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By the second chorus, Rachel was full Melissa McCarthy, drumming the dashboard, throwing herself into each lyric like her life depended on it. I matched her beat for beat from the back seat, my voice shredded and theatrical, head tipping back against the seat as I howled about heartbreak to the roof of Dante’s car.

At one point, Rachel held her fist out towards me during the key change, and I slapped my palm against it in solemn solidarity.

“Both of you are unbearable,” Dante muttered.

“IN THIS AND EVERY LIFE, I’D CHOOSE US EVERY TIME!” Rachel and I screamed in unison.

When the song ended, Rachel and I were both breathing heavily, like we had just completed a stadium tour.

Dante looked ready to drive us into oncoming traffic.

“That,” I said hoarsely, sinking back across the seat, “was healing.”

Rachel laughed under her breath and turned the volume down a notch. “He started it.”

“He always starts it,” Dante replied.

I smiled to myself, but it didn’t last.

Because as the car kept moving and the music softened and Rachel settled back into her seat, the buzz from the alcohol dipped just enough to let reality back in.

By the time we got back to the clubhouse, the bar was in full swing.

Music pounded through the walls before we even got through the door. Laughter spilled out from the back room. Someone let out a shriek that sounded more delighted than injured, which in this place meant very little. The whole building pulsed with life, with noise, with warmth, with the kind of chaos most people might find exhausting and I normally found comforting.

Tonight, it felt like somewhere I could disappear.

Dante killed the engine and turned in his seat to look at me. “You staying here?”

“No,” I said automatically.

Rachel turned around, too. “Where are you going?”

I pushed the car door open and forced myself upright, the ground swaying only slightly beneath me. “To war.”

“You’re going to bed,” Dante corrected.

“To Gabriella,” I said instead, because what was the point in pretending?

The words hung there for a beat.

Rachel’s face softened instantly. Dante just looked tired.

“Vienna,” Rachel said carefully. “Maybe not tonight.”

I laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “That’s sort of the fucking problem, Rach.”

Because every night was not tonight.

Every night I was meant to wait, to watch, to hold myself back, to accept the little she could give and call it enough. And for years—years—I had.

But now that I knew what her life looked like when the curtains were closed? Now that I had seen the bruises and the fear and the way she reached back despite herself?

It wasn’t enough.

It was never going to be enough again.

I dragged a hand down my face. “I can’t keep doing the window.”