Maya

The dress sticks to my skin like a second layer-silk and something I don't really get, making me stand straighter, walk faster. Chloe's heels click against the marble steps of the hotel, each sound echoing through the quiet lobby like a countdown.

"Told you this place was nice," she says, looping her arm through mine. "Look at the chandeliers, they've got to be real crystal. I read somewhere that each one costs more than a house in Queens."

I barely hear her. My eyes are fixed on the ballroom doors at the end of the hall, decorated with gold handles, red velvet curtains pulled back to reveal flashes of gold and white inside. The air smells like champagne and roses, so strong it makes my throat close up.

"I thought we were going to the rooftop bar," I say, my voice tight. "You said it was in Brooklyn... this is the Plaza, Chloe. I'd know this lobby anywhere."

"Change of plans," she says, giving my arm a squeeze. "This client of mine you know, the one who does PR for luxury hotels? She had to bail on the event tonight. Said I could use her plus-one. Trust me, the drinks here are way better than whatever they serve in Brooklyn. They've got a sommelier who can tell you what year the grapes were stepped on by hand."

I pull my arm free, my bare shoulders prickling with cold even under the dress. "Chloe. What is this? Don't lie to me. Is this... is this her party?"

Before she can answer, a string quartet starts playing somewhere inside, and the doors swing open wider. A waiter in a black tuxedo passes by with a tray of flutes, and I catch sight of the room beyond... round tables covered in white linen, centerpieces of white peonies as tall as my head, and a stage at the far end with a banner that reads: CELEBRATING MONICA & PHILIP.

My stomach drops out from under me. The floor tilts, and I grab the door frame to keep from falling.

"Are you kidding me?" I whisper, but my voice comes out sharp enough to make a couple nearby turn their heads-they're dressed in designer gowns and tuxedos, looking at me like I'm something they found on their shoe. "You brought me to her party? After everything I said?"

Chloe's smile falters. "I thought if you saw them together, if you met him face to face you'd understand why she's doing this. She looks happy, Maya. Really happy."

"Happy?" I step back, my heels skidding on the marble. "That's all that matters? She looks happy, so we just pretend Dad isn't at home right now probably eating cereal for dinner because he can't cook for himself? We pretend she didn't leave us for some rich guy who can buy her whatever she wants?"

"Maya, wait-let's talk about this somewhere quiet..."

But I'm already moving, pushing through the crowd at the entrance, trying to find the exit before anyone sees me. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I swear everyone can hear it. I weave between couples, their laughter and chatter a wall of noise I can't break through, someone's telling a joke about golf, another couple is arguing about where to go on their honeymoon, a woman keeps talking about her new handbag.

Then I see her.

She's standing by the stage, a champagne flute in her hand, wearing a silver dress that shimmers like fish scales under the lights. Her hair is pulled back in a low bun, and she's laughing, her head tilted back the same way it was in the photo. The man beside her has his hand on the small of her back, his fingers resting just above the hem of her dress, rubbing slow circles against the fabric.

He's taller than the photo made him look. Broad shoulders under a black tux, silver hair combed back from his forehead, lines around his eyes that look like they were carved there by laughter. Even from across the room, I can see the way he watches her-like she's the only person in the world who matters. It makes my chest ache.

Something hot and bitter rises in my throat. I turn to leave, but the slit of my dress catches on the edge of a tablecloth, pulling a crystal wine glass to the floor. It shatters against the marble with a crack that cuts through the music like a gunshot.

Every head turns.

My mom's eyes widen when she sees me-then soften, like she wants to run over and wrap me in her arms. She says something to the man beside her, gesturing in my direction. But before she can move, he turns too.

His gaze finds mine across the crowded room, and the air between us goes thick and still. The noise fades to a dull hum. His hand drops from my mom's back, his shoulders straightening. Even from here, I can see the way his jaw tightens just a little, but enough to make my skin prickle.

We stand like that for what feels like hours... him on one side of the room, me on the other, everyone else fading away until it's just the two of us and the broken glass at my feet.

"Maya," my mom calls out, her voice cutting through the silence. "Come here, baby. Let me introduce you properly."

Maya

The silence stretches long enough that someone clears their throat behind me. I yank my dress free from the tablecloth and take a step back, my bare feet sliding on the scattered wine stains.

"Maya." My mom's voice is closer now, she's weaving through the crowd toward me, her silver dress catching the light with every step. "I didn't think you'd come. I'm so glad you did."

