa''s betrayal, Winter Ball drama, this strange new thing with Nate - she''d completely forgotten about Emily Thorne. About all of them.

    "When exactly did Emily disappear?" Hannah asks carefully, her detective instincts humming to life.

    "Last summer? Right after..." Alex''s eyes narrow suddenly. "Why are you so interested in ancient history, Marshall?"

    Hannah hesitates, the weight of secrets pressing against her ribs. Should she tell Alex about Amber''s warning? About Lisa''s story from Hampton Beach? About her own terrifying encounter with Jake in that pool house? This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    "Did you know Victoria Reynolds too?" she asks instead. "Or Megan Carter?"

    "Victoria?" Alex sits up straighter, her boots hitting the floor with a decisive thud. "Yeah, she was one of Emily''s friends. Total Jake Woodland groupie - followed him around like he hung the moon or something." Her dark lips curve into a smirk. "Not that I blame her. Boy''s got good weed connections."

    "They transferred schools," Hannah says softly. "All of them. Right after..."

    "After what?" Alex leans forward, all traces of casual indifference vanishing.

    "Hannah Marshall, what exactly aren''t you telling me?"

    Hannah meets Alex''s intense gaze across the coffee table, something electric crackling in the space between them. Because maybe this is it - maybe Alex Winters, with her carefully cultivated outsider status and mysterious connections, might be exactly the ally they need.

    "I think Jake Woodland raped those girls," Hannah says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or at least one of them at Hampton Beach this summer."

    Alex''s perfectly lined eyes narrow. "That''s a pretty serious accusation, Marshall. Like, life-ruining serious if you''re wrong."

    "He tried to force himself on Lisa Chen at Hampton," Hannah continues, the words tumbling out now that she''s started. "And then all those girls just vanished. Too many coincidences."

    "So what - you think Jake Woodland somehow managed to assault three different girls in one night?" Alex''s laugh holds no humor. "Trust me honey, I''ve had my encounters with Jake. He''s not exactly..." She holds up her pinky finger and wiggles it suggestively. "Let''s just say his equipment doesn''t match his ego."

    "He tried to force himself on me too," Hannah whispers, the words hanging in the heated air between them. "At Halloween. In his pool house."

    The change in Alex is instant and terrifying. All traces of sarcasm vanish as she reaches across the table to pull Hannah into a fierce hug. "Oh god, Hannah... did he...?"

    "No," Hannah says quickly, breathing in Alex''s weird perfume. "I got away. But something happened at Hampton Beach - something big enough that they''d do anything to keep it buried."

    "And Lisa?" Alex pulls back slightly, studying Hannah''s face. "What happened with her?"

    "One day we were getting close to something. We found Megan Carter in Brookswood, Alex. She was terrified - like, physically shaking at just the mention of Hampton Beach." Hannah swallows hard. "And now Lisa won''t even look at me. She says she made everything up, but I saw her face when we talked to Megan. Whatever happened that night, it was real. And they''re all protecting it."

    "They have something on her," Alex says, her dark lips pressing into a thin line. "That''s how they work. Find your weakness, exploit it, keep you in line."

    Hannah nods, remembering Lisa''s face that day in the cafeteria - the fear behind her carefully constructed dismissal. "I''ve tried talking to her, but she just... she shuts down completely. Like she''s terrified of something worse than just social exile."

    "What about the other girls?" Alex asks, her fingers drumming against her coffee cup. "Have you tried reaching out?"

    "Megan was our only lead," Hannah admits. "And that was a disaster. She practically ran from us, Alex. Said we had no idea what ''they'' would do if she talked." She stares into her cooling coffee. "Victoria Reynolds and Emily Thorne might as well be ghosts. All their social media went dark right after Hampton.

    "And now Nate Brooks is suddenly interested in you," Alex says, connecting dots with dangerous precision. "Right when you''re digging into all this."

    Hannah''s heart performs painful acrobatics in her chest. Because of course Alex would see it - the careful timing, the sudden attention from someone who''s spent years pretending she was invisible. "He''s different," she whispers, but the words sound hollow even to her own ears.

    "No, honey," Alex''s voice carries a gentleness that makes Hannah''s eyes burn. "He''s not. He''s just better at hiding it. Remember - he was there that night too, right? Whatever happened at Hampton Beach, Nate Brooks helped bury it."

    The truth of those words settles around Hannah''s shoulders like lead. Because deep down, she''s known it all along, hasn''t she? Known that the boy who shares fruit roll-ups and remembers her coffee order is the same one who stands silent while his best friend destroys lives.

    "Should I keep talking to him?" Hannah asks, her voice uncertain. "Or cut it off before..."

    "No," Alex''s red lips curve into something dangerous. "Keep playing his game. But flip the board, Marshall. Make him think he''s winning while you collect every piece." She leans forward, her voice dropping lower. "Men like Nate Brooks? They''re used to being the players, not the played."

    Hannah''s about to respond when movement catches her eye. Her heart stops as she spots a familiar figure several tables away. Lisa Chen sits alone, perfectly positioned to have heard everything. Her fingers move across her phone screen with practiced casualness, but something in her posture feels too rigid, too aware.

    "Don''t look now," Hannah whispers, "but Lisa''s here. Do you think she...?"

    Alex''s eyes flick briefly toward Lisa before returning to Hannah. "Waiting for her YouTube prince charming, no doubt. Though..." Something calculating crosses her features. "Interesting timing."

    "What do we do?" Hannah asks, her voice barely carrying over the coffee shop''s ambient noise.

    A wicked smile spreads across Alex''s face. "Tell me something, Marshall. Have you tried accessing the school records? Transfer paperwork, disciplinary files?"

    "They''re classified," Hannah replies. "You need administrative access."

    Alex''s smile grows wider, reminding Hannah of a particularly satisfied cat. "You know what has ten fingers, desperately needs a haircut, and literally orgasms over Python code?"

    "David?" Hannah''s eyes widen as understanding dawns. "My cousin David?"

    "The very same." Alex''s dark nails tap against her cup with predatory satisfaction. "Who, as it happens, thinks it''s incredibly hot when I call him a ''good boy'' for breaking through firewalls."

    "Are you saying..." Hannah glances around nervously before leaning closer. "David could hack the school system?"

    "Oh honey," Alex''s laugh carries equal parts affection and danger. "Your cousin could probably hack the Pentagon if I promised him enough positive reinforcement. Riverside High''s ancient network?" She waves her hand dismissively. "Child''s play."

    Hannah processes this information, possibilities spinning through her mind like snowflakes in wind. Because this could change everything, couldn''t it? Access to official records, transfer documents, maybe even emails between administrators...

    "Think about it," Alex says, reading Hannah''s expression perfectly. "Every carefully buried file, every edited transcript, every email about making ''problems'' disappear." Her eyes gleam with something that looks like revolution. "All we need is one thread to pull, and their whole perfect tapestry unravels."

    Hannah glances again at Lisa, who''s still pretending to be absorbed in her phone. Had she heard their plans? Would she warn Amber and her carefully curated court? But then Hannah remembers the fear in Lisa''s eyes that day in the cafeteria, remembers Megan Carter running through that Brookswood parking lot like hell itself was chasing her.

    Some prices are worth paying. Some truths demand to be told, no matter the cost.

    "Okay," Hannah says finally, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "Let''s do it. Let''s burn their perfect world to the ground."

    Alex''s smile is pure rebellion as she raises her coffee cup in mock toast. "To watching their kingdom fall" she says softly.

 Chapter XXVII.

    Lisa''s heart hammers against her ribs, the pulse in her ears drowning out the ambient coffee shop chatter. Her fingers hover over her phone screen, crafting a message to Susan that could change everything:

    <i>Hannah is telling Alex about Hampton Beach. About Jake. She knows about Megan in Brookswood, about what happened to Victoria and Emily. They''re connecting the dots. Alex seems ready to help her investigate.</i>

    Her thumb trembles over the send button as two futures crystallize in her mind. In one, she''s back in that carefully curated inner circle - Yale early decision letters, study sessions, a world where doors open with practiced ease. In the other, she sees Hannah''s face that day in Brookswood, watches Megan Carter flee across that parking lot, remembers what it felt like to finally stand up against something wrong.

