Club Lucky was alive.
The bass thumped through the floor like a second heartbeat, vibrating up through designer heels and into the bones of every trust-fund baby who'd ever posted a sad Instagram caption about how hard it was to be wealthy and misunderstood. Strobe lights painted the crowd in flashes of neon pink and electric blue, turning sweaty bodies into abstract art. The air smelled like overpriced vodka, designer perfume, and the particular desperation of young people who had everything except something real.
Bonita had bought out the entire club. Because of course she had. When you were Bonita Stark—heiress, social media royalty, the only daughter in a dynasty of men—you didn't rent a venue. You owned it for the night.
The crowd was a sea of Crestfall University's finest. Popular kids. Rich kids. Kids who'd never worked a day in their lives but could lecture you for hours about the importance of "hustle culture." They swarmed around Bonita like moths to a golden flame, laughing at her jokes, complimenting her dress, pretending they didn't all secretly want to be her or be with her.
She smiled. She danced. She played the part.
But her mind was somewhere else entirely.
David.
The thought of her father hit her like a wave between songs—sudden, cold, and completely disorienting. She'd been his little girl. His princess. The only person in that house of stone-faced Stark men who could make her laugh until she cried. He'd taught her how to ride a bike, how to negotiate a business deal, how to spot a liar from across a room. He'd been her person.
And now he was gone.
Tonight was supposed to be hers. Her birthday. Her coronation. The night the Stark family officially acknowledged her as their jewel, their treasure, their only female heir. But instead of a celebration, she'd gotten a sideshow. Men fighting over Star. Star. A girl who had nothing—no money, no name, no legacy—and yet somehow managed to be the center of the universe.
What does she have that I don't?
Bonita grabbed a bottle of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. Not a glass. The whole bottle.
She tipped it back and drank like she was trying to drown something that refused to die.
The bubbles burned going down. Good. She wanted to feel something other than this hollow ache in her chest.
Her eyes scanned the dance floor, landing on a couple. A guy—cute, in a generic sort of way—dancing with a girl who looked at him like he'd hung the moon. They were laughing. Happy. Disgusting.
Bonita's lips curved into a devious smile.
She crossed the dance floor like a shark cutting through calm waters. The crowd parted for her automatically—they always did. She was Bonita Stark. She didn't ask for space. She commanded it.
She grabbed the guy by his collar and spun him toward her.
"My turn" she commanded softly
His eyes went wide. Comically wide. Like a cartoon character who'd just seen a piano falling toward his head. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
Bonita Stark. Touching him. A nobody. A background character in someone else's story.
He looked thrilled. He looked blessed.
"That's my boyfriend," the girl said, her voice cracking like thin ice.
Bonita didn't even glance at her. "I know." her smile widened like as she looked at the guy like a hungry racoon.
And then she kissed him.
Not a peck. Not a tease. A full, dramatic, claiming kiss that said I can take whatever I want, and you can't stop me.
The girl stared, her face cycling through shock, hurt, anger, and finally—acceptance. She'd just learned a valuable lesson: nothing was truly hers. Not if someone richer, prettier, or more powerful decided they wanted it.
She turned and disappeared into the crowd, already mentally updating her relationship status.
Bonita pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The guy was still frozen, his eyes glazed over like he'd just experienced a religious vision.
"You can go now," Bonita said flatly.
He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet, and vanished into the crowd.
Bonita grabbed another champagne bottle.
Happy birthday to me.
***
The ninth floor had finally settled into something resembling peace.
Star was propped up against her pillows, her eyes bright despite the exhaustion pulling at their corners. She and Lucian had been talking for hours—about nothing, about everything. Childhood memories. Inside jokes. The time they'd gotten lost in the city and ended up eating gas station hot dogs at 3 AM while laughing until their stomachs hurt.
But Star noticed things. She always noticed things.
Like how Lucian's smile didn't quite reach his eyes when she mentioned her mother. Like how he'd steer the conversation away with a joke or a funny face, making her laugh so hard she forgot what she'd asked. Like how his hands trembled slightly when he thought she wasn't looking.
Something's wrong, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. Something's very wrong.
But she was so tired. The kind of tired that went beyond sleep—a bone-deep exhaustion that made everything feel slightly unreal, like she was watching her own life through a foggy window.
She yawned, her jaw cracking with the force of it.
"Do you promise to be safe?" Lucian asked.
His voice was different now. Serious. Stripped of all the humor and deflection he'd been hiding behind. His blue eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.
