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No, he went to get the penthouse ready. I’m grabbing my things from home.

Why do you ask?

Mason

What do you mean, why do we ask?!

Lena

That kiss was insane!

Oh, yeah. I hope the public buys it.

Lena

Girl. You’re both done for.

The windows of the courthouse practically steamed up.

Lena …

Mason

She’s right. I’m about to write fan fiction about you two.

Please don’t.

You’re both done for.

The words follow me out of the courthouse, into Nick’s car, and all the way across the city to pick up my essentials at my place. Sunlight is waning beyond the buildings, stars winking on like tiny lamps in the sky.

When Nick’s driver pulls up in front of Mrs. Martin’s house, it’s twilight. I spot the tiniest shift in the upstairs curtains while I clomp down the steps to my basement suite. Two eyes peer out: one belonging to Mrs. Martin, the other belonging to her orange demon.

I give them a quick wave. The day before, I let Mrs. Martin know that I’ll be gone for the next three months but will still be paying rent. Her glasses nearly fell off.

“And how do you expect to manage that?” she’d asked.

“I’m getting married,” I’d replied with a smile.

It hadn’t seemed real, then.

Now, I change into jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers, and wheel my suitcases out of the life I know and into the private elevator that leads to Nick’s downtown penthouse.

His massive, multi-million-dollar, luxury downtown penthouse.

I’m not in Kansas anymore.

I stare at myself in the mirrored elevator car until there’s a softdingand the doors slide open again. The entrance hall of Nick’s place appears. I look up—up, up, up—at the vast ceiling, and my stomach twists in uncharacteristic knots.

I don’t get nervous easily. When I was fourteen, my best friend dared me to talk our way into a sold-out concert, eyeing the female security guards at one of the entrances. Young Sienna had adjusted her backpack, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and strolled right up to that security guard like it was nothing.

I didn’t just get us two tickets. I got us backstage passes.

But this … this feels different.

The first thing I notice is how empty Nick’s place feels. Sharp edges, gleaming marble. Ahead of me, a floor-to-ceiling window wall offers a breathtaking view of the darkening city, obstructed only by a floating staircase with sparkling glass railings. Everything is sleek and sterile, the kind of modern luxury you’d find in an architecture magazine.

Nick is nowhere to be found.