    The cursor blinks patiently, waiting for her choice.

    With a sharp exhale, she presses send.

    Susan''s response is immediate: <i>You''re a gem ?? This is exactly what we needed to know. See? Isn''t it better on the winning team? ??</i>

    Lisa''s fingers shake slightly as she types back: <i>Just don''t want anyone getting hurt.</i>

    The bell above the door chimes, and her heart performs a completely different kind of acrobatics as Matthias walks in. His blonde waves are windswept, cheeks flushed from the cold, and his smile still makes her chest ache with its genuine warmth.

    "Hey beautiful," he says, bending to kiss her. His lips are cold but impossibly soft against hers. "Sorry I''m late - render times were absolutely brutal."

    "Another video guide?" she teases, letting her fingers tangle in the front of his sweater. "What was it this time - Dark Souls speedrun strats?"

    "Worse - Elden Ring boss guide. That Malenia fight is destroying my upload schedule." He grins, pressing another quick kiss to her forehead. "Let me make it up to you? Your usual?"

    "You remember my complicated order?"

    "Vanilla chai latte, extra hot, double shot of espresso?" He arches an eyebrow. "Like I could forget the drink that took you twenty minutes to perfect that first date."

    Her phone buzzes again as Matthias joins the coffee queue. Amber this time: <i>When we get back from Aspen, you''re coming over. Girls'' night like old times - face masks, terrible rom-coms, expensive wine. Susan says you''ve earned your place back. We miss you, bitch ??</i>

    Something warm blooms in Lisa''s chest even as guilt churns in her stomach. She types back: <i>Can''t wait ??</i>This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    She watches Matthias at the counter, the way he laughs with the barista, how his hands move animatedly as he probably explains something about frame rates and boss patterns. His honesty feels like a lifeline in her world of careful calculations and strategic allegiances.

    Matthias returns with their drinks, settling beside her with that easy grace that makes everything feel simpler. "One ridiculously complicated chai latte for the prettiest girl in Riverside," he announces with exaggerated ceremony. "Though I still maintain that adding espresso to chai is basically beverage sacrilege."

    "Says the guy who puts Sriracha in his hot chocolate," she counters, but she''s smiling as she accepts the cup.

    His laugh carries no trace of calculation as he pulls her closer, and for a moment, Lisa lets herself believe that maybe she can have both - Matthias''s honest love and the future she dreams of, truth and ambition, real connections and strategic alliances.

    Matthias takes a long sip of his overly sweetened coffee, his eyes lighting up with that particular enthusiasm he reserves for his latest gaming projects. "So I''ve been analyzing the frame data for this new speedrun strat," he begins, his hands already moving to illustrate his point. "It''s insane - shaves like forty seconds off the Malenia fight if you time it perfectly."

    Lisa''s phone vibrates - the old group chat they''d named "Princess Treatment ??" lighting up with Susan''s message: *Anything else happening over there? They still talking?*

    Her eyes drift carefully to where Hannah and Alex huddle together, their heads bent close in intense discussion. Even from here, she can see the fierce determination in Hannah''s posture, the way Alex''s dark lips move in what looks like careful strategy.

    <i>They''re definitely plotting something</i>, Lisa types back. <i>But I can''t hear from here.</i>

    Amber''s reply is instant: <i>Can you move closer? Maybe grab a napkin or something?</i>

    <i>Too obvious, </i>Lisa responds. <i>They''d spot me in a second.</i>

    "Hello? Earth to Lisa?" Matthias waves his hand in front of her face, bringing her back to their conversation. "Did you actually fall asleep during my frame rate analysis? I know it''s nerdy but wow, that''s a new record."

    "Sorry!" Lisa forces a laugh, scrambling for an excuse. "Just... thinking about that Calc test next week. You know how Mr. Morrison gets about derivatives."

    "You okay?" His voice softens with genuine concern as he studies her face. "You seem kind of distracted today."

    "I''m fine," she says, hating how the lie tastes on her tongue. "Just stress about college apps and everything. You know how it is."

    "Well, lucky for you," he grins, launching back into his previous enthusiasm, "I''ve got the perfect distraction. You won''t believe what my subscribers found in the game files. There''s this whole hidden questline that nobody''s discovered yet..."

    Lisa feels her phone buzzing insistently against her leg - probably Amber and Susan demanding updates, strategizing their next moves. But watching Matthias''s face light up as he describes digital mysteries and hidden paths, she can''t bring herself to look. Instead, she lets herself be carried away by his excitement, by the way his hands paint pictures in the air, by how his glasses slip slightly down his nose when he gets particularly animated.

    Because here, in this moment with him, she doesn''t have to be Lisa Chen: informant, traitor, carefully placed spy. She can just be Lisa: girlfriend, audience, someone worthy of genuine enthusiasm rather than strategic value.

    "And then," Matthias continues, completely oblivious to her internal struggle, "this one viewer actually found a way to clip through the wall using this crazy jump technique. Want to see the video? It''s absolutely mind-blowing."

    Lisa leans closer, letting his warmth chase away thoughts of carefully maintained lies and strategic betrayals. "Show me," she says, meaning it despite everything else weighing on her conscience.

 Chapter XXVIII.

    The January wind cuts through Nate''s letterman jacket like a knife, making him grateful for the thick grey hoodie underneath. His breath forms clouds in the frigid air as he approaches The Daily Grind, a cozy hole-in-the-wall caf¨¦ tucked between the Riverside Cinema and an aging bookstore. The mission weighs heavy in his stomach: find out what Hannah knows, gauge the threat, protect everything they''ve built.

    He flexes his cold fingers, remembering the texts they''d crafted so carefully ¨C Susan''s precise wording, Amber''s strategic suggestions, all sent from his phone to build this moment. The thought makes bile rise in his throat, but then Amber''s face flashes through his mind: snowflakes caught in her golden hair in Aspen, her blue eyes sparkling as fireworks painted the sky above them. "Happy New Year, baby," she''d whispered, her voice husky and warm against his ear. "I love you so much." The memory steadies him. This is why he''s here ¨C to protect her, to preserve their world, to keep their carefully constructed reality from crumbling.

    Through the caf¨¦''s fogged windows, he spots Hannah Marshall at a corner table, her dark waves falling forward as she reads something on her phone. The Daily Grind looks like it was built from spare parts and pure stubbornness ¨C exposed brick walls decorated with local art, mismatched vintage furniture arranged in cozy clusters, and strings of edison bulbs casting a warm glow over everything. The kind of place that would never survive in the polished perfection of downtown Riverside, yet somehow thrives here on the edges.

    Hannah hasn''t noticed him yet. She''s wearing that oversized cream sweater he''s seen in her snaps, the one with the slightly frayed cuffs that would make Amber cringe. Something twists in Nate''s chest ¨C guilt maybe, or regret for what he''s about to do. But then he remembers Jake''s face that night in Aspen, the fear barely hidden behind his usual bravado: "They''re digging, man. If they find out..."

    The bell chimes softly as he pushes open the door, warm air heavy with the scent of coffee and cinnamon enveloping him. Hannah looks up, and the smile that lights her face makes his stomach clench.

    "Hey," he says, surprised by how genuine his voice sounds. "Sorry I''m late."

    "Nate!" Hannah stands, tucking her hair behind her ear in that nervous way he''s noticed in all their video chats. "No worries, I just got here myself."

    He pulls her into a hug, careful to make it friendly but not too friendly. She smells like vanilla and something else ¨C maybe lavender? ¨C so different from Amber''s  perfume. "You look great," he says, and means it despite everything. "The waves really do suit you ¨C your snaps didn''t do them justice."

    "Oh," she touches her waves self-consciously. "Just trying something new. How was Aspen? Your stories looked incredible."

    "Amazing," he replies, shrugging off his jacket. "Perfect powder conditions, great parties. Though I think I''m still recovering from New Year''s Eve." He laughs, the sound only slightly forced. "Who knew Amber''s family could party that hard?"