Star nodded, offering him a weak smile. "I promise. Tiffany won't kill me." She tried for a laugh, but it came out hollow. "Besides, the doctor said he needs to run more tests. Soon, I'll be discharged, and everything will go back to normal."
Normal. What did that even mean anymore?
Lucian didn't respond to that. Instead, he said, "I'll leave my car. Just in case you need to drive home."
Star frowned. "How will you get home, then? It's late, Lucian. And you're hurt."
"I'll call Lyrl to pick me up."
He stood, wincing as his weight shifted onto his injured leg. The movement was careful, controlled—he'd learned to hide pain a long time ago, but Star could still see it in the tightness around his eyes.
He leaned down and tucked the blanket around her, his movements gentle. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that said more than words ever could.
"Now I feel like a baby," Star teased, her eyes already fluttering closed.
Lucian chuckled. It sounded almost normal.
"I love you," Star murmured, the words slipping out like a secret she'd been keeping without knowing it.
Lucian's heart stopped.
Ripped. That was the only word for it. His chest felt like someone had reached in and torn something vital out through his ribs. Because he knew—he knew—she meant it as a friend. The way she'd said it a thousand times before. Casual. Warm. Platonic.
But he didn't feel it that way. He'd never felt it that way.
He wanted to scoop her up. Carry her out of this house. Take her somewhere safe, somewhere far away from the Starks, from Adrian. He wanted to hold her and never let go.
"You didn't say it back," Star said, her eyes still closed, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips.
Lucian swallowed the lump in his throat. "I love you thrice."
It was their thing. An old joke from when they were kids. I love you. I love you more. I love you thrice.
Star's smile widened. And then she was asleep.
Lucian limped toward the door, each step sending a spike of pain up his leg. He didn't care. The pain in his chest was worse.
***
Adrian sat in the shadows just outside Star's room, his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him.
He'd heard everything.
Every laugh. Every joke. Every soft word Lucian had spoken to his Star.
His Star. When had he started thinking of her that way?
He was already on method 107 of his mental list: Ways to Eliminate Lucian Throne Without Making Star Hate Me Forever. Method 1 through 106 had all been rejected for various reasons—too messy, too obvious, too likely to result in Star never speaking to him again.
Method 107 was still a work in progress.
"You're being creepy."
Adrian's head snapped up. Lucian stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light from Star's room. His expression was unreadable.
"Good night," Adrian said flatly, standing and moving to close Star's door. He glanced inside—she was already asleep, her face peaceful, her breathing slow and even.
He pulled the door shut with a soft click.
"You pull that crap again," Lucian said, his voice dropping to something cold and dangerous, "and I'll make sure you meet the real Lucian Throne."
Adrian turned to face him. He should have felt threatened. Any sane person would have. Lucian Throne—crime lord, killer, the man who ran the underground like a king ran his castle—was promising to show him the real version of himself. The one the rumors whispered about.
But Adrian just smiled. A wicked, knowing smile.
"I take it that's a promise rather than a threat?"
Lucian's eyes narrowed.
"Because here's the thing," Adrian continued, stepping closer, his voice low and taunting. "Star has feelings for me. You know it. I know it. Everyone with eyes knows it." He paused, letting the words sink in. "It's just a matter of time before she chooses me."
Lucian looked at him. Really looked at him. From his expensive shoes to his perfectly styled salt and pepper hair. His expression shifted—first disgust, then something that looked almost like pity.
And then he laughed.
Not a big laugh. A small, dismissive sound that said you're very idiotic.
He limped toward the elevator, his shoulders shaking with silent amusement.
The elevator doors opened. Lucian stepped inside and turned to face Adrian one last time.
As the doors slid closed, Adrian saw a devilish grin spreading across Lucian's face. Slow. Deliberate. The smile of a man who knew something Adrian didn't.
The doors sealed shut.
Adrian's fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks.
What does he know that I don't?
***
The black car pulled up to the mansion's side entrance exactly twelve minutes after Lucian's text. Lyrl—his driver, his right hand, and occasionally his conscience—leaned across to push the passenger door open.
"Get in, boss. You look like shit."
Lucian lowered himself into the seat with a grunt of pain. "Charming as always."
Lyrl's eyes flicked to his bandaged thigh, visible through the tear in his pants. His expression didn't change, but his knuckles went white on the steering wheel.
"Want me to burn the place down?"
"Tempting." Lucian leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. "But no. Star's in there."
"Ah." Lyrl pulled away from the mansion, the tires crunching over gravel. "The girl."
"She's not the girl. She's Star."
