Willow excused herself with the kind of grace that only came from control.
"I'll be back in a minute," she said lightly, fingers brushing the rim of her glass. "Lipstick emergency."
No one stopped her—not Christy, whose laughter was suddenly too bright, nor the guests who had already begun whispering about the kiss that had cracked the party's perfect surface.
Willow's heels struck marble like punctuation marks—measured, deliberate, final. Each step carried its own echo. By the time she disappeared through the corridor door, the rooftop's pulse had changed. The night had teeth now.
The hum of the city below dimmed. Conversations lowered as though the air itself was waiting for the next fracture.
Miles set his drink down too fast. The glass hit marble with a hard, crystalline sound that turned a few heads. He barely noticed. His gaze found Zane—steady, silent, infuriatingly composed.
Zane stood at the bar, sleeves rolled once at the wrist, posture relaxed but eyes alert. He looked like a man who had just walked through fire and wasn't even warm.
Miles crossed the distance with a smile carved out of habit. But when he reached him, the mask dropped. His voice came low, sharp, trembling with effort.
"What the hell was that?"
Zane turned slightly, his tone mild. "You'll have to be more specific."
"The kiss," Miles hissed. "You didn't have to—"
"—respond?" Zane finished. "I believe you once told me to play along when needed."
"That—" Miles's voice faltered, snapping back sharper. "That was not what I meant."
Zane tilted his head, studying him with the detached precision of someone assessing damage. The rooftop's background music slid between them, low and slow, amplifying the silence.
"You told me to lie," Zane said evenly. "You told me to tell her you two had ended things. That Christy wasn't the reason. That you were already done."
Miles's throat worked. "I did."
"And I did," Zane continued. "Perfectly, I might add."
"That," Miles snapped, "was not part of the plan."
"Which plan?" Zane's voice dropped, soft but dangerous. "The one where you rewrite the past to save face—or the one where you play the noble ex who still owns the moral high ground?"
The question hit like a slap dressed in velvet. For a heartbeat, Miles didn't move. Then his expression curdled.
"Don't play righteous with me. You knew what this was. You were supposed to help me, not—"
"Not what?" Zane asked quietly. "Not let her breathe?"
Miles's jaw flexed. "You think that's what she's doing?"
Zane took one step closer, his presence deliberate.
"I think she's finally remembering she doesn't need your permission to exist."
The sentence landed between them like a lit match.
Miles's pulse thundered in his neck. Jealousy flared hot and fast, coating everything it touched. He glanced toward the hallway where Willow had vanished, then back to Zane. His voice dropped, low and lethal.
"You enjoyed it."
Zane's brow lifted, unbothered. "Enjoyed what?"
"The kiss," Miles said, his control cracking at the edges. "You stood there and—"
"And?"
"You kissed her like—"
"—like I meant it?" Zane's tone stayed calm, but his eyes had gone darker. "Maybe I did."
The words hit Miles like a knife twisted slow.
The flush that rose to his neck wasn't shame—it was fury and something worse: want mixed with loss.
He slammed his palm against the bar. Crystal rattled. Heads turned.
"Watch your mouth."
"Then watch your temper," Zane said, voice flat as steel. "You're making a scene."
"You don't get to talk to me like that."
"I think I just did."
For a breathless moment, neither moved.
They stood there—two men once bound by trust, now circling something jagged and alive.
Zane's stillness was the kind that made others nervous; Miles's was the kind that came just before a strike.
Finally, Zane spoke, voice low and controlled.
"Let's make this simple. You told me to lie to her. To tell her you'd already moved on. To help her move forward. Well…" He gestured vaguely toward the balcony. "She did. You should be proud."
Miles's laugh came out raw. "Proud? You think this is about pride?"
"No," Zane said. "It's about ownership. And you can't stand that she stopped being yours."
Miles's face hardened. "She's mine, Zane."
There it was—the confession, naked and ugly.
Zane's expression barely shifted, but his eyes turned glacial.
"She stopped being yours the moment you made her a lie."
The words hit like a blade.
Miles leaned closer, the scent of whiskey clinging to his breath. "You always wanted her. Don't think I didn't see it."
Zane didn't deny it. His silence was worse.
Miles's voice dropped lower, dangerous. "I told you to help me, not touch her."
"I didn't," Zane said simply. Then after a beat, quieter: "She touched me."
That stripped away the last of Miles's composure. His jaw clenched, his breath came uneven, fury and humiliation warring behind his eyes.
"You think that makes a difference?"
"It makes all the difference," Zane replied. "Because I never lied to her."
Miles's hand curled into a fist, veins taut beneath his skin. Every part of him screamed to hit something—someone. Instead, he swallowed it. The restraint cost him.
"You're playing with fire," he whispered, voice shaking.
Zane's lips curved faintly. "You built the match."
The silence between them grew heavy enough to crack. The air itself seemed to hum.
Miles turned away, jaw tight, chest rising fast. He wanted to call it betrayal, but the truth burned louder. Jealousy. Possession. The realization that for the first time in his life, he'd been replaced.
He looked toward the hallway again. The idea of her with Zane—her laugh, her body, her trust—lodged in his mind like glass under skin.
He'd lost control, and he could feel it bleeding out of him.
Behind him, Zane picked up a napkin, folded it once, set it on the bar. The small act of precision infuriated Miles more than shouting ever could.
"You're angry at the wrong person," Zane said quietly. "But I suppose that's your habit."
Miles turned sharply. "And what's yours?"
Zane's gaze lifted, cold and steady. "Cleaning up other people's wreckage."
Miles's laugh came bitter. "You think that's what you're doing now? Playing savior?"
Zane's tone softened, but it hit harder for it.
"No. She doesn't need saving. That's what you never understood."
The sound of heels on marble cut through the air like punctuation.
Willow reappeared, calm as smoke. Her lipstick was flawless again. Her hair, her poise—every detail deliberate. She looked like a woman who had already won.
"Everything all right?" she asked, her voice smooth, unhurried.
Zane turned to her first, the faintest trace of something unreadable behind his composure. "Fine," he said. "Just discussing closure."
Her gaze slid to Miles. His jaw was clenched, his smile a mask stitched too tight. She read the tension instantly and smiled—a soft, deadly curve of the lips.
"Closure," she repeated. "It's such an overrated word, don't you think?"
Neither man answered.
She passed between them, perfume cutting through the air like smoke before flame. The moment she was gone, both men exhaled as if they'd been holding the same breath.
From a distance, she looked like serenity itself.
But the faint smirk curving her mouth told another story.
Because for the first time, Miles wasn't the one in control—
and Zane, for all his calm, had just learned what it felt like to be used by someone he couldn't stop wanting.
The fire had already started.
And beneath all that glittering glass, the fractures were spreading—
beautiful, unstoppable, and about to break everything.