    "I can imagine," Hannah says, something flickering behind her eyes at the mention of Amber. "The Rosenbergs don''t really do anything halfway, do they?"

    "That''s an understatement." He glances at the menu board, decorated with chalk drawings of coffee cups and terrible puns. "Let me get you something? Since you braved the cold to meet me."

    "Oh, you don''t have to¡ª"

    "I want to," he cuts her off with a smile, the one he''s been using in their late-night Snapchat exchanges. "After all these weeks of virtual coffee dates, seems only fair to buy you a real one."

    Hannah hesitates, then relents. "Okay, um... just a vanilla latte? With an extra shot if that''s not too much trouble."

    "For you? Nothing''s too much trouble." He winks, hating himself a little for how naturally the manipulation comes. "Find us a cozy spot? I''ll be right back."

    At the counter, a barista with honey-blonde hair twisted into a messy bun catches his eye. "What can I get you?" she asks, her smile lingering a beat too long. Something about her ¨C maybe the way she tilts her head, or how her hair catches the light ¨C reminds him of Amber, and his chest tightens.

    "Vanilla latte, extra shot," he says, letting his customary easy charm surface. "And a black Americano for me."

    "Coming right up." She draws a small heart next to his name on the cup. "You''re Nate Brooks, right? I''ve seen you play ¨C that touchdown against Brookswood was incredible."

    He grins, falling into the familiar rhythm of casual flirtation like putting on a well-worn jacket. "Just got lucky with the pass. Though I''m sure it looked better from the stands than it felt on the field."

    She laughs, the sound warm and practiced. "Somehow I doubt luck had much to do with it."

    He tips generously when she hands over the drinks, offering another smile that doesn''t quite reach his eyes. The interaction leaves a sour taste in his mouth ¨C this constant performance, the endless dance of being Nate Brooks: golden boy, star athlete, perfect boyfriend.

    Hannah''s chosen a quiet corner away from the windows. Smart girl, he thinks, then immediately hates himself for the observation. He sets her drink down carefully, settling into the worn leather chair across from her.

    "Thank you," she says, wrapping her hands around the warm cup.

    "Listen," he starts, letting vulnerability seep into his voice. "I know this might seem random, but... I really appreciate you talking to me these past few weeks. Ever since Winter Ball..." He pauses, manufacturing the perfect mix of hesitation and sincerity. "You''re the first person I''ve ever really told about how I struggle with Amber''s... intensity sometimes. Her fierce personality, you know?"

    Hannah''s eyes soften with sympathy, making his stomach twist. "It can''t be easy," she says quietly. "Loving someone who burns that bright."If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    The truth in her words hits harder than he expects. Because Hannah Marshall sees things ¨C really sees them ¨C in a way that makes him desperately uncomfortable.

    The silence stretches between them, broken only by the whir of the espresso machine and distant caf¨¦ chatter. Nate takes a sip of his Americano, buying time as he considers his next move. Then, with practiced casualness, he reaches into his jacket pocket.

    "So..." He pulls out not one, but three fruit roll-ups, laying them on the table between them. Strawberry, berry blue, and tropical punch. "I came prepared this time."

    Hannah''s eyes light up, her fingers reaching for the tropical punch ¨C just like he knew they would. It was the detail that mattered, the kind of thing that made manipulation an art. "You remembered my favorite."

    "Hard to forget," he says, letting genuine warmth creep into his voice. "You were pretty passionate about the tropical punch superiority debate."

    She laughs, the sound pure and unguarded in a way that makes his chest ache. "Because anyone who thinks strawberry is the best flavor clearly hasn''t evolved past elementary school taste buds."

    "Hey now," he protests, snatching up the strawberry one with exaggerated offense. "Some of us appreciate the classics."

    "Some of us are wrong," she teases, and for a moment, everything feels simple. Real. Like they''re just two people sharing snacks in a coffee shop, no ulterior motives, no buried secrets threatening to surface.

    But they''re not. And the weight of why he''s really here settles back on his shoulders as Hannah tears open her fruit roll-up, the familiar gesture somehow both innocent and devastating. Because he knows what Jake did. What Amber did. Knows what they all did to keep it buried. And here he is, using childhood snacks and calculated vulnerability to find out how close she is to unraveling everything.

    "You know," he says carefully, manufacturing just the right amount of hesitation in his voice, "I''ve been thinking about what we talked about at Winter Ball. About being real with people."

    Hannah pauses mid-bite, something shifting in her expression. "Yeah?"

    "It''s just..." He lets his gaze drop to his coffee, a practiced gesture of vulnerability. "Sometimes with Amber, it''s like... like I have to be this perfect version of myself. The star athlete, the devoted boyfriend, the guy who never questions anything." He looks up, catching Hannah''s eyes. "But with you? I don''t know. It''s different somehow."

    He watches the words land, sees them sink into her like hooks. Because that''s the thing about Hannah Marshall ¨C she wants to believe in the good in people. Wants to think that the boy sharing fruit roll-ups and confessing his relationship struggles is the real Nate Brooks.

    And maybe, in another life, he could have been. But not in this one. Not with Hampton Beach''s shadows stretching between them like a chasm.

    "You can always be real with me," Hannah says softly, and the genuine care in her voice makes him want to throw up. "No perfect versions required."

    He manages a smile, reaching for the berry blue roll-up ¨C the last one, the neutral ground between their playful flavor debate. "Careful," he says, trying to make it sound like a joke. "I might actually take you up on that."

    She smiles back, and he tells himself the twisting in his gut is just caffeine, not guilt. Not the knowledge that every genuine moment between them is just another carefully placed stone in the wall he''s building to protect their secrets.

    Hannah wraps her hands around her cooling latte, studying him with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. "Can I ask you something?" When he nods, she continues, "Why do you feel like you have to be perfect for her? For Amber?"

    Nate stares into his coffee, buying time. The question hits too close to home, threatens to unravel the careful script he''s meant to follow. "It''s complicated," he says finally. "Amber can be... fierce sometimes. Like one minute everything''s perfect, and the next..." He trails off, surprised by how real the words feel.

    "And the next she''s burning so hot you can barely breathe?" Hannah finishes softly. "Like she''s operating at this incredible intensity, and you''re constantly trying to keep up? One day she''s planning elaborate surprises and showering you with affection, and the next she''s convinced you''re pulling away, that you don''t love her enough?"

    Nate''s head snaps up, shock rippling through him. The description is so precise it''s unsettling ¨C the endless cycle of Amber''s highs and lows, the exhausting dance of trying to match her rhythm. "How..." he clears his throat, genuine confusion bleeding through his carefully maintained facade. "How do you know all that?"

    Hannah rolls her eyes, but there''s affection in the gesture. "Helloooo? I''ve been babysitting Tommy for like, two years now? You try spending every other weekend in the Rosenberg house without picking up on the family dynamics."

    A laugh escapes him before he can stop it ¨C real, unscripted. "Right. Sometimes I forget you see behind the curtain more than most people." The realization makes him uneasy. Just how much has Hannah observed during those babysitting nights? How many cracks has she spotted in their perfect facade?

    But there''s something else nagging at him too ¨C the precise way she described Amber''s moods, like she understands something about his girlfriend that even he hasn''t fully grasped. Something that makes him wonder if Hannah Marshall might be more dangerous than any of them realized.

    His phone buzzes against the table. The screen lights up with his lock screen ¨C him and Amber in Aspen, snowflakes crystallizing in her hair as fireworks paint the sky behind their New Year''s kiss. The perfect moment, perfectly captured. Amber''s text glows beneath it: <i>How''s my detective doing? ??</i>

    <i>All good. She''s talking. </i>He types quickly, hating how natural the deception feels.

    "Everything okay?" Hannah asks, gesturing toward his phone.

    "Oh, just Justin," he lies smoothly. "Wants to go for a run later. We''re both gunning for athletic scholarships, so..." He shrugs, letting the sentence trail off.

    "Speaking of college," Hannah says, stirring the remnants of her latte, "have you decided where you''re applying?"

    "Stanford," he admits, the word carrying the weight of a thousand expectations. "That''s the goal, anyway."