"I didn't come for you." My eyes stay locked on him as he moves beside her, his steps slow and calculated. "I was tricked."

He stops just a few feet away, close enough that I can see the way his tuxedo fits perfectly, tailored to every line of his body. He's even taller up close, and the height makes me tilt my head back to meet his gaze. The angle sends a strange jolt up my spine that I push down hard.

"Monica," he says, his voice low and smooth as whiskey. "You didn't tell me your daughter was so... striking. The photos you showed me don't do her justice."

"Don't." The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave marks. "I don't need compliments from you. I don't need anything from you."

His eyebrows lift just a hair... barely noticeable, but enough to make me feel like he's looking right through me. "I wasn't aware we'd met. I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"You ruined my family." The words burst out before I can stop them, hot and raw. "You're the reason she left my dad. Don't pretend you don't know what you did. Don't stand there acting like you're some kind of hero."

My mom reaches for my arm, her fingers cool against my skin. "Maya, that's not true, you don't understand what happened..."

"Is it?" I pull away from her touch, taking a step closer to him. "Two months after the divorce and you're engaged to him. How long were you two together before she signed the papers? A week? A month? Did you take her to fancy restaurants while Dad was sitting at home wondering what he did wrong?"

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't raise his voice. Just looks at me with eyes the color of dark coffee, steady and calm in a way that makes me want to scream.

"I understand you're angry," he says, his voice even but firm. "And I understand why you'd blame me. But you're wrong about what happened. Monica and I didn't start seeing each other until after her divorce was final."

"Am I supposed to believe that?" I laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a sob. "You expect me to think you just happened to fall in love with her the day after she left my dad? That's some fairy tale you're selling."

"I don't expect you to believe anything right now." He takes a small step forward, and I can smell his cologne, something intoxicating and expensive like pine needles and rain after a hot day. "But I'd ask you to give me a chance to explain before you make up your mind about me."

"I don't need a chance. I already know what you are."

"Maya, please..." My mom starts, but a voice cuts in from behind us, warm, easy, and identical to his.

"Now, now. No need for fireworks at a party, right? Especially not when there's perfectly good champagne to be drunk."

I spin around so fast my dress twists around my legs.

Standing there is another man. Same silver-streaked hair, same sharp jawline, same height and build. The only difference is his clothes-he's in a dark velvet jacket over an open-collared white shirt instead of a tux, and there's smudges of blue paint under his fingernails. He grins as he looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on the slit of my dress before meeting mine with a spark of something I can't place.

"Wait... there are two of them?"

My mom laughs-a little nervous, a little relieved as she moves to stand between us. "Maya, this is Ethan. Philip's twin brother. Ethan, this is my daughter."

Ethan steps forward and takes my hand before I can pull away, bringing it to his lips and pressing a light kiss to my knuckles. His lips are warm against my skin, and the touch sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with anger.

"Pleasure to meet you, Maya," he says, his gaze never leaving mine. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances. My brother has a habit of making a bad first impression."

"I'm not the one causing a scene," Philip says, his voice sharp now... sharper than I've heard it yet.

"Causing a scene is better than causing silence." Ethan winks at me, still holding my hand. "Would you like a drink? I promise I'm much better company than this one."

I pull my hand back like I've been burned. When I look at Philip again, his jaw is tight.

Maya

I pull my hand back like I've been burned, wiping my knuckles against the fabric of my dress as if that'll erase the feeling of his lips there. When I look at Philip again, his jaw is tight, so tight I can see the muscle working under his skin and his eyes are fixed on where Ethan touched me, dark with something I can't read.

"Ethan," Philip says, his voice even but edged with steel. "The band asked if you'd join them for a song. They remember you from last year-said they still haven't found anyone who can play bass like you do."

Ethan rolls his eyes but doesn't argue, letting his hand fall away from mine. "They just want someone who'll play their terrible jazz covers. Fine... I'll go make myself useful. But I'm not playing 'My Funny Valentine' again. That song makes me want to throw things."

He gives me a small wave as he turns to head toward the stage, walking through the crowd with an easy confidence that's nothing like Philip's quiet poise. A few people call out his name... friends, by the sound of it, and he stops to hug a woman in a bright yellow gown, laughing at something she says.

My mom lets out a soft breath, reaching for my arm again. This time I let her hold on, her fingers cool and familiar against my skin. "I'm sorry you found out this way, Maya. I really was going to tell you-I just... I was scared."

"Scared of what?" I ask, still watching Philip. "Scared I'd be angry? You should have known that."

