LOGINAlexandra's POV The sharp click of my Louboutin heels against the marble floor echoed through the hotel room, an impatient rhythm that perfectly matched my mood. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five damn minutes waiting to see if my plan would actually work. I stopped in front of the mirror and adjusted my red dress for the third time, irritated not just by the delay but by the space itself. The reflection staring back at me was flawless, as always—hair perfectly styled in elegant waves, makeup done by one of the best artists in London, exclusive Lennox jewelry catching the light. And yet, even though it was a Rosemont Hotel and I knew quality when I saw it, I had never stayed in such a… subpar room. The executive suite was nice, sure, with panoramic views of London and high-end finishes, but I usually stayed in presidential suites. Places where I belonged. Spaces that properly reflected my social standing, my status, my importance. But with everything fully booked for New Year's Eve
"I'm Christian Kensington's sister-in-law," I explained simply, watching Tori nearly drop the card she was holding. Her eyes went wide, her mouth fell slightly open, and she blinked several times, like she was trying to process something impossible. "You're… what?" she asked, taking a step back and shaking her head in disbelief. "Nate never mentioned that! And he and Christian have been best friends since college." I discreetly rubbed my temple, a dull headache starting to form. The noise of the party felt louder all of a sudden, and the chandelier lights were beginning to bother me. "Yeah," I said, leaning lightly against the nearby counter. "My sister Zoey is married to him." Tori ran a hand through her hair, still clearly processing the revelation. "I can't believe you never mentioned it… and that Nate never said anything either," she murmured, looking at me with a whole new perspective. "Why didn't you ask Nate to make that connection with Christian for you?" I asked, g
The magical moment of locking eyes with Nate was cut short before I could fully process what I'd felt. I had barely taken two steps toward the terrace when a man approached me with a confident, charming smile, subtly blocking my path. "Impressive how unpredictable English weather can be—even indoors," he said in a refined Eisenwald accent, gesturing toward the windows where rain had just begun to tap softly against the glass. "Outside it's pouring, yet in here you've managed to create a perpetual summer." I couldn't help a genuine laugh. "That's true," I replied with an easy smile. "I think the English have perfected the art of completely ignoring their own weather. If we depended on it to celebrate, London would be a much quieter city." "Exactly!" he laughed, clearly pleased that he'd made me smile. "Klaus Reinhardt, by the way." The last name made me pause instantly. Reinhardt. As in Reinhardt Industries, the largest buyer of Kensington's organic line in Euradia, responsibl
The morning of December 31st arrived with a mental clarity I hadn't felt in days. I woke up earlier than usual, filled with a sense of determination that had been missing ever since the truth about Wanderer came out. My conversation with Zoey the day before had lifted a weight off my shoulders, one I hadn't even realized I was carrying. The pressure to feel what I thought I should feel, instead of accepting what I actually felt. Around nine a.m., my phone buzzed with Nate's usual morning message. For days, I'd read every single one without replying, stuck between stubbornness and confusion. Today was different. [Good morning, Annie. I hope you have a wonderful night tonight.] I picked up my phone and, for the first time in five days, typed a response. [See you tonight.] It was simple. Direct. But heavy with meaning. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't a promise that everything was okay. It was just an acknowledgment that I was ready to talk, to be in the same space and figure ou
Nathaniel's POVThe last few days had been their own special kind of torture. My morning routine had turned into a pathetic ritual: pick up my phone, type out a message to Annie, delete it, rewrite it, delete it again—until I finally landed on something that didn't sound too desperate. Good morning felt safe. Asking how she was felt risky—it might come across like I was demanding a response. Sometimes I commented on something mundane from my day, hoping it would sound casual. It was an impossible balance between staying present and not invading the space she so clearly needed. Every word was weighed and reweighed before I hit send. Every message was a careful attempt to show I hadn't given up, without sounding like I was begging. But the worst part came after every message was sent. My heart raced every time my phone lit up with a notification, some ridiculously hopeful part of me convinced it might be Annie. That maybe this time she'd decided to talk. That maybe she was ready to
The days that followed dragged by in a gray, monotonous haze. My apartment became both my refuge and my prison, a place where I could sort through my tangled emotions without having to pretend I was fine for the outside world. Nate texted me regularly. They weren't desperate or suffocating messages. Somehow, he'd found a careful balance between staying present and giving me the space I clearly needed. Sometimes it was just a good morning. Other times he'd ask how I was, or share some small detail about his day. He never pushed for a reply, never begged to talk, never tried to make me feel guilty for my silence. I read every single one. I didn't answer any of them. His calls followed the same pattern. My phone would ring, his name lighting up the screen, and I'd let it go to voicemail. He never called obsessively, respecting my choice not to pick up—but he didn't disappear either. It was as if he was gently reminding me that he was still there, waiting, whenever I was ready. Par