    Hannah''s quiet for a moment, studying him with that unsettling perceptiveness. "Can I ask you something?" When he nods, she continues, "Is Stanford what you want? Or is it what everyone expects Nate Brooks to want?"

    The question hits him like a physical blow, cracking something open inside his chest. Because isn''t that exactly what''s been keeping him up at night? The endless cycle of expectations ¨C Amber''s dreams of them conquering California together, her father''s connections in the alumni network, his own dad''s carefully crafted training schedules and highlight reels. When was the last time anyone asked him what he wanted?

    "How do you do that?" he asks, his voice rougher than intended. "How do you just... cut straight through everyone''s bullshit? See the exact thing they''re trying to hide?"

    Hannah''s smile is gentle, almost sad. "Maybe because I''ve spent so much time on the outside looking in. You notice different things when you''re not part of the show."

    Silence settles between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Hannah pushes back her chair, gathering her bag. "Thanks for the coffee, Nate. And the fruit roll-ups."

    "Wait." The word escapes before he can stop it, surprising them both. Because this isn''t about the mission anymore, isn''t about finding out what she knows or protecting their secrets. For the first time in months, he''s having a real conversation, one that isn''t carefully scripted or politically calculated.

    Hannah pauses, one eyebrow raised in question.

    "I, uh..." He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly uncertain. "The cinema next door has this retro gaming hall thing. Street Fighter, old school Mario Kart, all that. Want to check it out?"

    The invitation hangs between them, and Nate realizes with startling clarity that he actually wants her to say yes. Not for Amber, not for the mission, but because talking to Hannah Marshall makes him feel like maybe he isn''t completely lost in the role he''s been playing.

    And that, he knows, is the most dangerous thing of all.

 Chapter XXIX

    Amber sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor, toes pressing into the plush cream carpet, focusing on the sensation of each fiber against her skin. Her black Lululemon leggings hug her legs like a second skin. The meditation app''s voice flows through her AirPods, a woman''s carefully cultivated serenity washing over her:

    "Notice the weight of your body against the floor. The rise and fall of your chest. There is only this moment. Not the past with its shadows. Not the future with its uncertainties. Just this breath. This heartbeat. This now."

    Amber tries to follow the instructions, but her mind keeps skittering away like water on hot oil. The voice continues, maddeningly calm: "When thoughts arise, observe them like clouds passing through a vast sky. Let them drift by without attachment."

    Easy for you to say, Amber thinks bitterly. You''re probably some trust fund hippie who''s never had to maintain a perfect 4.0 while managing college apps, a boyfriend''s athletic career, and a carefully curated social media presence. You''ve never had to smile through charity galas while your brain feels like it''s being shredded from the inside out.

    She ends the meditation with a sharp tap, yanking out her AirPods. The silence feels accusatory. After checking that her bedroom door is firmly locked, she reaches under her bed, fingers finding the zippered pencil case hidden in an old pointe shoe. Inside, three orange prescription bottles rattle against each other ¨C her daily cocktail of mood stabilizers and antipsychotics. Each label reads "ROSENBERG, AMBER" in stark black letters, followed by medication names she refuses to Google because knowing too much feels like admitting defeat. She''s memorized their shapes instead: oval white pills, round blue ones, small peach-colored tablets that dissolve too slowly on her tongue.

    So this is what it takes to be Amber Rosenberg at seventeen, she thinks, studying the pills in her palm. Secret medication. Bi-weekly therapy sessions carefully disguised as "college counseling." Meditation apps and breathing exercises just to keep her from fracturing apart in public. What a fucking joke.

    She swallows the pills dry, the bitter taste a reminder of everything she has to hide. After pulling on a pair of  socks, she heads downstairs, the house''s perfect silence broken only by Tommy''s laughter floating up from the family room. Hannah''s voice follows ¨C something about dinosaurs and their relative scariness ¨C and Amber''s chest constricts with sudden, violent anger.

    That little bitch, digging into things that don''t concern her. Acting like she belongs here with her thrift store sweaters and too-perceptive eyes. Amber''s fingers curl into fists as she hurries past the family room, not trusting herself to maintain composure if she catches sight of Hannah''s face.

    Her parents are... somewhere. Monaco? Dubai? The destinations blur together these days, an endless parade of "essential business trips" that leave the house feeling like a museum: beautiful, empty, cold.

    Live in the moment, she reminds herself, the meditation app''s serene voice echoing mockingly in her head as she descends to the basement. Focus on what''s real. What''s now.

    The home gym spreads before her, a testament to Richard Rosenberg''s particular brand of excess ¨C top-of-the-line equipment worth more than most cars, machines that would gather dust if it weren''t for Nate''s dedication. Her mother prefers the treadmill hidden away in the attic, her father claims he''s "too busy" for exercise, and Amber only uses the space for occasional yoga sessions when her thoughts become too loud to contain. But working out with Nate... that she enjoys more than she''ll admit.

    He''s there now, shirtless and lost in whatever''s playing through his headphones, muscles gleaming with sweat as he powers through another set on the bench press. His face is twisted with something that looks like fury ¨C veins standing out on his forehead, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. He hasn''t noticed her yet, so she watches, appreciating the raw power in every movement.

    The bar clangs back into place and Nate sits up, but his eyes remain fixed on some middle distance, his expression haunted in a way that makes her stomach clench. Music bleeds faintly from his headphones as he stares at the floor, chest heaving, looking less like her boyfriend and more like someone preparing for war.

    Amber approaches slowly, struck by a strange urge to preserve this unguarded moment. Because this is her Nate ¨C not the laughing charmer who rules the hallways at Riverside, not the dutiful boyfriend who poses for perfect Instagram shots, but this beautiful, broken boy who carries their secrets like Atlas holding up the sky.

    "Hey, superstar," she says softly, close enough now to catch the scent of his sweat mingling with expensive cologne. "Room for one more in this workout?"

    Nate doesn''t hear her approach, his movements still fueled by whatever''s pounding through his AirPods. Amber watches the muscles in his back tense and release, a beautiful machine powered by something that looks dangerously close to rage. She reaches out, gently pulling one AirPod from his ear.

    "JESUS¡ª" Nate jerks away, nearly falling off the bench. His eyes are wild for a moment before recognition sets in. "Amber. Fuck."

    "Guilty conscience?" She means it as a tease, but the words come out sharper than intended, cutting through the air between them.

    Nate''s smile is automatic, practiced, but it doesn''t reach his eyes. The expression reminds her of the masks they both wear at her parents'' charity galas ¨C perfect and hollow.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "You looked like you were preparing for battle," she says, trailing her fingers along his shoulder. "All fierce concentration and righteous fury. Very dramatic."

    His expression shifts, smile vanishing like it was never there. No response, no playful comeback. Not even a kiss. Just silence, heavy with things they never say out loud.

    "Hey." She studies his face, really looks at him. The shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. "You okay?"

    He nods, but the gesture is mechanical, empty.

    "No, you''re not." Amber slides onto the bench beside him, wrapping her arms around his sweat-slicked torso. She presses tiny kisses along his neck, tasting salt and body wash. "Baby..."

    "How long?" His voice is rough, almost unrecognizable. "How long can we keep doing this shit, Amber? We just... we take it all and shove it down deep, pretend it''s not eating us alive." He laughs, but the sound is hollow. "Every morning I wake up and it''s like going to war. My mind''s the battlefield, and I''m losing ground every fucking day."

    Amber''s kisses pause against his skin. She knows this mood, has seen it building in him lately ¨C in the way he attacks practice drills, how he zones out during parties, the growing intensity in his workout sessions.

    "That''s what we do though, isn''t it?" She keeps her voice gentle, soothing. "We take all of it ¨C the guilt, the anger, the fear ¨C and we transform it. Turn it into fuel." Her fingers trace the defined planes of his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath her palm. "Into perfect grades and touchdown passes and early admission letters. Into a future so bright no one will ever look too closely at how we got there."