"Right. Star. The one you've been moping about for years. The one you got shot for."
Lucian didn't answer.
Lyrl glanced at him, his sharp eyes softening almost imperceptibly. "She okay?"
"She doesn't remember."
"Remember what?"
Lucian's voice cracked. "Anything. The cliff. The stabbing. Her mother."
The car fell silent.
Lyra drove through the empty streets, the city lights blurring past like watercolors. He didn't push. That was why Lucian kept him around.
Finally, Lucian spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.
"She told me she loved me tonight."
Lyrl's eyebrows rose. "And?"
"And she meant it like a friend." He laughed bitterly. "She always means it like a friend."
Lyrl was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached over and squeezed his shoulder—brief, firm, there and gone.
"You're an idiot, boss."
"I know."
"A lovable idiot. But still an idiot."
"Don't get too comfortable" Lucian says as he looks out the window.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, the city swallowing them whole.
***
Star's eyes fluttered open to golden light.
Not the pale, apologetic light of an ordinary morning—no, this was the aggressive sunlight of the ninth floor, pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows like it owned the place. The Stark mansion's top level caught the dawn before anyone else in the city, and right now it was showing off.
She sat up slowly, her body protesting with a symphony of aches. Her chest. Her neck. The fog in her brain that made everything feel slightly out of focus, like she was watching her own life through a camera lens that wouldn't quite adjust.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to the window.
Oh.
The word wasn't enough. Nothing was enough.
The Stark estate sprawled beneath her like a kingdom—and she supposed it was a kingdom, in its own way. Gardens manicured to mathematical perfection. Fountains that sparkled in the early light. Paths that wound through greenery like elegant brushstrokes. And beyond it all, the city itself, waking up in shades of gold and gray, the skyline punctuated by buildings that bore the Stark Architects mark.
She smiled despite herself. Despite the confusion. Despite the nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong and everyone was keeping it from her.
Focus on what you can control, she told herself. Like finding actual clothes.
She turned from the window and began her search. Cupboards. Drawers. A closet that turned out to be empty except for spare blankets that smelled like lavender and money. Nothing. Not a single stitch of clothing that wasn't hospital-issued and deeply unflattering.
The shower called to her—a glass-walled masterpiece with more nozzles than seemed strictly necessary. She surrendered to it, letting the hot water pound against her shoulders, her back, the tight muscles that hadn't relaxed in what felt like years. When she emerged, wrapped in a towel that was softer than any fabric had a right to be, she faced the same problem: the hospital gown.
Fine, she thought, pulling it back on with a grimace. But I'm finding real clothes if I have to raid every closet in this mansion.
She stepped into the elevator and pressed 7.
No particular reason. Just... exploration. A need to understand where she was, what this place was, who Adrian Stark really was beneath the charming smiles and the concerned looks.
The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.
Star's jaw dropped.
She'd been in five-star hotels before—Lucian had taken her to one when he graduated at twenty-one with first-class honors and a ten-thousand-dollar grand prize, which he'd spent entirely on her, the absolute idiot—but this was different. This wasn't a hotel. This was someone's house.
The hallway stretched before her like something from a design magazine. Lights shaped like abstract sculptures cast warm pools of illumination across marble floors. The walls were adorned with art that probably cost more than her entire education. Every detail—every curve, every angle, every carefully chosen material—screamed wealth in a voice so refined it barely needed to raise itself above a whisper.
"Adrian lives here?" she muttered to herself. "Like... lives lives here? Every day?"
She walked carefully, her bare feet silent against the cool floor. Most of the doors were closed, and she was cautious—the last thing she needed was to accidentally walk in on a family meeting, or a secret, or something else she wasn't meant to see. She had enough problems without adding "awkwardly witnessed something private in a billionaire's mansion" to the list.
Then she stopped.
A key holder. Hanging from a door handle. A familiar key holder—handmade, slightly crooked, clearly the work of someone who was learning rather than mastering.
Her work.
She'd made it for Adrian a year ago, back when she was just starting her electronics project. A silly little thing—a key-shaped piece of painted wood with a magnet embedded in it, designed to stick to metal surfaces so you'd never lose your keys. She'd been so proud of it at the time. So nervous when she'd given it to him, certain he'd think it was childish.
He'd kept it.
He'd actually kept it.
Star reached out and touched the key holder gently, her fingers tracing the slightly uneven edges. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she turned the handle.
The door was unlocked.
She stepped inside, and her breath caught in her throat.
Art.
