Chapter 2.

Alexa.

Jon’s warning comes too late.

We slam into the refreshment table with the force of a car crash, glass, chocolate, and sweet desserts exploding around us. The music screeches to a halt, and silence punches the room. Every pair of eyes swivels to us.

I blink, stunned, covered in red wine, icing, and shame.

Then I see them. My parents, stone-faced. My mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, my father’s jaw clenched. Ashley, pristine and perfect in white, stares at me like she’s watching a tragedy she predicted. Her smirk is a knife.

And then… Hulio.

He looks at me with a strange mix of pity and disgust, like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. His gaze lingers, just long enough to carve the humiliation into my chest—before he turns and listens to a whisper from some elegant woman beside him.

That’s when the tears come. Quiet at first. Hot and sharp.

I bolt.

I barely make it to the hallway before I slam into something solid. I almost fall again—God, not again—but arms catch me, steady me. Warm hands, strong.

“Hey,” a voice says, soft, grounding. “Are you alright?”

I look up.

It’s Helia Ripples.

His eyes—those eyes—are not what I expected. One green. One blue. Intense, but... kind. There’s no smirk, no mockery. Only concern. A gentleness I don’t recognize.

For a second, I can’t breathe.

He studies me—not like a man evaluating worth—but like someone looking for wounds.

I pull away, the sting of humiliation still rising in my throat. His kindness feels too heavy to hold. Without a word, I rush up the stairs, shut the door to my room, and collapse.

I can still feel the chocolate on my skin. The red of the wine staining my soul.

I rip off the dress, throw it into the basket. My beautiful dress. Grandma loved this one. She said it was worthy of a Paris runway. She promised me a future. A dream. A world beyond the stares and the smirks.

But right now, I don’t want dreams. I want a hole in the earth.

I drop to the floor, knees to my chest, and sob. Gut-wrenching. Raw. My body trembles as the scene replays—Jon’s shout, the silence, Ashley’s smirk, Hulio’s eyes.

They all saw me fall. They saw the proof. Alexa Hills—the weird, clumsy, invisible one—is nothing more than a pathetic joke in pearls.

I cry harder when I think of Ashley. My sister. My idol. She used to braid my hair. Whisper bedtime stories. But somewhere along the line, I became something she could mock. A reminder of imperfection.

She’s all shine. I’m all shadow.

And yet…

I remember Helia’s eyes.

Not pity. Not judgment.

Empathy.

The smallest smile cracks through the grief like a ray through storm clouds.

I wipe my face. Change into soft pajamas. Stuff the ruined dress away, like it might poison the air. It still smells faintly of vanilla and wine. My fingers brush the fabric.

I hear Grandma’s voice in my head,

“Oh my darling little designer. I will take you to the heights of Paris. I will make you conquer the world...”

I close my eyes.

Someday, Paris.

But first—survive tonight.

***

Hulio.

“Well… that was embarrassing,” I mutter, adjusting the cuff of my jacket.

Jude Wellings chuckles beside me, casually dipping strawberries into chocolate.

“What was?”

“The girl. That mess by the refreshment table. Absolute disaster.” I sip my wine.

Jude glances over. “Oh. Her. Yeah. Poor thing. Who let her into an event like this?” He snorts, licking chocolate off his thumb.

I don’t laugh.

There’s something about the way she fell… the sheer awkwardness of it. The boy beside her—what was he doing sneaking behind a lattice with someone so clearly out of her depth?

When I was that age, I had better taste. Better standards. I’ve cultivated those standards all my thirty years on earth.

But even now, I’m annoyed. Not at her. At the mess of it. It’s a stain on the evening.

I let my gaze drift through the ballroom. Helia insisted we attend, said it was important to show face. I would’ve skipped it, but when he insists, I usually follow.

My phone buzzes.

Helia: We need to talk. Now. Near Christmas tree.

Before I can reply, someone crashes into me—shoulder first.

“Hey! Watch it,” I snap.

The woman doesn’t turn.

But my breath catches.

Dark hair, curling down a sculpted back. Silk hugging curves with a kind of casual elegance. She moves with grace, not apology.

“Who was that?” I murmur.

Jude shrugs. “No idea. Didn’t see her face.”

I watch the woman vanish into the crowd, and a strange unease settles in my chest.

I’m about to turn away.

But something doesn’t add up.

That hair. That build. That poise.

That wasn’t the same girl who crashed the dessert table.

Who was it?