    "But what if¡ª" His voice catches. "What if we can''t keep transforming it? What if one day it just... spills over? Everything we''ve buried, everything we''ve hidden?" His hands find hers, gripping almost painfully. "Sometimes I look at my phone and see Hannah''s messages, see her trying so hard to connect, to understand, and I just..." He trails off, shoulders slumping. "I feel like I''m drowning in all the lies."

    "Hey." Amber moves to straddle the bench, facing him. She takes his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Look at me. We''re not drowning. We''re surviving. Everything we''ve done ¨C everything we''re still doing ¨C it''s all to protect what matters. To protect us."

    "Is it?" His eyes search hers, desperate for something she''s not sure she can give. "Or are we just protecting ourselves? Our perfect little world where money makes problems disappear and we never have to face consequences?"

    "Stop." The word comes out sharper than she intends, her carefully maintained control slipping. "Just stop. You think I don''t understand? You think I don''t lie awake at night replaying everything?" Her voice cracks slightly. "But we made our choice that night at Hampton Beach. We chose each other, chose our future. Everything since then has just been... following through."

    Nate''s hands come up to cover hers where they rest against his face. "And what happens when following through destroys us anyway? When keeping all these secrets turns us into people we don''t recognize?"

    The question hangs between them, heavy with implications neither of them wants to face. Amber leans forward, pressing her forehead against his. "Then we''ll face that together too," she whispers. "Just like we''ve faced everything else. You and me against the world, remember?"

    "Us against the world," Nate murmurs, the words barely audible over the basement''s humming ventilation.

    Amber shifts behind him, her fingers working into the knots of tension across his shoulders. His skin is cooling now, sweat drying in the climate-controlled air. She can feel every point of resistance, every place where guilt and fear have taken up residence in his muscles.

    "I''m sorry," he says suddenly, voice thick. "For being like this. I just¡ªI''m terrified of losing you, Amber."

    "I''m not going anywhere." She looks over his shoulder at their reflection in the wall of mirrors, at the picture they make together ¨C the golden couple, the perfect match. Her fingers continue their steady rhythm against his skin.

    As she feels him gradually relax under her touch, a decision crystallizes in her mind. This is too much for him ¨C all the lies, the games, the constant performance. The weight of protecting her is crushing him, and he doesn''t deserve that burden. It''s time, she thinks, watching their reflection. Time to let her father handle things, the way he always does.

    She almost tells him ¨C almost lets slip how Richard Rosenberg could make everything disappear, just like last time. But she holds the words back, swallowing them like her morning pills. Because when her father steps in, he doesn''t leave loose ends. He ensures his daughter''s safety through whatever means necessary, legal or otherwise. And some things are better left unspoken, even between them.

    "Thanks, babe," Nate murmurs, his head falling back against her.

    Amber slides around to settle in his lap, studying his face. "For what?"

    A genuine smile finally breaks through, small but real. "For being there. For understanding."

    She leans in to kiss him, and his response is immediate ¨C fierce and full of emotion, like he''s trying to pour everything he can''t say into the contact. His hands tangle in her hair, and for a moment, Amber lets herself believe that love really might be enough to save them both.

    Amber playfully tugs at Nate''s bottom lip. "Feeling better now, superstar?"

    "Much better," he grins, that familiar sparkle returning to his eyes. "Amazing what the right company can do."

    Amber glances down, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. "Well, I might know a few other ways to improve your mood."

    Nate''s smirk returns as he stands, scooping her up in one fluid motion that showcases years of athletic training. His raw strength never fails to impress her ¨C the way he can lift her like she weighs nothing at all.

    "You have no idea what you do to me," he says, voice low and rich with promise.

    "Oh yeah?" Amber raises an eyebrow. "What''s stopping you?"

    "A promise, actually." His eyes dance with amusement. "See, this amazing girlfriend of mine ¨C maybe you know her? About 5''7", blonde hair, blue eyes, absolute queen of Riverside ¨C she promised she''d work out with me this morning."

    Amber laughs, throwing her head back. "Did she now?"

    "Mmhmm." He carries her toward the squat rack, his movements controlled and precise. "And I never skip leg day, princess. Even for you."

    He sets her down with exaggerated care. "Alright, Your Highness. Warm up first ¨C proper form is everything."

    Amber approaches the empty barbell, positioning herself with practiced grace. The cool metal feels familiar against her shoulders as she begins her warm-up squats.

    "Let''s see what you''ve got, princess," Nate calls from behind her, switching seamlessly into trainer mode. "Show me that perfect form I know you''re capable of."

    As Amber moves through her warm-up set, she can''t help but smile. Because this ¨C the playful banter, the easy chemistry, the way they push each other to be better ¨C this is what she''s fighting so hard to protect. And she''ll do whatever it takes to keep it.

    Even if that means making a few more problems disappear.

 Chapter XXX.

    <hr>

    Hannah''s footsteps trace endless patterns across David''s bedroom carpet, her shadow dancing beneath the blue glow of multiple computer monitors. Each pass feels like another chance to change her mind, to walk away from this precipice they''re approaching. The rational part of her brain screams that this is wrong - not just against school rules, but illegal. The kind of wrong that could get them all expelled, maybe worse.

    "Are you absolutely certain about this?" David asks, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. The light from his elaborate computer setup catches in his wire-rimmed glasses, making him look younger than his seventeen years. Hannah feels a surge of protectiveness - he might be her nephew, but watching him potentially throw away his future makes her stomach turn.

    "We could just forget this whole thing," Hannah says, more to herself than anyone else. "Go back to pretending everything''s fine. That''s what everyone else does, right?"

    "Oh, sweetie." Alex''s voice drips with honeyed command from her sprawled position on David''s bed. Her combat boots rest on his pillows, dark lipstick curved in that particular smile that seems to short-circuit David''s higher brain functions. "Your cousin''s been bragging about his hacking skills for weeks."

    Hannah watches David practically melt under Alex''s attention. It''s fascinating and slightly terrifying how this goth queen has her nephew wrapped around her black-painted finger. But then again, it''s 2025 - maybe this is what modern relationships look like now.

    "David," Hannah starts, but Alex cuts her off.

    "David, darling," she purrs, stretching like a particularly dangerous cat. "Show us what that gorgeous brain of yours can do. I promise you''ll be properly rewarded."

    Hannah tries not to think too hard about what that "reward" might entail as David''s demeanor shifts instantly. His shoulders square as he faces his array of monitors, fingers flying across the keyboard with newfound determination.

    The next twenty minutes are a masterclass in digital warfare that Hannah can barely follow. Terms like "firewall" and "encryption" and "SSH tunneling" float past her comprehension as David mutters to himself, his screens filling with incomprehensible strings of characters that might as well be ancient Sanskrit.

    "This is... actually impressive," David says, genuine surprise coloring his voice. "They''ve got military-grade encryption on some of these files. Whoever set this up knew what they were doing."

    "But you can break it, right baby?" Alex slides from the bed like liquid shadow, her hands finding David''s shoulders. "Show us how clever you are."

    Hannah watches her nephew''s cheeks flush as Alex''s dark nails trace patterns on his neck. It''s like watching a puppet master at work - every touch precisely calculated for maximum effect.

    "I- I mean, yes, but..." David stutters as Alex''s lips brush his ear. "It''s going to take some time to-"

    "Then focus," Alex commands softly. "Break their pretty little system wide open, and maybe..." Her voice drops to a whisper that makes David''s hands shake slightly on the keyboard.

    More incomprehensible code flows across the screens as David works, his concentration now laser-focused. Hannah can''t tell if she''s more impressed by his technical skills or Alex''s ability to motivate him with nothing but carefully chosen words and strategic touches.

    "I''m in," David announces finally, pride and apprehension warring in his voice. "Full access to the administrative database."

    "Good boy," Alex practically purrs, and Hannah watches her nephew''s ears turn scarlet. "Now, darling, be a sweetheart and fetch us some tea? Your cousin and I need to focus on the data."

    "But I should probably supervise-"

    "David." Alex''s voice carries absolute authority despite its sweetness. "Tea. Now. You''ve done the hard part beautifully. Let us handle the rest."

    They watch him practically trip over himself to comply, his footsteps fading down the hall.

    "You''ve got him trained well," Hannah observes, not quite sure how to feel about this dynamic.