Everywhere. On the walls. On easels. Leaning against furniture. Stacked in careful piles. Paintings, sketches, charcoal drawings, watercolors—a explosion of creativity contained within four walls. Some were finished masterpieces, the kind of work that belonged in galleries. Others were half-complete, waiting for their creator to return. And some were just... studies. Experiments. A hand reaching for something. An eye looking back at the viewer. A silhouette against a window.
Adrian's art room. His sanctuary.
Star moved through the space like a pilgrim in a temple, her eyes wide, her heart beating faster with each new discovery. She hadn't known—she'd had no idea—that he could create like this. That beneath the tailored suits and the boardroom confidence was someone who saw the world in color and light and captured it with his own hands.
She tripped.
Her foot caught on something—a board, leaning against an easel with its face turned toward the wall. It clattered to the ground, spinning as it fell, landing face-up right in front of her.
Star looked down.
And stopped breathing entirely.
It was her.
A painting of her face. Not a photograph—something better than a photograph. Something that captured not just her features but her essence. The way her hazel eyes caught light. The slight tilt of her head when she was thinking. The curve of her lips just before she smiled. Every brushstroke was deliberate, loving, the work of someone who had studied her face for hours and still found more to discover.
A rosy hue spread across Star's cheeks. She reached out, her fingers hovering just above the painted surface, not quite daring to touch.
He painted me, she thought.
Her heart danced—a ridiculous, giddy waltz that she tried very hard to suppress. Ever since she'd woken up last night, something had shifted inside her. Every thought of Adrian made her pulse quicken. Every glimpse of his face sent warmth flooding through her chest. Feelings she'd been carefully compressing, ignoring, denying—they were all breaking free, and she didn't know how to stuff them back in their box.
She touched her stomach. Flat. Unrevealing. But she knew what was growing inside her—a life that wasn't wanted, that had been forced upon her by a monster who'd stolen something she could never get back.
It doesn't matter, she told herself firmly. It doesn't matter what I feel for Adrian. He deserves better than this. Better than me.
She stood, carefully turning the painting back to face the wall. A private thing not meant for her eyes. She would pretend she'd never seen it.
She left the art room, closing the door softly behind her.
***
The next door was slightly ajar. Star hesitated for only a moment before pushing it open.
Oh.
This was definitely Adrian's room.
The space was massive—a master suite that could have swallowed her entire apartment and asked for seconds. A bed the size of a small country dominated one wall, draped in linens that probably cost more than her monthly rent. The decor was masculine but refined, all dark woods and soft lighting and clean lines. And there, on the wall, was a large landscape photograph—a cityscape at night, lights glittering like earthbound stars—with Adrian's face superimposed in the corner, his eyes seeming to follow her across the room.
Dramatic, she thought.
No Adrian in sight. Good. She just needed clothes. Something—anything—that wasn't a hospital gown that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable and entirely too aware of her own body.
She spotted the wardrobe and made a beeline for it, pulling open the doors.
A walk-in closet. Of course it was a walk-in closet. A large walk-in closet, filled with clothes organized by color, by season, by occasion. Suits. Casual wear. Athletic gear. Shoes that had never touched a sidewalk. Accessories that cost more than her car.
"Where does he even wear this stuff?" Star muttered, stepping inside.
She glanced around one more time—still no Adrian—and made her decision. The hospital gown had to go. Now.
She pulled it over her head, letting it pool at her feet, leaving her in nothing but her underwear. The bandage on her chest was still there, wrapped between her breasts and extending slightly over her left side, a stark white reminder of how close she'd come to dying. She could feel a faint ache from the wound beneath it, but it was distant. Manageable.
Her back was to the room.
Meanwhile, Adrian had just stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped low around his waist, another towel in his hands as he dried his wet hair. Steam curled around him like smoke, and he was thinking about nothing in particular—just the usual morning fog, the residual tension from last night, the nagging worry about Star's memory loss—
He froze.
There was a woman in his closet.
Star.
She was standing in his walk-in closet, her back to him, wearing nothing but a pair of simple panties. Her hospital gown lay crumpled at her feet. Her body was... God. Shapely. Curved in all the right places. Her waist dipped in before flaring out to hips that made his mouth go dry. The bandage on her chest only emphasized the vulnerability of her—the realness of her.
Adrian's heart stopped. Then restarted at double speed.
Don't look, he told himself. Don't look, don't look, don't—
He couldn't look away.
Star reached for a gray shirt hanging nearby—one of his favorites, soft and worn and comfortable. She pulled it on, and it swallowed her whole, falling to her mid-thigh like a mini dress. She was slim but tall, and even his oversized clothes couldn't completely hide the shape beneath.
