“Don’t scream,” Caleb whispered, and I went from terrified to furious to something else entirely in about three seconds flat. My body’s reactions to him were becoming embarrassingly predictable.

He removed his hand slowly, like I was a spooked horse who might bolt. Smart man. I pushed myself up against the headboard, trying to look less like a disaster and more like someone who hadn’t just been caught mid-nightmare.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” I hissed, keeping my voice low. The last thing I needed was my parents discovering their house guest playing midnight vampire.

“I couldn’t sleep. Went for water.” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “Heard you talking in your sleep from the hallway. You sounded distressed.”

No sharp edges, no careful distance. Just genuine worry that made my chest tight in ways I didn’t want to examine.

He sat on the edge of my bed like he belonged there, like this was normal, like we were normal.

“What were you dreaming about?” he asked, and the tenderness in his voice was my undoing.

Something inside me shattered—whatever wall I’d built to keep the chaos contained just crumbled like cheap drywall. The tears came hard and fast, the kind of ugly crying that would’ve sent my mother straight to her fainting couch.

Guilt over the study incident hit me like a freight train. Using Anthony like a weapon, the look on Caleb’s face in the wine cellar, the exhaustion from playing seventeen different roles for seventeen different audiences.

“I’m so tired,” I gasped between sobs. “I’m so fucking tired of being whoever everyone needs me to be. Perfect daughter, virgin bride, rebellious wild child—I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Caleb didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to fix it with empty platitudes. He just pulled me against his chest, and I collapsed into him like he was the only solid thing in a world gone liquid. I breathed him in like oxygen.

“I had sex with Anthony,” I confessed into his shirt, the words muffled but clear enough. “In my father’s study. During dessert. I’m a terrible person.”

His hand paused in my hair for just a second before resuming its gentle stroking. “You’re not terrible. You’re twenty-two and drowning. There’s a difference.”

We sat in silence after that, my hiccupping sobs gradually fading to occasional sniffles. His hand never stopped moving through my hair, each stroke devastating in its gentleness.

This was dangerous territory—this softness, this care. But I was too exhausted to guard against it, too worn down to maintain my defenses.

Sleep claimed me still wrapped in his arms, feeling safer than I had in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe ever.

Sunlight assaulted my retinas like a personal vendetta. I woke up expecting emptiness—turnabout’s fair play, right? He’d held me through my breakdown; the least he could do was disappear before reality set in.

But no. Caleb was passed out next to me, fully clothed on top of the covers like some kind of gentleman who’d accidentally fallen asleep on guard duty.

In the morning light, he looked younger, all his sharp edges softened by sleep. No calculated charm, no careful distance. Just a man who’d spent the night holding a girl while she cried about her poor life choices.

The clock read 8:47. Breakfast was at 9:00. My father’s punctuality was pathological.

“Shit. Shit. Wake up.” I shook his shoulder, panic rising like bile. “You cannot be in here.”

He opened one eye, completely unbothered by our impending doom. “Morning to you too.”

The lazy smile he gave me should’ve been illegal in at least forty-seven states. Before I could launch into a full panic spiral about extraction plans and alibis, he leaned over and kissed me.

Soft, sweet, nothing like our desperate hotel encounter. Just a good morning kiss, like we were people who did that, like this was our life.

Then he slipped out of my room like a ghost who’d gotten really good at avoiding household staff, leaving me flopped back on my pillows, grinning like an absolute idiot.

One kiss and I was ready to compose terrible poetry. Maybe sonnets. Definitely something with an embarrassing rhyme scheme.

***

The days after blurred together in careful choreography. I practically moved into Josie’s place, only returning home for mandatory meals where I could feel my father’s expectations pressing down like atmospheric pressure.

His office was now radioactive territory—I took the long way around to avoid even passing that particular crime scene.

Caleb’s knowing looks across the dinner table made me squirm like a Catholic school girl caught reading smut.

Every accidental brush of fingers felt loaded with enough electricity to power Manhattan. I was one meaningful glance away from spontaneous combustion.

“You’re vibrating at a frequency that screams sexual frustration,” Josie observed over morning coffee at her place.

We’d developed a routine: me showing up with overnight bags and emotional baggage, her providing caffeine and brutal honesty.

“That’s very specific,” I deflected, but she wasn’t wrong. Every cell in my body felt tuned to Caleb’s presence, even when he was miles away.

Josie always saw through the cracks I tried to plaster shut.

So when she showed up three days later, smug and victorious, I wasn’t entirely surprised.

“You need this,” she declared three days later, holding up what looked like an invitation to bad decisions. Some Upper East Side party where trust funds mingled and mistakes wore designer labels. “Don’t even try to argue.”

“I’m really perfecting the art of self-imposed misery,” I protested weakly. “It’s becoming my brand.”

“Your brand is tragic, and I’m staging an intervention.” Her tone brooked no argument. “I’ll tell your parents you’re staying over. You’re going. You’re going to wear something scandalous, drink overpriced alcohol, and remember what fun feels like.”

“Fun?” I pretended to consider it. “That thing normal twenty-two-year-olds have?”

“Exactly. Plus, imagine arriving home at dawn in party clothes. Your father might actually have an aneurysm.”

The logic was sound. Vindictive, but sound. And once the plan was in motion, there was no stopping her. Josie thrived on chaos with purpose.

Josie’s apartment became command central for Operation: Make Mikaela Look Like She Doesn’t Have a Trust Fund and Daddy Issues.

We raided her closet like it was Bergdorf’s during a sale—trying on everything, discarding conservative for scandalous, appropriate for absolutely not.

I ended up in something that barely qualified as a dress—black, backless, and short enough to give my mother heart palpitations.

“If you’re going to rebel, commit,” Josie said, applying lipstick like war paint. “Half-assed rebellion is just sad.”

The gratitude hit unexpectedly, making my throat tight.

This fierce, loyal friend who refused to let me wallow in my elaborate pity party. Who saw through my bullshit and loved me anyway.

We pregamed with champagne and dance moves that would’ve horrified my childhood ballet instructor, feeling twenty-two and invincible for the first time in forever.

By the time we arrived, tipsy and glittering with overconfidence, the night already felt like a victory lap.

The penthouse screamed new money trying desperately to look like old money—too much marble, not enough taste.

Bodies everywhere, music that probably cost more to book than most people’s annual salaries.

Josie was immediately absorbed by her circle of similarly rebellious trust fund babies, leaving me clutching overpriced vodka like a lifeline.

I’d never been to something like this—too many years playing Gunther Wallace’s perfect daughter had left me socially stunted in specific ways.

The freedom felt foreign, like wearing someone else’s skin. But maybe that was the point. Maybe I needed to try on different versions of myself until I found one that fit.

I was just starting to appreciate the anonymity when familiar hands circled my waist from behind. I spun around, coming face to face with Anthony’s shark grin.

“Fancy seeing you here, Wallace.” His eyes traveled down my dress with obvious appreciation. “Didn’t know you did the party scene.”