    Alex''s laugh is dark chocolate and danger. "Oh honey, you have no idea. But he loves every minute of it." She slides into the vacated chair, dark nails hovering over the keyboard. "Now, let''s see what secrets Riverside''s been hiding, shall we?"

    "Ready?" Alex asks, something predatory gleaming in her eyes.

    Hannah takes a deep breath, remembering every carefully maintained lie that led them here. "Ready," she says.

    Hannah''s hands shake slightly as she clicks through Emily''s file. The school photo expands across the screen - a girl with knowing eyes and a half-smile. Standard information populates beneath: birth date, enrollment history, vaccination records. But something feels off.

    "Her grades were terrible," Hannah mutters, scanning the academic records. "How did she even stay enrolled?"

    More details emerge as they scroll: Parents deceased. Foster care placement. Relocation to Seattle. But when Hannah clicks the contact information tab, she finds nothing but blank fields. No forwarding address, no phone numbers, no emergency contacts.

    "Try Megan," Alex suggests, her dark nails drumming against the desk.

    Megan Carter''s file looks more complete at first glance. Good grades, active in student government, college counseling notes marking her as "promising." Transfer papers show her move to Brookswood High, but the reason field simply reads "Personal - Administrative Approval."

    Victoria Reynolds''s records tell a similar story - middling grades, standard family information, another mysterious transfer to Brookswood High with the same cryptic administrative note.

    "This is useless," Hannah sighs, frustration building in her chest. "We already knew they transferred. There''s nothing here about-"

    "Wait." Alex leans closer to the screen, her dark lips curved in concentration. "Look at Emily''s page again. Notice anything... odd?"

    Hannah switches back to Emily''s file, but sees only the same sparse information. "What am I looking for?"

    "The background," Alex says, tapping the screen with one black nail. "It''s slightly different than the others. Almost like..."The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    The sound of ceramic against wood makes them both jump. David stands in the doorway, a tray of steaming mugs in his hands.

    "Baby," Alex''s voice carries that particular tone that makes David''s cheeks flush. "Come look at this. Tell me what you see."

    David sets down the tea and peers at the screen, pushing his glasses up with careful precision. "The background color... it''s about two shades lighter than the standard template." His eyes narrow as he leans closer. "That''s not right. The system shouldn''t have any variation unless..."

    "Unless what?" Hannah asks, her heart speeding up.

    "Break it," Alex commands softly, her fingers trailing across David''s shoulders. "Show us what they''re hiding behind that pretty fa?ade."

    David nods once, and Hannah watches her nephew''s hands return to the keyboard. Whatever they''re about to uncover, she has a feeling there''s no turning back.

    His hands move with practiced precision, each keystroke deliberate and sure. She recognizes this focused intensity ¨C it''s the same look his sister used to get when she was solving a particularly challenging puzzle. A small window pops up in the corner of the screen, and David''s lips curl into a satisfied smile. "Got it," he whispers, and Hannah leans closer as new text begins replacing the sanitized records they''d found earlier.

    The screen flickers as new information populates the fields. Same photo, same basic details, but then - Hannah''s breath catches in her throat. Where "Relocated to Seattle" once stood, a single word glows with terrible finality:

    "Deceased."

    "What?" Hannah''s voice comes out barely above a whisper. "That''s impossible. They told everyone she moved..."

    "This is way above my pay grade," David mutters, running nervous hands through his hair. "We''re looking at sealed records. If anyone traces this back to my IP..."

    "Move," Alex commands, physically guiding him from the chair. Her dark eyes flash with intensity as she pulls Hannah closer. "Let''s see what other lies they''ve buried."

    Hannah''s fingers feel numb as she scrolls, each new detail hitting her like physical blows. An autopsy report materializes on screen, clinical language describing what happened to a girl who was supposed to be alive in Seattle.

    <i><b>Cause of Death: Cervical fracture consistent with fall from height</b></i>

    <i><b>Toxicology: Positive for methamphetamine (0.24 mg/L), MDMA (0.15 mg/L)</b></i>

    <i><b>Blood Alcohol: 0.16%</b></i>

    <i><b>Location of Discovery: Rear service area, Casino Club, Hampton</b></i>

    <i><b>Time of Death: Approximately 2:30 AM, August 4th, 2024</b></i>

    "She fell?" Alex''s voice carries equal parts skepticism and horror.

    Something clicks in Hannah''s mind as she pulls out her phone, fingers flying to Instagram. Amber Rosenberg''s profile loads - @AmberRosenberg, 12.4k followers, bio reading "@NateBrooks67 since 05.29.20 ????". Her feed is a masterclass in social media curation: professional-quality photos of charity galas alternating with perfectly "candid" shots at coffee shops, each one color-coordinated to maintain her signature aesthetic.

    Hannah taps through the highlight reels, each one meticulously organized: "Senior Szn ??", "Summer Memories ??", "Fashion Inspo ??", "Weekend Vibes ?".

    The photos flash past in a blur of designer outfits and practiced poses. Amber at charity galas, Amber cheering at football games, Amber and Nate looking like something from a magazine spread. Then - August 3rd, 2024. A group shot at Hampton Beach, golden hour sun turning the waves behind them to liquid fire. Amber gleams in a white bikini, posed between Nate and Jake on the beach, while Susan lounges on a beach chair. The caption reads "Summer days with my favs ??". And there, in the corner of the frame, barely noticeable: Emily Thorne, alive and smiling, caught in a moment she didn''t know would be her last.

    "Look," Hannah thrusts the phone at Alex. "They were all there that night. Every single one of them."

    "That doesn''t prove anything," Alex says carefully, but her eyes narrow as she studies the photo. "People fall, Hannah. Especially when drugs are involved."

    "Is there a police report?" Hannah turns back to David, who''s been hovering anxiously near his bed. "There has to be an investigation file, right?"

    David lets out a long breath, pushing his glasses up with shaking hands. "You really want to keep digging? This is serious stuff, Hannah. Like, federal crime serious."

    "David." She meets his eyes, trying to convey everything she can''t say out loud. "Please."

    He glances at Alex, who gives an almost imperceptible nod. With visible reluctance, he reclaims his seat at the computer, fingers returning to the keyboard like a pianist approaching a particularly difficult piece.

    David''s fingers move across the keyboard with frightening efficiency. Hannah holds her breath as multiple windows cascade across the screen, each one bringing them closer to truth - or at least, someone''s version of it.

    "Got it," David whispers, his voice tight with tension.

    The police report materializes in stark black and white:

    <b><i>HAMPTON POLICE DEPARTMENT</i></b>

    <b><i>CASE FILE #2024-0804-17</i></b>

    <b><i>INCIDENT TYPE: Accidental Death</i></b>

    <b><i>STATUS: CLOSED</i></b>

    <b><i>VICTIM: THORNE, Emily Rose</i></b>

    <b><i>DOB: 03/15/2006</i></b>

    <b><i>RESIDENCE: Riverside, MA</i></b>

    <b><i>INITIAL REPORT:</i></b>

    <b><i>On August 4, 2024, at approximately 0230 hours, dispatch received anonymous call regarding unconscious female behind Hampton Beach Casino Club. Victim identified as Emily Rose THORNE (18). Pronounced dead at scene by EMT. Multiple witnesses interviewed from gathering at 421 Ocean Drive (WOODLAND residence).</i></b>

    <b><i>WITNESS LIST:</i></b>

    <b><i>- WOODLAND, Jacob (17) - Property resident</i></b>

    <b><i>- BROOKS, Nathaniel (17) </i></b>

    <b><i>- ROSENBERG, Amber (16)</i></b>

    <b><i>- CARTER, Megan (18)</i></b>

    <b><i>- REYNOLDS, Victoria (18)</i></b>

    <b><i>- LAWRENCE, Susan (16)</i></b>

    Hannah frowns at the screen. "Wait, something''s not right. I know Justin, Jeff, Morris, Charlotte, and Lisa were there too - I''ve seen other photos from that night. Why aren''t they on the official witness list?"

    "Now that''s interesting," Alex leans forward, dark lips curved in concentration. "Why would a police report leave out half the witnesses?"

