MasukThe room is doing what these rooms always do.Champagne towers catching chandelier light. Buffet stations lined with food no one will fully eat. The specific, practiced hum of people performing wealth at each other across beautifully appointed tables. Half the guests are from Apex Entertainment circles. The other half are the city's financial and social infrastructure — families who received an invitation with a Hart Industries letterhead and rearranged their schedules accordingly.This is not my birthday party.This is a network event hosted in my name.I know this. Liam knows this. We move through it together anyway, because it is still my name on the invitation, and I have decided that whatever Lisa is planning is not going to happen to me — it's going to happen at me, and I intend to be facing the right direction when it does.I greet people. I smile. I say the correct things in the correct order and accept birthday wishes
I'm staring at him again.I don't mean to. It just happens — Liam driving, the city sliding past in gray November light, and my brain doing what it does now, which is cataloguing the specific way he holds the wheel with one hand, the angle of his jaw, the quiet competence of him in motion.A year ago today, I think.November eleventh.Singles' Day.A year ago today I was sitting on the floor of my old bedroom at the Brooks house, picking apart a ten-year relationship in my head and telling myself the sky had fallen. A year ago today, I had absolutely no concept of what was coming."You're staring," Liam says. "Is it the jacket? You've been looking at the jacket since we left.""I'm not looking at the jacket.""Then what?""Nothing." I turn to the window. "You're just very pleased with yourself lately. I'm observing it.""I am not pleased with myself.""You buttoned your own collar this morning and then looked at me like you expected applause."The corner of his mouth moves.We've been
We're getting dressed when the knock comes.I open the door.Vivian.She's in a silk robe, hair perfectly arranged for someone who claims to have just woken up, eyes doing a rapid sweep of the room the moment I step back. Her gaze lands on Liam — buttoning his cuffs, unhurried, in the middle of my childhood bedroom at seven-thirty on a Sunday — and something moves across her face before she locks it down."Brother-in-law." Her voice is warm enough to frost glass. "Mom made fish soup noodles. She wants you both downstairs for breakfast."Liam walks toward the door.He stops beside me."Can you—" He tips his chin toward his collar, where the top button has come loose. "I can never get that one."I turn.He's already done everything else — the shirt perfectly pressed from Secretary Fang, the jacket ready on the chair. Just the collar. Just this one button.I reach up and do it.It takes
The shirt never fully dries.I know it the moment I walk into the bathroom the next morning, still warm from sleep, and pick it up from where it ended up in the sink — crumpled and slightly damp and deeply, irreversibly wrinkled — and I stand there holding it with the specific expression of a woman reconstructing the sequence of events that led to this outcome.The sequence is: I was washing the shirt. Liam came in. The shirt went into the sink.The rest of the sequence is not relevant to the shirt."It's ruined," I say, when I walk back into the bedroom.Liam is sitting up against the headboard, the quilt pooled at his waist, watching me with the unhurried contentment of a man who slept well and is in no particular rush to begin the morning. There is something criminally unfair about how he looks right now — the morning light through the curtains, the particular dishevelment that happens when someone sleeps hard — and I hav
He is shameless.I realize it the exact moment the pain evaporates from his face and the triumphant smile takes its place — slow, deliberate, aimed directly at me — and I stand there for a full three seconds with my concern evaporating into something hotter."You faked it," I say.He stretches out on my childhood bed like he owns it."I needed to know how worried you'd get." His voice is warm. Easy. The voice of a man who has won something and is comfortable letting you see it."I nearly had a heart attack.""You went white as a sheet.""Because I thought I had—" I stop. Take a breath. "You are the most—"I step on his stomach.Not hard. Enough. He makes an extremely satisfying sound.Then I crawl back under the quilt, turn my back to him, and pull it over my head.He lifts it."Are you angry?""Go away.""You're not angry. You're embarrassed that you cared.""Go. Away."He doesn't go away, but he does, eventually, stop talking. The mattress shifts as he gets up. I hear the bathroom d
"Let me go."She doesn't scream it. She says it low and tight, pressed against the mattress with Liam's weight above her and his mouth at her throat and two weeks of distance and fury and missed meals and sleepless nights colliding in the space between them with nowhere to go."Liam—"He kisses her instead. A deep, claiming kiss that isn't asking anything, that is only saying — you are mine, you were always mine, I have been miserable without you every single day — and for a moment she goes completely still because it lands everywhere at once, through her chest and her stomach and the stupid, traitorous parts of her that missed him the way you miss sunlight in a cold house.Then she gets her head back."I will scream," she says against his mouth."Your father's house," he says. "That would be embarrassing for both of us.""I will absolutely scream.""Allie." His voice is rough. He pulls back just enough to look at her — and she sees it, sees all the things he hasn't said. Two weeks of
George Smith considered for a moment before slipping the contract into his briefcase. “Fine, I’ll agree. But understand, this arrangement means I can’t assign you a full-time agent. For now, I’ll act as your temporary agent. The shooting period is three months, and I’ll personally manage your work
Usually, in situations like this, the hotel management would handle it quietly—reach out to the press, have the photos deleted, issue a polite apology, and move on. But Mia Stone wasn’t just any celebrity; she was a national icon, a queen in her own right.Mia’s voice was icy yet casual, laced with
“I’ll drive. You handle the camera,” Joe White barked, his voice laced with urgency.Allie Brooks nodded, clutching the telephoto lens tightly as Joe started the car, skillfully trailing the RV through the crowded streets. Allie’s heart pounded wildly in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was the adr
But Allison Brooks couldn’t focus on the mystery for long. The 20,000 dollars hanging over her head loomed large, casting a shadow on her thoughts.Allie didn’t lack basic living expenses; her stepmother, Lisa Ruyan, deposited a set allowance into her account each month—just enough to cover her nee