"I'm sorry, Ad," she murmured to no one, running her hands over the fabric.
Adrian cleared his throat. Loudly. Deliberately.
Star spun around, her eyes wide, her hand flying to her chest.
"OH MY GOD—" She stumbled back, nearly tripping over her own feet. "You scared the crap out of me!"
Adrian stood there, frozen in place, because moving would mean acknowledging that he was wearing nothing but a towel and Star was wearing nothing but his shirt and the situation was rapidly spiraling out of his control.
Star's eyes, however, were no longer on his face.
They had drifted downward. To his chest. His abs. The droplets of water still clinging to his skin. The way his muscles shifted as he breathed. Her gaze was hungry, tracing the lines of his body like she was memorizing them for later.
Adrian watched, fascinated and terrified, as Star's body moved before her brain seemed to give it permission. She stepped closer. Closer. Her hand reached out, and her fingers—cool and tentative—brushed against his stomach, tracing the ridges of his six-pack.
"That tickles," he said, his voice coming out rougher than intended.
Star jerked back like she'd been burned. Her cheeks flushed crimson—a deep, mortified red that spread all the way to her ears.
"Oh my god. I'm so sorry." She pressed her hands to her own cheeks as if she could physically push the blush away. "I don't—I didn't—I wasn't—"
"It's okay." Adrian's voice was gentle, almost amused. "You made yourself at home already."
He gestured vaguely at her outfit—his shirt, hanging off her shoulders, making her look impossibly small and impossibly his.
Star's blush deepened. "I just needed clothes. I felt... naked in that gown."
"I know the feeling." Adrian glanced down at his own state of undress—the towel, the wet hair, the complete lack of anything resembling dignity. "Can I... put on some clothes?"
He asked it like a question. Like he was asking permission. Because Star was still standing between him and his closet, and moving past her would mean getting closer to her, and getting closer to her right now felt like a very dangerous idea.
But Star wasn't moving.
She was staring at his lips.
His lips.
Adrian's breath caught. He could smell her—shampoo and something floral, something warm and uniquely Star. She was looking at him like she wanted to devour him, and he was standing there in a towel, and his self-control was hanging by a thread so thin it was practically invisible.
What's happening to me? Star's inner voice was screaming. Why can't I stop looking at him? And she wasn't stopping.
She bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. The pain was grounding, but only barely.
Adrian reached out, his hands landing gently on her shoulders. For one heart-stopping moment, Star thought he was pulling her into an embrace. Her body warmed, leaning into him instinctively—
And then he gently moved her aside, just enough to slip past her into the closet.
The moment shattered.
"I'm sorry," Star said again, retreating to sit on the edge of his massive bed. The mattress bounced slightly under her weight. "I just needed clothes. I felt naked in that gown."
"You said that already." Adrian's voice drifted out from the closet, warm with suppressed laughter.
"Well, it's true!"
"I know the feeling." There was a rustle of fabric. "Being naked in a gown. Very relatable."
Star heard the smile in his voice and couldn't help but return it, even though he couldn't see her.
He emerged a moment later in a simple gray shirt—just like hers, she realized with a jolt—and black sweatpants. It should have been ordinary. Unremarkable. But on him, with his damp hair and his easy confidence and the way the fabric clung to his shoulders...
He looked hotter than ever.
"Tiffany is really lucky," Star blurted out.
She immediately wanted to sink through the floor. Why did I say that? WHY?
Adrian paused, his phone in his hand. He scrolled through something—messages, maybe—then dropped it back onto the nightstand. With a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him, he threw himself onto the bed beside her, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.
"That's old now," he said finally.
Star rolled onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows. The movement brought her closer to him—close enough to see the individual threads in his shirt, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes flickered toward her and then away.
"What? You broke up?"
"Yes."
The word hung in the air between them.
Star felt it—that flutter in her chest. That terrible, wonderful, guilty flutter of happiness. She shouldn't feel this way. She knew she shouldn't feel this way. Someone else's heartbreak wasn't her joy. But her body didn't care about what was appropriate. Her body was too busy noticing how close Adrian's lips were. How blue his eyes looked in the morning light. How easy it would be to just lean forward and—
She looked away. Control yourself. He's vulnerable. He just went through a breakup. Don't take advantage.
"Oh, fuck't," she whispered.
And then, before her brain could stop her, she grabbed his face and kissed him.
Adrian's eyes flew wide open.