    <b><i>PRIMARY WITNESSES:</i></b>

    <b><i>CARTER, M. and REYNOLDS, V. identified as closest associates of deceased. Both provided corroborating statements: Group gathered at WOODLAND residence for social event. Victim observed leaving premises alone approx. 0100 hours. No signs of distress noted.</i></b>

    <b><i>FINDINGS:</i></b>

    <b><i>- Toxicology positive for recreational substances</i></b>

    <b><i>- Cause of death consistent with fall from height</i></b>

    <b><i>- No signs of struggle or foul play</i></b>

    <b><i>- All witness statements align with physical evidence</i></b>

    <b><i>CONCLUSION:</i></b>

    <b><i>Based on evidence collected and witness testimony, death appears accidental. No suspicious circumstances warranting further investigation. Teenage gathering involving illicit substances led to tragic accident.</i></b>

    <b><i>CASE STATUS: CLOSED</i></b>

    <b><i>Detective Sarah Brown</i></b>

    <b><i>Badge #2241</i></b>

    Hannah stares at the screen, her mind refusing to process what she''s reading. "This can''t be right," she whispers. "Everyone said she moved to Seattle. If it was just an accident, why create the lie?"

    "Exactly." Alex''s voice carries a dangerous edge. "Rich kids having a party, one ends up dead - that''s already a PR nightmare. But they didn''t just keep it quiet. They erased her. Created a whole false narrative about Seattle."

    "Look at the witness list again," Hannah says, leaning closer. "Megan and Victoria - they were supposedly her closest friends. And now they''re both at Brookswood, completely unreachable."

    "The same Megan who nearly had a panic attack when you found her?" Alex''s dark nails tap against the desk thoughtfully. "The one who said you had no idea what ''they'' would do if she talked?"

    A chill runs down Hannah''s spine as pieces start clicking together. "If she really just fell, there''d be no reason to threaten anyone. No reason to force Lisa to stop helping me investigate. No reason for all this..." She gestures at the screen. "This elaborate cover-up."

    "The question isn''t whether she fell," Alex says softly, her eyes fixed on the police report. "The question is whether she fell... or was pushed."

    "It was Jake." Hannah''s voice cuts through the humming of computer fans, carrying a certainty that surprises even her. "The missing names, the covered-up death, Megan''s terror, Lisa''s silence..." Her hands curl into fists as memories flash through her mind - Jake''s weight pinning her down in that pool house, his carefully maintained smile in school hallways, the way power seems to bend around him like light through expensive crystal.

    "The same thing that happened to me at Halloween," she continues, her voice barely above a whisper. "He tried it with Emily too. Only this time..." The words stick in her throat like broken glass.

    Alex reaches for her hand, but Hannah''s already moving toward the door, her steps carrying newfound purpose. Because now she knows - really knows - what kind of monsters wear letterman jackets and drive luxury cars. The kind that don''t just destroy lives, but erase them completely.

    And Hannah Marshall is done being afraid of monsters.

 Chapter XXXI.

    Lisa inhales the scent of acetone and luxury skincare products, letting the familiar combination wash over her. Charlotte''s perfectly manicured hands move with practiced grace across Amber''s nails, each stroke of polish precise and deliberate. The green tea face mask tightens against Lisa''s skin as she watches, reminding her of its presence with every slight movement.

    Susan''s room feels almost normal - well, as normal as anything can be in a house with its own elevator. While the rest of the Lawrence mansion drips old money from every crystal chandelier and hand-carved banister, Susan''s space could almost pass for an average teenager''s room. If you ignore the adjacent private bathroom bigger than Lisa''s entire bedroom. And the walk-in closet that could house a small family. And the separate study area with its custom-built desk and ergonomic chair that probably costs more than her mom''s car.

    "Stop fidgeting," Charlotte scolds Amber gently. "Unless you want me to mess this up."

    Lisa catches her reflection in Susan''s vanity mirror - the same face she''s always had, but somehow different now. Three months ago, on Halloween night, Amber Rosenberg had systematically dismantled her entire world with the kind of casual cruelty that only comes from years of practice. One conversation, and suddenly Lisa found herself exiled from the warmth of their inner circle, cast out into the social wilderness of Riverside High.

    But now here she is, back in the fold, exactly where she belongs. The thought of Matthias makes her smile - his dorky enthusiasm when explaining frame rates, the way his eyes light up talking about his latest video. Maybe she''ll never have old money, but new money? With Matthias''s growing YouTube career and her Yale early decision...

    Lisa''s thoughts drift to Matthias again. They''ve been seeing each other for weeks now, but he still hasn''t officially asked her to be his girlfriend. Do guys even do that anymore? She glances at Susan, who seems to have everything figured out when it comes to relationships.

    "Sue?" Lisa breaks the comfortable silence, her voice slightly muffled by the mask. "You and Justin are still together, right?"

    Susan stretches languidly on her oversized floor cushion, her blonde hair catching the afternoon light. "Yeah, we''re still seeing each other. Just keeping it casual."

    "But like..." Lisa hesitates, suddenly feeling young and inexperienced. "Is he officially your boyfriend? Did he actually ask?"

    A knowing smile spreads across Susan''s face. "Oh honey, there are stages to these things. First, you''ve got the talking phase - testing the waters, seeing if there''s chemistry. Then comes casual dating, which is basically talking but with makeout sessions."

    Amber and Charlotte dissolve into giggles, causing Charlotte to pull back from her meticulous nail work with a mock glare.

    "What?" Susan demands, though her eyes sparkle with amusement.

    "Remember how Nate asked me?" Amber''s voice carries that particular warmth it always does when discussing her boyfriend. "Freshman year, at my locker. With that single red rose and this absolutely terrified look on his face."

    "That''s actually kind of sweet," Lisa offers, surprised by the old-fashioned gesture from someone like Nate Brooks.

    "God, if it had been anyone else, I would have laughed in their face," Amber admits, carefully examining her fresh manicure. "But something about the way he stood there, all nervous and perfect... I mean, how could I say no to those eyes?"

    They all laugh, and Lisa joins in, letting the sound wash away memories of darker days. This is where she belongs - in this rarified air of  face masks and casual discussions of boyfriend protocols. The guilt about Hannah sits heavy in her stomach, but she pushes it down, buried beneath layers of green tea clay and careful calculation.

    Because this is her world now. Again. Finally. And she''ll do whatever it takes to keep it.

    Charlotte toys with the emerald ring on her middle finger, a shy smile playing at her lips. "I have something to tell you guys... Morris and I made it official last night."

    "Oh my god!" Susan bolts upright, nearly knocking over her wine glass. "Finally!"

    "Seriously," Amber''s laugh carries that particular blend of warmth and authority that only she can manage. "You two have been circling each other since like, June. What was the holdup?"

    Charlotte''s cheeks flush pink. "God, it was torture waiting. We''d been hooking up in secret for months, but he kept saying he wasn''t ready for a relationship. Then last night, he showed up at my place after practice, still in his uniform..." She bites her lip. "Let''s just say he finally admitted he wanted more than just our little...encounters in the locker room."

    "Morris Vanderbaan, secret romantic?" Amber raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "He''s actually kind of adorable when he''s not trying to act all tough."

    "That''s exactly why I fell for him," Charlotte beams. "Everyone else sees the kicker, but I get to see the guy who..." She pauses, grinning wickedly. "Well, let''s just say he has many hidden talents."

    Susan leaps onto her bed, wine sloshing dangerously in her glass as she bounces. "Wait, wait, wait - we need to properly appreciate this moment. Look at us! Justin and I are dating, Amber and Nate being disgustingly perfect as usual, Charlotte''s been getting it good with Morris behind the bleachers, and Lisa and Matthias..." She affects a dramatic pose. "Ladies, when did we become so... committed? Remember when we used to make out with random guys at parties? When Amber gave that lacrosse player a lap dance at Sarah''s birthday? When Charlotte used to flirt with both Jeff Thompson and Jake Woodland at the same time?"

    "Wild days?" Amber snorts, examining her fresh manicure. "Babe, Nate and I are practically married. We''ll hit four years this spring."

