Lost in the bass drop, my body moved on autopilot while my brain tried to process the Anthony bombshell.

One month. Four weeks. Thirty days until my personal apocalypse wore a white dress and pretended to give a shit about flower arrangements.

The music pounded through my bones, each beat a countdown to my corporate-sponsored doom.

Across the room, Josie had positioned herself between two finance bros who definitely had boats named after their exes—probably something tragic like “Jessica’s Revenge” or “Madison III.” Good for her.

At least someone was having a normal twenty-two-year-old experience tonight.

Then—a hand wrapped around my wrist. Not grabby like the party vultures who’d been circling all night, mistaking my dress for an invitation.

This was firm, purposeful, exactly calibrated to get my attention without setting off my fight-or-flight response.

Caleb.

In this crowd of trust fund babies and casual cocaine enthusiasts, he was devastating in his single-minded focus.

Zero fucks given about who saw us, what they’d think, what would get back to my father. He was here for me, only me, and the thrill of it hit harder than any overpriced alcohol.

“We’re leaving,” he said, already pulling me toward the exit with the kind of confidence that made resistance feel pointless.

“I didn’t say bye to Josie—” My protest was half-hearted at best. The part of me that gave a shit about party etiquette had checked out somewhere between Anthony’s confession and my third vodka.

“Text her from the car.”

Genius. Plus my head was already pounding from the music that apparently required hearing damage to properly appreciate.

I let him lead me through the crowd, bodies parting like he had some kind of force field that screamed “do not fuck with us.”

The taxi idled outside like he’d planned this extraction down to the second—probably had the meter running and everything.

We slid into the backseat, and suddenly the party chaos felt like another planet, somewhere distant and irrelevant.

He took my hand without asking, fingers interlacing like we’d done this a thousand times instead of dancing around each other like emotionally constipated idiots.

The silence between us wasn’t awkward—it was necessary, like we both needed to decompress from whatever alternate reality we’d just escaped.

I pulled out my phone with my free hand, thumb-typing a message to Josie: You’re literally the best human. Not my scene, heading home with a headache.

Her response was instant and predictably dark: Might be a brain tumor. See a doctor.

The laugh escaped before I could stop it, breaking the taxi’s careful quiet.

Caleb’s thumb traced circles on my palm, and I realized I’d been holding my breath since he showed up, like oxygen was suddenly optional in his presence.

“Not my parents’ place,” I said, finally registering we were heading the wrong direction.

Not a question—I didn’t actually care where we were going as long as it wasn’t back to the Wallace compound of perpetual disappointment.

“No,” he confirmed, still playing with my fingers like it was his job. “Not there.”

The building we pulled up to screamed money but whispered discretion—the kind of place with a doorman who saw everything and forgot it immediately, absolutely no signs indicating what wealthy bastards lived inside.

This wasn’t home. This wasn’t a hotel either.

Caleb didn’t explain, just led me through the lobby like I belonged there, like showing up at mysterious buildings with him at midnight was just our Thursday night routine.

The receptionist’s look could’ve frozen a river—clearly sizing me up as another girl being led to some rich man’s apartment, probably calculating whether I was escort or sugar baby or just regular poor.

I wanted to announce that I wasn’t a prostitute, thanks very much, just an emotionally damaged heiress having an identity crisis.

But Caleb was already at the elevator, punching buttons with the ease of someone who’d done this countless times.

The ride up was silent anticipation, my heart deciding to audition for a drum solo. Hallway. Door. Key.

Then we were inside an apartment that looked like someone actually lived there—not staged for Architectural Digest, not designed to impress.

Real life scattered across surfaces: books that had clearly been read, a coffee mug abandoned on the counter, shoes kicked off by the door like someone had just gotten home from a long day.

“This doesn’t feel like a hotel,” I observed, taking in the personal touches that suggested actual habitation.

A blanket thrown over the couch. Mail on the side table. The kind of comfortable chaos that happens when someone stops performing their life and starts living it.

“Because it’s not.” Caleb moved through the space with the ease of ownership, flicking on lights, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door. “It’s mine.”

The revelation hit like a record scratch, everything suddenly requiring recalibration.

My brain raced back through every breakfast at my parents’ table, every night he’d slept just down the hall, every carefully orchestrated family dinner where he’d played the perfect houseguest.

“How long have you had this?” The question came out accusatory, like he’d been hiding a secret family or a meth lab instead of just a normal apartment where normal people lived normal lives.

“Few years.” The casualness of it made my brain short-circuit, trying to process this new information that fundamentally altered everything I thought I knew.

“Then why?” The question built like pressure in my chest, demanding release. “Why have you been living in our house all this time instead of here?”

It didn’t compute. This gorgeous space with its view of the city, its comfortable furniture, its complete absence of my father’s oppressive presence—sitting empty while he played houseguest in the Wallace domain.

Sleeping in that sterile guest room. Eating breakfast at our table where every bite came with a side of judgment. Being constantly, torturously present in my daily life when he had this escape route the whole fucking time.

Caleb turned to face me fully, and the smile that spread across his face was equal parts tender and dangerous.

Like he’d been waiting for me to ask. Like the answer had been sitting there obvious as a neon sign this whole time and I’d just now learned to read.

“Take a guess,” he said, voice low and loaded with meaning I was almost afraid to interpret.

The words hung between us, an invitation and a confession wrapped in three syllables.

My heart stopped, restarts, stopped again. Because suddenly, devastatingly, with the kind of clarity that usually only comes with near-death experiences or really good drugs, I knew exactly why.

He’d been staying at my parents’ house for me.