Page 4

Angelique

T hirty minutes.

That's how long I lie in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if it holds the secret to sleep.

News flash, it doesn't.

My mind is a wrecking ball, slamming again and again into everything I'm trying not to think about. I need to knock myself out, and what better way to do that than exhaust my social battery? Exhaustion has always been a better lullaby for me than peace and quiet.

With a groan, I shove the covers off and drag my suitcase onto the bed, digging through it until I find something halfway decent—black boyfriend jeans, a cropped grey tank top, my old black leather jacket, and sneakers.

It’s not completely baggy—more fitted than what I’ve been wearing these past few weeks—but the pants and jacket will keep my shape hidden enough where I won’t feel so exposed. Small steps. That’s all I can manage right now.

I pull the tank top over my head, then reach for my jacket, and that’s when I see them.

Two thin, raw lines slashing across the soft brown skin just beneath my wrist bone.

They aren't deep—it was too difficult to cut deep using a shaving razor—just fresh enough to sting when the fabric brushes over them.

Shame twists sharply in my chest, carving through the numbness.

I hadn't planned to do it, it just happened.

The bath had been too quiet, the silence too heavy and my mind too loud.

I needed something to cut through the suffocating weight pressing me down, and it had worked—for a little.

Long enough to sleep, at least, until that nightmare had dragged me under again.

Guilt pushes its way up my throat like bile, so I yank the sleeves of my jacket down over my wrists, turning away from the mirror. I can't stand the way my reflection looks back at me, hollowed out and frayed at the edges.

At the vanity, I quickly dab on concealer, then a sweep of blush, trying to fake some life into my face without looking at myself long.

It's not perfect, the shadows under my eyes still bleeding through, but it's enough to pass if nobody looks too closely, and I don’t let anyone get that close anymore, anyway.

Outside, the night air is shockingly cool.

It smells like wet earth and new blossoms, fresh and damp.

The gravel crunches under my sneakers as I make my way down the path toward the main house.

Every sound feels too loud in the darkness, and every shift of the shadows prickles at the back of my neck.

I hate the dark and how it makes me feel on edge now, but I keep walking.

The music from the party is loud enough to rattle the ground, the low thump of the bass punching the air.

I step into a cloud of cigarette smoke and laughter as I squeeze past a group of guys clutching red solo cups outside the front door.

One of them gives me a slow, lazy once-over and I look away fast, heart thudding.

It's chaos inside. Bodies packed together, writhing, laughing, and singing off-key.

A sea of sound and movement, and my gut twists tight.

Coming here was a mistake, a terrible one.

I keep my head down, weaving through the crowd, dodging elbows and drinks that slosh dangerously close to my clothes.

Every brush of a stranger's hand makes my skin crawl, a tightness settling in my throat.

Why the hell did I think I could handle this?

Thankfully, I spot Lando moments later. He's leaning against the kitchen counter, flirting with a guy who looks like an underwear model. His curls bounce as he laughs, his entire face lit up with that effortless, mischievous energy he's always had.

When he spots me, his eyes widen, and he practically shoves Hot Underwear Model Guy aside without a second thought.

"You came!" he shrieks, barreling toward me and grabbing my wrist to drag me into the kitchen.

Before I can get a word out, he's already pouring something fizzy into a red cup.

"I don't really—" I start.

"Shhh," he grins. "It's champagne. We're celebrating!"

I raise a brow. "Celebrating what?"

"Your return to Marlow, babe," he says, clinking his cup against mine.

A genuine laugh escapes me, a little shaky, but real.

The bubbles fizz across my tongue, sweet and sharp.

For a while, I let him steer me through the crowd, introducing me to faces I haven’t seen in years.

Every time my drink gets low, Lando tops it up without saying a word, keeping it filled with that golden, dangerous effervescence.

I’m not drunk—just loose enough for the edges to blur, for the warmth in my chest to spread to my cheeks.

“Sinclair,” a familiar voice says from behind me. “Is that really you?”

I turn and come face to face with Max, Willow, and Alfie—people I used to know.

Once upon a time, they were my closest friends, but after my dad died, they slowly drifted away.