    "Oh please," Susan''s eyes glitter mischievously. "Like you didn''t have your moments... Remember that weekend in Miami?"

    Lisa''s attention sharpens. Had Amber ever strayed from perfect, devoted Nate Brooks? The thought seems almost impossible, like questioning whether the sun rises in the east.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    "All I''m saying," Susan continues, twirling dramatically on her duvet, "is that maybe we need one last wild night. You know, before we all become totally domesticated. Let''s hit downtown, make some bad decisions, maybe give some cute guys our fake numbers..." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "What happens in the city stays in the city!"

    Lisa can''t help but laugh at Susan''s theatrics, the wine making everything feel lighter, funnier.

    "More wine!" Susan declares, bouncing higher. "We clearly need reinforcements for this conversation!"

    "I''ll grab it," Charlotte offers, rising gracefully. "Need to use the bathroom anyway."

    Lisa watches her disappear through Susan''s doorway, struck by how naturally Charlotte moves through these spaces that once felt so foreign to Lisa herself. There''s always been an unspoken hierarchy in their group¡ªAmber at the top, their undisputed queen, with Susan as her dedicated lieutenant. Lisa and Charlotte orbit at the edges, sharing third-tier status but never quite reaching the inner sanctum.

    But maybe that''s changing now. After all, she''s here, isn''t she? Back in Susan Lawrence''s bedroom, sharing wine and secrets like the past three months never happened. Like she never betrayed them. Like she never¡ª

    Lisa stops that thought before it can fully form. Some doors are better left closed.

    Susan''s suggestion hangs in the perfumed air as she twirls her wine glass with dramatic flair. "Come on, Amber! When''s the last time we just let loose? No boyfriends, no responsibilities, just us being young and fabulous?"

    "Not tonight," Amber says, her voice carrying that particular tone that brooks no argument. She examines her fresh manicure in the vanity light. "Maybe another time."

    "Oh please," Susan rolls her eyes, sprawling across her egyptian cotton sheets. "Since when did you become such a prude? The Amber I know would never pass up a chance to make some finance bros cry." She affects a mock pout. "Remember that guy at Le Bain? The one who thought his Patek Philippe would actually impress you?"

    "Susan." Amber''s voice drops lower, something dangerous flickering behind her eyes. "Nate''s been... on edge lately. You know why."

    Lisa watches Susan''s playful demeanor evaporate instantly. Her spine straightens, wine glass freezing halfway to her lips. "Oh. Right. Sorry, I wasn''t thinking."

    The tension in the room thickens like smoke, but Amber dispels it with practiced ease. "Let''s do something here instead." Her lips curve into a conspiratorial smile. "Old school truth or dare? Or maybe that thing with the mirrors and candles - what was it called?"

    "Bloody Mary?" Lisa offers, trying to keep her voice light.

    "Oh my god, wait!" Susan bolts upright, nearly spilling her wine. "I have something so much better!" She leaps from the bed with surprising grace given the amount of ros¨¦ they''ve consumed. "Don''t move! This is going to be epic!" Her footsteps fade down the hallway, leaving Lisa alone with Amber.

    The silence stretches between them as Amber rises, moving to the bathroom with fluid grace. She removes her face mask with careful, precise movements, revealing skin that looks like it''s never known a blemish. When she turns to Lisa, the effect is striking - she looks less like a high school senior and more like young royalty, some princess from a modernized fairy tale.

    "I haven''t properly thanked you yet," Amber says, her voice soft but intense. "For telling us about Hannah. About what you overheard."

    Lisa''s heart performs an uncomfortable flutter. "That''s what friends do, right?"

    Amber''s eyes find hers in the mirror, blue and bottomless as winter ocean. "Speaking of Hannah..." She glances toward the doorway, confirming they''re alone. "Why is she so obsessed with Hampton Beach? What exactly does she think happened?"

    Lisa hesitates, her wine glass suddenly feeling too heavy in her hand. But she''s chosen her side, hasn''t she? Sealed her fate with that text message in the coffee shop. "She thinks..." The words stick in her throat. "She thinks Jake raped Emily. Or Megan. Or Victoria. Maybe all of them."

    "That''s ridiculous." Amber''s laugh holds no humor.

    "Is it?" The words escape before Lisa can stop them. "He tried to force himself on me that night."

    Amber''s expression shifts, something cold and calculating replacing her usual warmth. "Jake was drunk. We all were. And Susan got him off you, didn''t she?"

    Lisa''s fingers tighten around her glass. She wants to scream - about how that''s not the point, about how being drunk doesn''t excuse attempted rape, about how Susan finding them doesn''t erase what Jake tried to do. But she swallows it all down, tasting bile and expensive wine. Because she''s finally back where she belongs - in this world of designer clothes and ivy league futures. She can''t risk losing it again.

    "I still don''t understand her fixation," Amber muses, applying some kind of French serum. "Why can''t she just let it go?"

    Lisa takes a long sip of wine, letting the alcohol steady her nerves. "There''s something else," she says finally. "Something that happened at Halloween."

    Amber''s hands pause, crystal bottle hovering above her perfect skin. "What about Halloween?"

    "Jake..." Lisa''s voice drops to barely above a whisper. "He tried the same thing with Hannah. In the pool house during the party. That''s why she came to me afterward, why she started asking questions about Hampton Beach."

    The silence that follows feels endless. Lisa watches Amber''s reflection, searching for any crack in her carefully maintained composure. But Amber''s face remains perfectly neutral, as if Lisa had just commented on the weather instead of revealing attempted sexual assault.

    "Hannah''s always been dramatic," Amber says finally, her voice carrying that particular tone that means the conversation is over. "Looking for conspiracies where there aren''t any. It''s actually kind of sad."

    Before Lisa can respond, Susan''s voice echoes down the hallway. "Close your eyes, bitches! The real entertainment is about to begin!"

    Susan bounces impatiently on her heels as Charlotte''s footsteps echo down the hallway. When Charlotte finally returns with the wine bottle, Susan dramatically reveals what she''s been hiding behind her back - a worn box with provocative artwork splashed across its cover.

    "Ladies, feast your eyes on ''The Game of Sluts'' - straight from the personal collection of my beloved Aunt Cassidy!"

    "You mean your perpetually stoned, trust-fund burning aunt?" Amber drawls, but her eyes sparkle with amusement. "The one who thinks crystals can cure capitalism?"

    "The very same!" Susan cackles, throwing herself onto a pile of designer pillows. "The legendary black sheep who turned the Lawrence millions into Colombian nose candy and chakra retreats."

    "Didn''t she try to marry her yoga instructor last year?" Charlotte asks, refilling their glasses. "The one with ''spiritual tattoos''?"

    "Oh god," Susan wheezes between laughs. "Don''t remind me. Dad nearly had an aneurysm when she announced their ''cosmic union'' at Christmas dinner. Thank god he ran off before they actually filed the paperwork."

    They dissolve into giggles, the kind that only comes from too much wine and shared history. Susan starts unpacking the game with theatrical flourish, reading the provocative cards with exaggerated scandal.

    But Lisa''s attention is drawn to Amber, who''s shifted slightly away from the group. Her perfectly manicured fingers move across her phone screen with practiced precision, each tap feeling somehow significant. Lisa''s stomach churns with sudden anxiety. Had she revealed too much about Hannah? Was Amber already orchestrating some new social execution, moving pieces across the invisible chessboard of Riverside High with terrifying efficiency?

    The wine turns sour in Lisa''s mouth as she watches Amber''s lips curve into that particular smile - the one that usually precedes someone''s complete destruction. Because that''s the thing about Amber Rosenberg: she doesn''t just win the game, she reshapes the entire board until victory is the only possible outcome.

    As Susan deals out cards and Charlotte pours more wine, Lisa can''t shake the feeling that she''s just set something terrible in motion. But isn''t that exactly what she wanted? To prove her loyalty, to secure her place in their glittering world?

    And Lisa realizes, with crystal clarity, that she''s not just a player in this game anymore - she''s become a weapon, aimed straight at Hannah Marshall.