Bonita's bedroom was a monument to curated chaos.
Designer clothes draped over chairs like forgotten promises. The faint scent of expensive perfume hung in the air, mixing with something sweeter. Candy, maybe. Or the ghost of last night's champagne.
Bonita and Tiffany were sprawled across the massive bed, their laughter bouncing off the walls as they scrolled through TikTok. The easy, thoughtless intimacy of two people who'd known each other long enough to be cruel without consequence.
A knock at the door cut through their giggles.
"Come in," Bonita called, not bothering to look up.
The door swung open. And there she was.
Star.
Still swimming in Adrian's clothes. Clothes that Adrian had never let Tiffany borrow, not once, not even when she'd asked—and she'd asked often.
"Well," Tiffany's voice curdled like milk left in the sun. "If it isn't the homewrecker."
The word hung in the air, sharp and ugly.
Star didn't flinch. Her face remained neutral, her hands clasped behind her back, her posture careful and contained. She stood just inside the doorway, not venturing further into the room—a guest who knew she wasn't welcome but had come anyway.
"What do you want, Star?" Bonita's expression was unreadable. Not hostile, not welcoming. Just... watching.
"Can I use your phone?" Star's voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—a thread of desperation pulled tight. "Adrian won't let me be anywhere near a phone."
Bonita's eyebrow arched. "Why would you think I would allow you?"
Star didn't answer immediately. Her eyes drifted around the room—taking in the chaos, the luxury, the casual wealth scattered everywhere like it meant nothing. Tiffany's glare could have melted steel, but Star seemed entirely unbothered by it.
"If Ad doesn't want you to use the phone, he has a reason." Bonita slid off the bed, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. She crossed to a built-in cupboard and pulled it open, revealing an arsenal of snacks—imported chocolates, artisanal chips, and candies in languages Star couldn't read. "And I'm not about to defy him."
She selected something—a wrapped pastry, golden and flaky-looking—and turned back.
And then she did something that made absolutely no sense.
She held it out to Star.
Star blinked. Stared at the snack like it might bite her. Her hands stayed behind her back, frozen in uncertainty. This was... not what she'd expected. Not from Bonita. Not from the girl who'd bully her, who'd made sure she knew exactly how out of place she was.
"You're still recovering," Bonita said, her arm still extended, the pastry waiting. "Maybe using the phone might delay that."
Slowly—carefully, like she was reaching toward a wild animal that might snap at any moment—Star accepted the offering.
Their eyes met.
Bonita's were dark brown. Deep and unreadable, like coffee left to cool too long. Not blue. Not like Adrian's. Star filed this information away, adding it to the growing mountain of secrets she'd accumulated in just one morning.
What game is she playing?
Star decided, in that moment, to play dumb. To act like she knew nothing. To smile, nod, recover, and get the hell out of this mansion before its secrets swallowed her whole.
She had her own problems. Her mother. Frieda. And her studies. The baby growing inside her that she still couldn't think about without feeling sick.
One crisis at a time.
"Is there something I should know?" Star asked, her voice carefully neutral.
Bonita's face didn't change. "I don't know."
"Thanks." Star raised the snack in a small salute and slipped out the door.
It clicked shut behind her.
***
The silence lasted approximately three seconds.
"What the fuck was that?"
Tiffany was off the bed now, her hands planted on her hips, her face cycling through shades of red that would have impressed a sunset. Her voice had climbed into a register usually reserved for fire alarms and small dogs.
"What?" Bonita asked, genuinely confused. She'd already turned back to the cupboard, scanning for something else to eat.
"You gave her my snack!" Tiffany gestured wildly at the closed door. "The pistachio croissant! The one from that bakery in Paris that your mom had flown in! I was planning to eat that!"
Bonita shrugged, selecting a bag of something expensive and crunchy. "Star is our guest. And we treat her as such." She tore open the bag with her teeth. "Didn't you hear Saint at breakfast?"
Tiffany's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping on a dock. "Saint? You're quoting Saint now? Since when do you care what that old man says?"