I quickly learned that grief makes people uncomfortable, even the ones who swore they’d always be there.

I wasn’t mad at them for it, I understood, but I never reached out to them again, either.

They move in for hugs with awkward smiles and uncertain eyes, but my body stiffens, panic tightening every muscle.

Without missing a beat, Lando slides smoothly between me and them, pulling them into his own bear hug instead.

I mouth a thank you and he winks at me, like it's the easiest thing in the world to protect me.

After a while, the noise grows louder, and the walls begin to feel closer as the crush of bodies becomes too much.

The champagne has settled warm in my veins, and the slight buzz that once felt manageable now has my head swimming a little too much.

I’m smiling too easily, swaying on my feet, and the air inside suddenly feels too thick to breathe, almost unsafe.

I slip away without telling anyone, and wander through the house, passing the sunroom where Lando and I used to build forts out of couch cushions and blankets.

The library where I fell asleep reading Wuthering Heights for the hundredth time, losing entire afternoons inside battered paperbacks, and the back hallway where we used to race in our socks, crashing into walls, laughing until we couldn't breathe.

Our fathers were best friends, so I spent almost every long weekend and summer break growing up here .

I keep walking until I find the side door that opens into the gardens and take a step outside, the cool air a welcome relief now.

The gardens are even more beautiful than I remember—rows of moonlit flowers, soft paths winding through neatly trimmed hedges, the scent of lavender, honeysuckle, and wet grass thick in the air.

Out here, the music is muffled, just a dull thump under the stars.

I walk without direction, past the bench that Lando and I used to fight over, deeper into the winding paths. A breeze lifts my dark curls from my shoulders as I walk and I close my eyes for just a second, breathing in the stillness, and slam straight into something solid.

I stagger back, my breath catching in my throat as I instinctively swing my arms out to steady myself just as someone's hand shoots out, gripping my upper arm, every nerve ending exploding from the contact.

"Careful," a low voice murmurs, and goosebumps creep up my arms at the sound so achingly familiar.

I look up and freeze, my eyes landing on Lando's older brother, Reign.

He towers over me, and it feels like the world stops for a second, like the champagne buzzing in my blood and the music thumping from the house have both been sucked into a vacuum.

Gone. Replaced by the sound of my pulse, deafening in my ears.

He's a few inches taller than I remember, his frame lean and sculpted like the powerful dancer he is but also stronger and more dangerous now than it was when we were younger.

The moon carves his features in silver—sharp cheekbones, an angular jaw, and a mouth that looks like it rarely smiles.

His hair is so pale it's almost white, tousled like he's been running his hands through it.

And his eyes—God, his eyes. Icy, electric blue, pin me in place, unreadable but intense enough to make the air around us shift.

The summer before my dad passed away, when I turned seventeen and Reign turned eighteen, we’d explored our unsaid feelings in secret.

In front of Lando, he’d tug my ponytail or push me into their pool, just to make it seem like he didn’t like me.

But in the afternoons, we’d sneak off into the gardens together and make out next to the peonies, his hands learning the curves of my body, our breaths mingling.

Now he's looking at me as if he doesn't remember who I am. But why would he? We never spoke again after I left.

"Are you lost?" he asks, before pointing over my head. “The party is back that way.”

His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher too.

It wraps around me like velvet and smoke, and I jerk my arm out of his grasp without thinking.

His touch had ignited something in me that I haven't felt since I left Marlow.

A spark of heat tangled together in a single heartbeat with the fear and awareness I now hold.

What a paradox.

"Sorry," I manage, breathless. "I didn't see you there."

"You weren't looking." His tone is distant and cool as he watches me.

"You've changed," I blurt, then immediately curse myself for sounding like an idiot, feeling heat rise to my cheeks under his gaze.

Thank God it’s dark out, because if it wasn’t, this would be ten times more mortifying. Somehow, despite the years, the distance, and everything that’s happened in my life, some part of me still cares far too much about what Reign thinks of me.

His mouth lifts into the ghost of a smile. "So have you, Angel." His eyes burn a path down my body and back up, his electric blues finding my eyes once more.

So, he does remember me.