Star's lips were on his. Soft. Insistent. Real. She was kissing him like she'd been thinking about it for hours—maybe longer—and had finally run out of reasons not to.
For one frozen moment, Adrian didn't move. His brain was still catching up, still processing the fact that Star was kissing him, Star was actually kissing him—
Then she didn't stop.
So he gave in.
His hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her still-damp hair. He kissed her back—not gently, not carefully, but thoroughly. His tongue slid against hers, and she made a small sound in the back of her throat that sent electricity racing down his spine.
He rolled, shifting their positions, and suddenly she was beneath him and he was above her and when did that happen—
Star's hands fisted in his shirt. Her legs tangled with his. The kiss deepened, intensified, became something neither of them seemed able to control.
This is happening, Adrian's mind supplied helpfully. This is actually happening.
***
The Stark family breakfast table was a masterpiece.
It stretched the length of a room that could have comfortably housed a small aircraft, polished mahogany gleaming under the soft glow of a crystal chandelier. Servants stood at attention along the walls—silent, watchful, ready to materialize at the slightest twitch of a finger. The air smelled of fresh coffee, warm pastries, and the particular tension of people who shared blood but not necessarily affection.
Maria scooped a delicate spoonful of mashed eggs into her mouth, her movements precise and practiced—the eating habits of a woman who'd spent decades being watched. "Where is Adrian? He's never late for breakfast."
Her question floated across the table and died in the ambient silence.
Bonita, meanwhile, looked like death warmed over and then left out on the counter too long. Her head was pounding a rhythm that only she could hear—a bass drop from hell, courtesy of last night's champagne marathon. She pressed her fingers to her temples, wincing.
"Can I get lemon, please?" The words came out slurred, like her tongue hadn't quite woken up yet.
A maid hurried toward the kitchen.
"Where did you go last night?" Vivian asked, her smile carrying the particular sharpness of a woman who already knew the answer and just wanted to watch someone squirm.
"Club Lucky," Maria answered for her daughter, her tone clipped. "You know, after we all ruined her day."
Her eyes shot toward Alaric like guided missiles. The man was eating his breakfast with the determined focus of someone pretending he couldn't feel the heat of everyone's glare. Eggs. Bread. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. If I don't look up, they can't see me.
"You let your children go to clubs?" Vivian's brows climbed toward her hairline. "Your house doesn't have rules?"
"I'm not that strict." Maria's voice was short. Final. The kind of short that said this conversation is over without actually saying it.
"Kids are supposed to enjoy themselves, not be restricted." St. Stark's voice cut through the tension like a butter knife through cold toast—not entirely effective, but well-intentioned. "Besides, we all had dust to brush off. Isn't that right, Alaric?"
Alaric's fork paused mid-air. "Why is everyone just targeting me? I didn't say a thing."
He genuinely seemed baffled. All he'd wanted was breakfast. Eggs. Maybe some good bread. A moment of peace to figure out why he'd lost control so completely last night, why Lucian Throne's face still haunted his thoughts, why his trigger finger had itched so badly he'd actually pulled it.
I'll find evidence, he promised himself. Hard evidence. I'll get that criminal arrested if it's the last thing I do.
Vivian, sensing her attack on Maria's parenting had failed to draw blood, pivoted to a new target. Her eyes landed on Tiffany, who was nursing a cup of coffee like it contained the secrets to the universe.
"You're Ad's girlfriend, right?" Vivian asked sweetly. Too sweetly. "I'm sorry—ex-girlfriend."
Tiffany choked.
Coffee splashed against the back of her throat and she grabbed desperately for a glass of water, her eyes watering. She managed to swallow, clearing her airway, and opened her mouth to respond—
But the words died before they could form.
Because at the edge of her vision, descending the grand staircase like a scene from her personal nightmare, were two people she desperately wished she hadn't seen this morning.
Adrian. And Star.
The memory hit her like a freight train; just before coming down to breakfast, she'd detoured past Adrian's room. Just to say good morning. Just to see his face. A little moment, a little hope, a little maybe he's changed his mind—
The door had been slightly open.
And inside...
Inside, Adrian had been devouring Star like she was oxygen and he'd been drowning. Star's hands fisted in his shirt. His hands tangled in her hair. Their bodies pressed together so tightly you couldn't have slid a credit card between them. They were so lost in each other they hadn't even noticed the door open. Hadn't noticed Tiffany.
She'd stood there for—she didn't know how long. Seconds. Minutes. An eternity. Watching the boy she loved kiss the girl she hated with a passion she hadn't even known she was capable of.