"I don't." Bonita crunched into a chip, utterly unbothered. "But it seemed like the right thing to say."
The truth—the real truth, the one Bonita would never speak aloud—sat quietly in the back of her mind, undisturbed.
Tiffany is my best friend.
But Star is closer to Adrian than Tiffany has ever been.
And I need Star.
Not for friendship. Not for sisterhood. For information. Star had Adrian's ear. Adrian's trust. Adrian's heart. And Bonita had questions—about her father's disappearance, about the gaps in her memory, about the nagging feeling that someone in this house knew exactly what happened to David Stark and was pretending otherwise.
If she could win Star's trust... if she could make Star see her as an ally...
Then maybe Star would tell Adrian things. And maybe Adrian would tell me. And maybe—just maybe—I'd finally get some answers.
Bonita crunched another chip.
Tiffany was still fuming, her arms crossed, her bottom lip pushed out in a pout that had probably worked on her father but did nothing for Bonita.
"You're acting weird," Tiffany accused.
"I'm always weird."
"Weirder than usual."
Bonita smiled—a small, private thing that didn't reach her eyes. "Maybe I'm just growing up."
Tiffany snorted. "Doubtful."
But she dropped it, flopping back onto the bed and grabbing her phone with aggressive energy. The TikTok scroll resumed, but the easy laughter from before was gone. Something had shifted. Something neither of them was willing to name.
Bonita watched her best friend pretend to be absorbed in her phone and wondered when exactly their friendship had become this—a performance, a habit, a thing she maintained because she'd always maintained it.
She crunched another chip.
Star walked down the hallway, the pistachio croissant still clutched in her hand, her mind racing.
Bonita gave me a snack.
It was such a small thing. Insignificant. A pastry from a cupboard, offered without fanfare. But nothing in this house was small. Nothing was insignificant. Every gesture, every word, every glance carried weight she couldn't fully understand.
Bonita is investigating her father's disappearance. Maria is the main suspect. And Bonita just... gave me a snack.
She wants something.
The realization settled into Star's bones like cold water finding its level. Bonita wasn't being kind. Bonita was being strategic. She was building a bridge, laying a foundation, creating a connection that she could use later.
But for what?
Star didn't know. Couldn't know. Not yet. But she filed it away with all the other secrets she was collecting—Maria's fake cancer, Adrian's real mother, David Stark's desperate message from beyond the grave.
She touched her stomach—flat, silent, keeping its secret for now. But secrets never stayed buried forever. They always clawed their way to the surface, demanding to be seen.
One crisis at a time.
She bit into the croissant. It was, annoyingly, the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.
***
Dr. Mathews returned to the ninth floor with his leather bag and his carefully neutral expression, the same one he'd worn for twenty years of delivering news that changed people's lives. Star lay still on the hospital bed, her clothes exchanged once more for the thin hospital gown that seemed to be her uniform in this house. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, painting golden rectangles across the floor.
She looked small against the white sheets. Smaller than she had this morning, when she'd been laughing with Adrian in his closet, when she'd kissed him like the world was ending. Now her face was drawn, her eyes watching the doctor's every movement with the sharp attention of someone who'd learned not to trust what she couldn't see.
"What's wrong with me, doctor?"
Dr. Mathews opened his mouth to answer—
"I have to make a stop by the office." Adrian's voice cut through, smooth and deflecting. He was already reaching for his jacket, already halfway to the door in his mind. "Will you be alright?"
Star's jaw tightened. "I want to see or speak to my mother."
The words came out flat. Not a request. A demand.
In this house of whispered conversations and sideways glances, of secrets stacked on secrets like a house of cards waiting to collapse, she wanted—needed—one thing that was real. One person who loved her without conditions or calculations.
Her mother.
Dr. Mathews glanced at Adrian. A flicker for a fraction of a second. But Star caught it—the way his eyes darted to Adrian's face, seeking permission or guidance or something she couldn't name.
They're hiding something, she thought.
