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I shift slightly, conjuring a flicker of shadow beneath the box rail, a mimicry illusion just for her—a tiny version of me, dramatically reenacting the belly’s slow, triumphant descent into the seat. Complete with exaggerated flails and heroic music humming low under my breath.
Luna leans into my shoulder, head tilted just enough to rest there, her laughter finally quieting into that warm little hum I crave more than power. Her fingers graze mine.
Elias grabs my face. Both hands. Full grip. Fingers in my hair, palms cradling my cheeks like I’m a damned sacred artifact, and suddenly I’m staring down at the single mostheinoussight this theater has ever birthed.
Cowboy boots.
Not just any cowboy boots—white, rhinestoned abominations. And the man wearing them? The Belly King himself. The one who conquered that seat like it was a mountain and he’d brought snacks for the climb.
“Look at it,” Elias whispers, reverent. “Look at what he’s done.”
I whimper.
Not a cute one either. This is a full-bodied, woundedkeeningsound. Because those boots—those boots are a declaration of war. Against art. Against fashion. Againstme.
“I could’ve worn mine,” I whisper back, eyes wide with betrayal. “Ialmostdid.”
“But Luna said no,” Elias says, solemn.
“She saved me.”
“She did.”
We both look at her.
Luna’s sipping her drink like she’s above this, but I see it. The twitch at the corner of her mouth. The silentI told you soechoing louder than any spell.
Sheknew.
“Those boots,” I say, still in Elias’s clutches, “those boots are mocking me. I could’ve strutted in here. I could’ve made rhinestonesweep.But now?”
“You would’ve been twins,” Elias says gravely. “Bonded by bad choices. Indistinguishable in the chaos.”
“And not the good kind of chaos,” I add. “The tragic, Vegas-eloped-with-no-memory kind.”
Elias releases my face with the reverence of someone letting go of a cursed relic. “We’ll get through this,” he tells me. “But you need to remember this moment. Let it haunt you. Let it shape the man you become.”
“I hate him,” I mutter.
“You don’t even know his name.”
“I don’tneedto. I know hisboots.”
She’s pretending not to enjoy this, which is adorable. I lean toward her, stage lights catching the glint of vengeance in my eyes.
“You saved me, you know,” I say, voice low and dramatic, hand on my heart. “From fashion damnation. From becomingthat.”
She side-eyes me. “I saved you from a public stoning.”
“Same thing.”
I lean in closer, conspiratorial.
“Marry me,” I whisper.
“No,” she says instantly.
I grin, undeterred. “One day, you’re gonna say yes. And I’ll be wearing boots so beautiful the stars’ll ask where I got them.”