The noise of the party fades as I drift toward a quieter corner of the hall. White-draped tables. Tiny floating candles. Floor-to-ceiling glass revealing a city glittering far below, distant and unreal.
I am just trying to breathe.
Josh is somewhere near the buffet, aggressively coping with free food. Mom busy smiling, all porcelain and composure.
Richard reappears beside me, almost materializing out of thin air. His hand settles on my back, heavy and proprietary, like I am a chair he has claimed.
"There you are," he says, warm and loud. "Come. I want you to meet someone."
Before I can object, he is already guiding me toward a private table.
A couple rises to greet us, elegant and carefully polished. Their clothes are understated in the way that only very expensive things can be. The man's watch glints softly under the lights, the kind of object that exists only to be noticed by people who know what it costs.
"Mr. and Mrs. Richardson," Richard says proudly.
They smile. The kind of smile that never reaches the eyes.
"And this," he adds, turning slightly, "is their daughter, Evelyn."
She stands.
She is beautiful in a distant, glossy way. Perfect hair. A dress that catches the light like liquid gold. Everything about her looks intentional.
But her smile is stiff. Practiced. Her eyes flick briefly toward me, then away.
She looks like someone being displayed. Which means she looks exactly how I feel.
Richard rubs his hands together, pleased with himself. There is pride there, yes, but also something colder. The same satisfaction men get when numbers line up and deals close.
"We were discussing," he says casually, "a potential alliance between our families."
Alliance.
The word hits like a wrong note, sharp and jarring.
He keeps going, oblivious to the sudden stillness inside me.
"I think Ash and Evelyn would make an excellent match. It would strengthen ties between our companies. Give him a stable future."
Evelyn flinches. Just slightly.
Her face stays pleasant, but her fingers twist the fabric of her dress beneath the table.
She does not want this either.
Something inside me goes cold.
Not anger. Not panic. Silence.
Like someone reached in and muted the world.
I turn to my mother.
Her smile is soft, hopeful. Carefully rehearsed. A mother pretending this is normal.
"Ash," she says gently, "isn't she lovely?"
My throat tightens.
"This," I say quietly, "this is why you invited me?"
Mom blinks, momentarily thrown. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you have not called me in three years. No holidays. No birthdays. And suddenly you want me here because I am part of some arrangement?"
Her expression cracks for half a second. Irritation flashes behind her eyes before the mask slides back into place.
"Do not twist things," she says sharply. "This is not a bad thing. Evelyn is a good girl. Her family is respectable. This is an opportunity."
"An opportunity," I repeat. "To be exchanged like a contract?"
Her tone cools. "Ash, do not be childish."
Richard lets out a patronizing chuckle.
"These things are normal in our world," he says. "Families help each other rise. You should be grateful your mother is thinking ahead."
Grateful.
The word sits in my chest like a weight.
My hands shake, but my voice stays steady.
"I am not something to be arranged. I can make my own choices."
Mom stiffens, her jaw tightening.
"You are nineteen," she snaps quietly, color rising in her cheeks. "You do not know what you want. We do."
Evelyn looks at me then, really looks at me. Her expression holds apology and resignation all at once.
"I am sorry," she murmurs. "I didn't want this either."
Her mother shoots her a warning glare.
Richard waves dismissively.
"You can get to know each other," he says brightly. "No one is forcing anything yet. Let us keep the discussion open."
"No."
My voice rises just enough to fracture the careful politeness around us.
A few guests glance over.
Claire's eyes flash with mortification.
"Ash," she hisses, "lower your voice."
I step back. From the table. From them. From this cold, suffocating world of smiles and transactions.
"No amount of money," I say, my voice shaking now, "is worth giving up my life."
Mom's face hardens into something unfamiliar. Something final.
"You are being dramatic."
Maybe I am.
Maybe breaking is a kind of drama.
All I feel is betrayal. Old and new, echoing so loudly it drowns out everything else.
"I am done," I whisper.
And I walk out.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The car feels too big and too small at the same time.
I slumped against the passenger-side window, cheek pressed to the cool glass. The city passes in blurred streaks of yellow streetlights and empty sidewalks. The kind of scenery that makes it easy to stop thinking. My breath fogs a small patch of glass, appearing and disappearing with each quiet inhale.
Josh doesn't turn on the music. He does not crack a joke or fill the silence with commentary like he usually does. He just drives. Hands steady on the wheel. Eyes on the road. He seems to understand that noise would make everything worse.
The engine hums softly, a low vibration through the seats.
After a while, I whispered, barely moving my lips.
"Why does everyone want something from me?"
The question hangs there. Too tired for anger. Too honest to take back.
Josh adjusts his grip on the steering wheel and glances over, checking that I'm still intact, still breathing, still here.
Then he says, quietly and firmly, in the voice he only uses when he remembers he is supposed to be the older brother:
"I don't want anything from you, Ash. I am here because you are my brother."
He doesn't say it to fix things. He says it like a fact. Like gravity.
I didn't answer. There is nothing left to give words to. I turn slightly toward the window, letting the cold soothe the heat behind my eyes.
I didn't cry.
I closed my eyes instead.
I'm tired in a way sleep cannot touch. Tired in my bones.
Josh drives. I breathe. The engine hums steadily as the night carries us forward.