"How's she doing?" Adrian asked, ignoring Star's demand entirely.
"Her vitals are fine." Dr. Mathews resumed his examination, his penlight clicking on and off as he tracked Star's pupil response. "Her responsiveness is great. And her memory is intact."
Adrian's brows furrowed. Intact. That word didn't match what he'd seen—Star not remembering the cliff. How could her memory be intact?
He gestured toward the hallway. Dr. Mathews nodded almost imperceptibly and followed him out, pulling the door nearly closed behind them.
Star watched them go. Watched the door settle into its frame with a soft click that felt like a lock turning.
No.
She slipped off the bed, her bare feet silent on the cold floor, and pressed herself against the door. The voices filtered through—muffled but audible if she held her breath and didn't move.
"Why doesn't she remember being stabbed and falling off the cliff if her memory is intact?" Adrian's voice was tight. Controlled. The voice of someone trying very hard not to panic.
"I just said that in front of her." Dr. Mathews's voice was lower now, stripped of its clinical brightness. "Star has dissociative amnesia. A form of PTSD. Her mind closes when she's extremely terrified. It refuses to record the events of trauma—to protect itself."
"Is it safe if she—"
"No." The doctor's voice cut through like a blade. "It's not safe. Forcing those memories could result in another coma. Or she may simply be worse. And worse—" He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. The silence said more than words ever could.
"I don't have PTSD."
Both men spun around.
Star stood in the doorway, her hospital gown hanging loose on her frame, her hands clenched at her sides. Her eyes were dry but blazing—not with tears, but with something hotter. Something that looked almost like fury.
"Star—what—"
"You've all been hiding my own sickness from me." Her voice trembled but didn't break. "If something is wrong with me, I should know. You don't hide it from me."
She stepped forward, and Adrian instinctively reached for her hands—to calm her, to ground her, to stop her from spinning out into something he couldn't control.
"Where is my mother?"
Adrian's hands froze mid-air.
"Where. Is. My. Mother."
"Star, please—"
"Adrian." His name came out like a thunderclap, her clenched fists rising as if she might strike him. Her chest heaved. Her eyes glistened with tears she refused to let fall. "Where is my mother?"
The hallway fell silent.
Adrian's face—usually so composed, so carefully controlled—cracked open. Something raw and terrible flickered in his eyes. Guilt. Grief. The weight of a truth he'd been carrying alone, waiting for the right moment that would never come.
"You need to calm down, babe." His voice was barely a whisper. "Please."
Star's breath hitched. Her fists loosened.
"Is Mom dead?"
The question came out small. Broken. A child's voice from a woman's body.
Dr. Mathews stepped forward, his hand gentle on Star's elbow as he guided her back into the room. She let him. Her legs moved automatically, her body complying while her mind raced ahead, trying to outrun what she already knew was coming.
"You aren't here because of the car accident," the doctor said, settling her back onto the bed. His voice was calm. Clinical. The voice he used for terminal diagnoses and impossible choices. "Adrian saved you when you fell off a cliff by the escarpment."
Star's face went pale.
"And you had a deep knife wound in your chest that caused pneumothorax—a collapsed lung. You've been in a coma for a week now."
A week. The word echoed in her skull. Seven days of her life, gone. Seven days she couldn't account for, couldn't remember, couldn't reclaim.
"Why don't I remember this?"
"Your brain is showing signs of dissociative amnesia. And it's not new—it's recurring. Which means you've had it for some time now." Dr. Mathews paused, choosing his next words carefully. "The memory is there. But your brain doesn't ever want to remember."
Star sat very still. "So I can remember. If I want."
"Yes." The doctor's voice was heavy. "But it's dangerous."
"I want to remember."
The words came out without hesitation. Without blinking. Star slid off the bed, her bare feet hitting the floor with quiet determination.
"Star. No." Adrian stepped forward, his hand reaching for her.
"You don't decide for me."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Adrian's hand dropped. His jaw tightened. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture of pure frustration—and his phone rang.
Lazarus.
