POV Harper
Clubs are where brain cells go to die, and tonight I'm attending the funeral.
The bass reverberates through Velvet's walls with enough force to rearrange my internal organs, while bodies press together on the dance floor in various states of inebriation and questionable decision-making. A woman in a sequined dress stumbles past our table, sloshing vodka cranberry across the floor and laughing like she's discovered the meaning of life at the bottom of her fourth cocktail.
I hate everything about this place.
The strobe lights that threaten seizures. The music that makes conversation impossible without screaming. The particular desperation that permeates these spaces, where people pretend they're having the time of their lives while checking their phones every thirty seconds to see if anyone more interesting has texted.
But Sophia Whitmore sits across from me with champagne in hand and genuine excitement radiating from every pore, and I cannot bring myself to disappoint her.
"I still cannot believe my brother finally grew a pair and proposed," Sophia shouts over the music, her blonde curls bouncing as she gestures enthusiastically. "I mean, two years of him hemming and hawing about timing and market conditions, and then boom—public proposal at a charity gala like he's auditioning for The Bachelor."
"It was certainly memorable," I manage, my fingers automatically drifting to the ring that still feels wrong on my hand.
"Memorable is one word for it." Sophia leans closer, her green eyes—the same shade as Preston's but infinitely warmer—sparkling with mischief. "Tell me honestly, Harper, were you surprised or horrified when he dropped to one knee in front of three hundred of Boston's finest gossips?"
"Both, simultaneously." The admission slips out before I can filter it. "Though I'm not sure which emotion won."
Sophia throws her head back and laughs, the sound somehow cutting through the electronic chaos surrounding us. This is why I accepted her invitation tonight, despite every fiber of my being screaming to stay home.
Sophia Whitmore is the closest thing to a genuine friend I've had in years—possibly ever. She asks questions and actually listens to the answers. She notices when I'm performing versus when I'm present. She treats me like a person rather than an accessory to her brother's ambitions.
"You know what I've never understood?" Sophia refills both our glasses with the casual generosity of someone accustomed to bottle service. "Why did you choose Preston in the first place? I mean, I love my brother, but he's about as exciting as watching paint dry in a beige room, and you've got this whole mysterious smoldering thing happening beneath that ice queen exterior."
"I don't have a mysterious smoldering thing."
"Harper, darling, you absolutely do." She grins, all golden retriever energy despite the sophisticated surroundings. "I'm just saying, if I weren't tragically attracted to women, I would have made a move on you years before Preston worked up the nerve to ask you to dinner."
The confession makes me laugh—actually laugh, the kind that surprises me with its authenticity. Sophia came out to her family at seventeen and has spent the subsequent decade being unapologetically herself in a social circle that still whispers about such things at country club brunches. Her courage makes my own cowardice feel even more pathetic by comparison.
"You would have been infinitely more interesting than your brother," I admit, and the honesty feels dangerous and freeing in equal measure.
"Obviously." She winks. "But seriously, Harper, are you happy? Because I've watched you two together, and happy isn't the word that comes to mind when I see you looking at him."
The question cuts deeper than she intends, excavating truths I've buried beneath obligation and expectation. Before I can formulate a response that isn't entirely devastating, my peripheral vision catches movement that makes my pulse stutter.
Jaxson sits in a VIP booth across the room, his dark suit jacket discarded somewhere, his white shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal the throat I've fantasized about marking with my teeth. A man I don't recognize leans close to speak in his ear—someone who moves with controlled stillness, his suit unremarkable but his eyes sharp, scanning the room with the wariness of a person accustomed to threats.
I force my attention back to Sophia, refusing to let him occupy more space in my consciousness than he's already claimed.
"I'm working on happy," I tell her, and the partial truth sits between us like a confession.
She studies my face with a perception that makes me uncomfortable, her gaze flickering briefly toward the VIP booth before returning to me with raised eyebrows.
"That man over there keeps looking at you like you're the last glass of water in a desert, and unless I'm mistaken, you keep not looking at him with remarkable dedication."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar." She grins. "Who is he? Because I may be tragically attracted to women, but I have functioning eyes, and that man is unfairly beautiful."
"That's my stepbrother, Jaxson."
"Your stepbrother?" Sophia's eyes widen. "Preston's mentioned him exactly never, which suddenly makes complete sense because my brother is competitive about everything, and having that around your fiancée would make anyone insecure."
"It's complicated."
"Harper, honey, the way he's staring at you suggests complicated doesn't begin to cover it." She pauses, concern flickering across her features. "Should I be worried? About Preston, I mean. About you two."
The music shifts without warning, the aggressive bass giving way to something slower, darker, a melody that wraps around the room like smoke. Couples drift toward each other on the dance floor. I glance toward Jaxson's booth and find the stranger gone, the seat across from him empty. Jaxson rises with the deliberate grace of a man who has decided exactly what he wants.
He's walking toward our table.
"Oh my God," Sophia whispers, her champagne glass frozen halfway to her lips. "He's coming over here. Harper, please tell me there's nothing going on, because Preston would be devastated."
"There's nothing going on," I say, and the lie curdles in my throat before it reaches the air.
He stops beside our booth, his eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes the air between us crackle with unspoken history. The smirk that curves his lips is insufferable—the same smirk he wore in that parking lot, the same smirk he's worn since we were teenagers and he discovered exactly how to crawl beneath my skin and take up residence.
I want to erase that smirk from his face with my fists or my mouth, and I'm not certain which impulse is more dangerous.
"Harper." He extends his hand toward me, palm up, fingers slightly curled in invitation. "Dance with me."
It's not a question. It never is with him.
Sophia makes a sound beside me that might be warning, her loyalty to her brother written across her worried expression. But I can't process anything except the challenge in his dark eyes and the desperate, stupid need to prove I can touch him without combusting.
"One dance," I hear myself say.