I nod and move towards the bathroom.
The car rideis silent except for the hum of the engine and the occasional ping of Wes's phone. He types rapidly, screen glowing blue against his face, illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw, the focused crease between his brows.
I stare out the window. LA blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow. Billboards advertising lives I'll never live. Streets I'll never walk down.
"You're quiet," he says without looking up.
"Just tired."
"Don't be tired tonight." His tone is light but edged. "I need you present."
Present. Like I'm an accessory he's worried might malfunction.
I smooth my dress—silk, black, something he picked out last week. It clings in all the wrong places. Makes me feel exposed in ways I don’t like.
The restaurant comes into view. Valet parking. Red carpet treatment. A building that looks more like a museum than a place people eat.
My stomach knots.
The restaurant is worse than I imagined.
Green velvet chairs. Gold-rimmed everything. Chandeliers dripping crystals that fracture the light over a floor so polished I can see myself reflected in it—thin and fragile, as though I might shatter if I move the wrong way.
The air smells faintly of citrus and expensive perfume. The entire place has been booked for us alone. The hush presses down like a weight. Like an audience I never asked for.
My stomach twists.
Wes leads the way, chest out, head high, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He walks as if the air bends around him. Every step a silent claim.
He pulls out my chair with precision so rehearsed it feels calculated.
I sit. Hands twisting in my lap. Forcing my back straight.
How did this become my life? How did I become someone who nods at the flick of his wrist? Who shrinks while he shines?
"What's the occasion?" My voice sounds brittle, but I try forcasual. Conversational. Though each word drags like lead across my ribs.
"To celebrate everything we've done together," he says smoothly, scanning the room as though it were a reflection of himself. "And everything we're going to do."
Together.
The word coils in my stomach, tight and uneasy.
Together, as if we are equals. As if I can forget that he's the man who made my book visible to the world—but only in a frame he controlled.
Eden flashes across my mind—the last time I remember what freedom actually felt like. Hot sand under bare feet. Wind tangling my hair wild and unruly, nothing like the meticulous, suffocating styles I now wear for unseen cameras and people I'll never meet.
Back then, freedom wasn't something I thought about. It just was. Now it's something I chase and never quite catch.
Laughter that didn't have to be tempered or filtered.
Sunlight that never asked for approval before it touched me.
And Nate.
The last time I saw him was five years ago at Ollie and Mia's wedding. That disastrous conversation where he told me he'd outgrown what we had. That it was never meant to last. That we were just kids with a summer romance.
I'd brought Liam—a coworker from the London publishing house, someone safe and uncomplicated. Someone who didn't make me feel like I was drowning and flying at the same time.