The name on the caller ID made his stomach clench. The office. The meeting. The investors who were waiting for him, who held the future of Stark Architects in their manicured hands.
"I will be there in a minute," Adrian snapped into the phone. "Just stall for some time."
He hung up and turned back to the room.
Dr. Mathews was speaking again, his voice careful and measured. "I know a technique. But it's not safe—especially for you."
"What are the risks?" Adrian demanded.
"For her?" The doctor didn't sugar-coat. "There's a high chance she may die. She has a strangely high heart rate, and there are some test results I'm still waiting for. I can't use any memory recovery technique until I'm certain she's healthy enough."
"Good. Then—"
"I'm fine, doctor." Star's voice cut through. "Really fine. I don't feel any pain. My chest is fine. And this is psychology, not cardiology."
"No." Adrian's voice was final. Absolute. "Absolutely not."
Star turned to face him fully. Her eyes—red-rimmed but fierce—met his without flinching.
"Either I remember now," she said, each word deliberate and weighted, "or you tell me where my mother is and why I can't use a phone."
The ultimatum hung in the air between them.
"I've been expelled, Adrian. Maybe you didn't know that."
Adrian exhaled—a long, defeated sound that seemed to drain something vital from him. He looked at Dr. Mathews. At the floor. At the ceiling. Anywhere but at Star's face.
"The institution discovered that the pictures were deepfakes made by Selena Grimm. Your expulsion can be reinstated. I'll make sure of it."
Star frowned. Selena. Her roommate. The girl who'd shared a bathroom and late-night takeout and absolutely nothing resembling friendship. They weren't enemies, but they weren't friends. Why would Selena make deepfakes of her? Why would she go to such lengths to destroy someone she barely knew?
"That doesn't make sense. Why would Selena do that?"
Adrian pressed his palm against his face, his shoulders slumping. He looked like a man standing at the edge of something he couldn't come back from.
"Star..." His voice cracked. "The night I saved you—when you fell from the cliff—there was a cabin that caught fire. Just a mile from the escarpment."
Star's blood ran cold.
"The police identified the bodies in the cabin." Adrian's eyes finally met hers, and they were swimming with tears he refused to shed. "They were Selena's... and your mother's."
Silence.
Star's face went through stages—confusion, disbelief, the slow, horrible dawn of understanding. Her lips parted. Closed. Parted again.
"My..." Her voice was barely audible. "My mother is dead?"
Adrian didn't answer. He couldn't. The words were stuck in his throat, too heavy to speak.
"My mother is dead?"
This time her voice cracked—a sob tearing through the question, ripping it apart. Her red-rimmed eyes searched Adrian's face, begging him to take it back, to tell her it was a mistake, to give her anything other than this terrible, world-ending truth.
Adrian crossed the space between them in two steps and pulled her into his arms.
Star collapsed against him. Her fists—clenched so tightly just moments ago—gripped his shirt like a lifeline. Her body shook with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her chest, somewhere primal and broken. The sounds she made weren't words. They were the raw, animal noises of a heart being torn in half.
Adrian held her. His hand cradled the back of her head, pressing her face into his shoulder. His other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her upright as her legs threatened to give out. He didn't speak. There were no words for this. No comfort that could reach through the devastation of losing the person who'd loved you first, loved you always, loved you without condition.
Star's sobs grew louder, more ragged, more uncontrolled. Her fingers dug into Adrian's back hard enough to leave marks. She didn't notice. She didn't notice anything except the gaping, impossible hole that had just opened in the center of her world.
Dr. Mathews quietly gathered his things and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Some moments were too sacred for witnesses.
Adrian held Star as the afternoon light shifted across the floor, as her sobs slowly gave way to hiccupping breaths, as the weight of her grief pressed down on both of them like a physical thing.
I should have told her sooner, he thought. I should have found the words. I should have—
But there was no should have. There was only now. Only this girl in his arms, broken and trembling, and the desperate, impossible need to make it better even though he knew nothing ever would.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I'm so sorry, Star."
She didn't answer. She just held on tighter.