"There they are," Christine announced, and every head at the table turned.
Adrian descended the stairs with the easy confidence of someone who owned everything he walked past—because, technically, he did. Behind him, Star followed like a shadow, her fingers clutching the short sleeve of his shirt like it was a lifeline.
She was drowning in his clothes. His gray oversized shirt hung off her shoulders, swallowing her whole. His black pants were cinched tight at her waist but pooled around her ankles, the cuffs rolled up multiple times and still threatening to trip her. She looked small.
The thought made Adrian's chest warm in ways he wasn't ready to examine.
Star's heart was hammering against her ribs. The Stark family was arranged around that massive table like a royal court—and she was very aware that she was the peasant who'd wandered in wearing the prince's clothes. Her grip on Adrian's shirt tightened.
Adrian pulled out a chair for her, and she sank into it gratefully, keeping her eyes down. The wood was cool beneath her fingers.
"Why didn't you come for some fresh clothes at the spare?" Maria asked, her voice soft. Maternal. Or at least, a very good imitation of maternal. "Ad?"
"Ad-Adrian said it was fine to wear his clothes." Star's voice came out in a stutter, her nerves getting the better of her. She hated how it sounded. Hated how weak it made her seem.
Everyone was looking at her.
Not with hostility. Not with judgment. With something worse.
Pity.
She could see it in their eyes—that soft, sympathetic gaze that said poor thing, she's been through so much, let's be gentle with her.
Christine's expression was kind but careful. Vivian's was curious but measured. Even St. Stark, with his ancient eyes, looked at her like she was something fragile that might break if handled too roughly.
Star's jaw tightened. She despised being pitied.
"What would you like to have?" A maid appeared at her elbow, respectful and attentive.
Star glanced at everyone's plates. Maria had mashed eggs, some leaves she couldn't name, coffee, and croissants. The others had dishes she didn't even recognize—things that looked more like art installations than breakfast. Was that... caviar? At breakfast?
"Just bring the menu," Adrian said smoothly.
Before Star could protest—a menu? for breakfast?—the maid returned with a portrait-style hard paper, gold-embossed and heavy enough to double as a weapon. Star stared at it, her eyes scanning dishes she'd only ever seen in magazines.
"I'll have eggs," she said carefully. "And bread."
"Which... bread?" the maid asked, her pen hovering.
Star frowned. "Croissant?"
She said it shortly. Defensively. Like she was daring someone to correct her pronunciation.
"I know," Bonita's voice cut through the table, sharp and deliberate. "It's overwhelming when you've only seen these in magazines."
The words were aimed directly at Star, but Bonita's eyes flickered toward Tiffany—and there it was. A satisfied smile on her face. She earlier saw Tiffany's grip on her spoon tightened until her knuckles went white, glaring at Star.
Tiffany giggled louder.
"Bonita." Christine's voice carried a warning. "Star is our guest, and we treat her as such."
She turned to Star, her expression softening. "Don't mind her, dear."
"She's right."
Star's voice came out with a confidence so expensive it could have been purchased at one of the boutiques in this very mansion. Tiffany's smile vanished like smoke.
"I've only seen these in magazines," Star continued, her chin lifting. "But I'm here now. Eating them. At your table. So maybe the magazines weren't so far off after all."
The silence that followed was delicious.
Bonita's eyes narrowed, reassessing. Tiffany's face cycled through several shades of red. And Adrian—Adrian was looking at Star with something that looked suspiciously like pride.
"So," Maria interjected, her voice warm with what might have been genuine concern, "how are you doing, dear?"
Star met her eyes. "I'm fine. Thanks, ma'am."
"We're grateful you're recovering," Maria added. "I pray you recover soon."
"We'll do," St. Stark seconded, his voice carrying the weight of the family's blessing.
Star's gaze drifted to Alaric. The man who'd shot Lucian. The man who'd pulled a gun at a birthday party and acted like it was a reasonable response to someone leaving with an unconscious girl. Her jaw hardened, but she said nothing.
Not yet.
The maid brought her breakfast—eggs, perfectly scrambled, and a croissant so flaky it practically dissolved on her tongue. Star ate while the family talked around her, their conversations flowing like water around a stone. Business. Politics. Something about a charity gala next month.
She caught Cassian's eye at one point—he was ogling her, his gaze lingering in ways that made her skin crawl. Adrian noticed too. His hand shifted on the table, a subtle repositioning that somehow communicated she's mine, look away without a single word. Cassian's eyes dropped to his plate.
Interesting, Star thought.
Breakfast ended. The maids descended like a well-trained flock, clearing plates and refilling coffee cups with silent efficiency. Star, still awed by the mansion's sheer existence, asked if she might explore the grounds.
"Of course, dear," Christine said warmly. "Make yourself at home."
Star slipped out through the French doors, the morning sun warm on her face.
The moment she was gone, the entire table exhaled in unison.
"That was the best behavior I've ever seen," St. Stark commented, leaning back in his chair. His lion-headed cane rested against the table, its carved eyes seeming to watch the proceedings with ancient disapproval.
Then his gaze sharpened, shifting between Christine and Maria like a hawk spotting two mice in the same field.
"So. What's the tension between the two of you?"
Christine's smile was thin. Triumphant. "Maria has something to tell Adrian."
Maria's head snapped toward her mother-in-law. "I have?"
Her brows furrowed. Genuine confusion flickered across her face—and beneath it, something else. Something that looked almost like fear.
"Yes." Christine's grin widened. "You said you'd tell him the truth this morning."
The table went still. Coffee cups hovered.
"What truth, Mom?" Adrian asked, his curiosity piqued.
Upstairs, Bonita caught the shift in atmosphere like a weather change. She excused herself quietly, slipping away from the table with the practiced invisibility of someone who'd spent years avoiding family confrontations. Tiffany followed—a shadow to Bonita's retreat, her own curiosity burning.
"Maria." Christine's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "If you don't, I will."
"It's time, child." St. Stark's voice was gentler, but no less firm. "We're all here."
Maria looked around the table. At Christine's knowing eyes. At St. Stark's patient expectation. At Adrian's curious, open face—the face of the son she'd raised, the son who didn't know, the son who couldn't know—
"I'm..."
She stuttered. Swallowed and looked at St. Stark one more time, as if searching for an escape route that didn't exist.
"I have cancer!"
The words landed like a bomb.
Shock rippled through the room. Christine's triumphant expression froze, then crumbled into confusion. St. Stark's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. Adrian's face went pale—then red—then pale again.
That was not the truth they'd expected. And none of them had any idea Maria had cancer.
***
The Stark gardens were impossible.
Star walked along a path of crushed white stone, her borrowed pants swishing around her ankles, her bare feet enjoying the warmth of the sun-heated ground. Flowers bloomed in carefully orchestrated riots of color—roses the color of sunset, lavender that released its scent with every breeze, hedges trimmed into shapes so precise they looked like green sculptures.
Fountains burbled in the distance. A koi pond glittered under the morning light, orange and white fish drifting lazily beneath the surface.
This is someone's backyard, Star thought.
She found a stone bench near the pond and sat, letting the sun warm her face. For a moment—just a moment—she could pretend everything was normal. But deep down she still feel a hollow of darkness in her system. Her mother must be worrying sick of her. But thinking of her mother, it's like the thought is far fetched. Lucian could meet her eyes whenever she asked about her mother. Did Frieda do something? Did she kill my mother?
What am I doing? she thought out loud
She touched her stomach—flat, unrevealing, hiding a secret that would eventually demand to be known. How long did she have before it started showing? Before everyone knew? Before Adrian looked at her with the same pity everyone else did, but worse—because it would be mixed with disappointment?
You can't have him, she told herself firmly. You can't have anyone. Not like this.
"You looked like you needed this."
Star startled, spinning around.
Cassian stood a few feet away, holding out a glass of something cold and pink. Lemonade, maybe. His smile was easy, practiced—the smile of someone used to charming their way through life.
"Thanks." Star took the glass, her fingers brushing his briefly. She didn't drink.
"Mind if I sit?"
She shrugged. He sat anyway.
They sat in silence for a long moment, watching the koi drift. Then Cassian spoke, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
"You know, Adrian's never brought anyone to family breakfast before."
Star's grip on her glass tightened. "I'm not anyone. I'm just... recovering here. Temporarily."
"Sure." Cassian's smile was knowing. "Temporarily. In his clothes. After spending the night on his floor."
"It's not—I didn't sleep in his room" Star's cheeks flushed
"I'm not judging." He held up his hands in surrender. "I'm just saying. He looks at you differently than I've ever seen him look at anyone." A pause. "Including Tiffany."
Star didn't know what to say to that. So she said nothing.
Cassian stood, brushing off his pants. "Just... be careful, okay? This family—we're not as perfect as we look."
Star shrugged. She didn't plan on knowing how perfect they are. She just needed to recover and go home back to her mother, and Safe.