"I was scared you'd hate me." Her voice is quiet, barely audible over the music starting up again-Ethan's already on stage, tuning a bass guitar, his fingers moving over the strings with practiced ease. "I know I hurt you and your dad. I know I didn't handle things well. But Philip... he makes me feel like myself again. Like the woman I was before I spent years worrying about bills and whether we'd ever be good enough."

"Good enough for who?" The question comes out harsher than I intend. "You and Dad were good enough for me. We were happy."

"We were comfortable," she says gently. "There's a difference."

I pull away from her, shaking my head. "I don't want to talk about this. I just want to leave."

"Please don't." She gestures toward the tables scattered around the room. "At least stay for a little while. Have a drink. Talk to Ethan... he's much easier to get along with than Philip, I promise. And he's been asking about you since I told him you're studying marketing."

"Of course he has." I glance toward the stage. Ethan's playing now, his eyes closed as he lets the music fill the room. The bass line is deep and smooth, making the floor vibrate under my feet. "He's just trying to be nice so I'll stop hating his brother."

"Maybe he just wants to get to know you." She squeezes my shoulder before letting go. "I'm going to go check on the cake. Janet was worried about the tiers sliding. Please... just give them a chance."

She walks away, weaving through the crowd toward the back of the room where a huge white cake sits on a pedestal table. I'm left standing alone, the noise of the party closing in around me-people laughing, clinking glasses, talking about business deals and vacation plans and all the things that don't matter right now.

A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne flutes, and I reach out without thinking, taking one. The cold glass feels good against my palm, and I take a long sip... bubbles burn my throat, but it's better than the tightness that's been building there all day.

"Not a fan of champagne?"

I turn to find Ethan standing beside me, his bass guitar resting against his hip. He's shed the velvet jacket, leaving him in just the white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with dark hair.

"I'm not a fan of parties," I say, taking another sip. "Or surprises. Or people who think they can fix things by buying expensive dresses and big cakes."

"Fair enough." He grins, taking a flute from the tray as the waiter passes by again. "Though for the record, I think the cake is a waste of money. You could buy a really good motorcycle for what they spent on sugar flowers."

I can't help but laugh-a short, sharp sound, but it's real. "A motorcycle? You don't seem like the motorcycle type."

"And you don't seem like the 'storm into your mom's engagement party in a red dress' type, but here we are." He leans against the wall beside me, taking a sip of his drink. "My brother told me you think he broke up your parents."

"I know he did."

"Does he know you think that?"

"He knows now." I gesture toward where Philip is standing across the room, talking to a group of men in dark suits, all of them nodding like he's saying something brilliant. "He didn't deny it. He just said I was wrong."

"Philip doesn't deny much of anything. He just carries it." Ethan looks out over the crowd, his expression softening. "They met at a charity gala last year before your mom and dad split up. He was sponsoring the event, she was designing the decorations. They became friends. That's all it was at first."

"Friends who get engaged two months after a divorce?"

"Sometimes things move fast when you know what you want." He turns to look at me, his eyes dark and serious now. "Your mom was hurting, Maya. She'd been hurting for a long time. Philip helped her find her way back to herself. He didn't break anything that wasn't already broken."

"How do you know?" I ask, my voice quiet. "How do you know they didn't start seeing each other while she was still married?"

"Because I was there." He takes another sip of champagne. "Philip's not perfect, he's far from it. He's stubborn and he thinks he can fix everything on his own and he never knows when to stop working. But he'd never do that. He'd never hurt someone like that."

I look at him... at the same face as Philip, but different somehow, softer around the edges. He seems to be telling the truth, but I don't know if I can trust him. I don't know anything about either of them.

"Did you know my dad?" I ask.

"Robert? Yeah-Philip mentioned him a few times. Said he was a good man who loved your mom very much." He pauses, looking at me carefully. "Your mom still loves him too, you know. That's part of why she didn't tell you about Philip, she didn't want to hurt you more than you already were."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Love rarely does." He leans in a little closer, his breath warm against my ear. "She's trying to move forward, but she's not ready to let go of the past. None of us are. Especially not you."

His words hit me hard, and I have to look away to keep from crying. He's right... I've been holding on to the idea of my parents being together, of things going back to the way they were, and the thought of letting go terrifies me.

"You're very good at reading people," I say, my voice barely a whisper.

"I'm very good at listening." He pulls back, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before moving back to my eyes. "Would you like to get out of here? There's a bar around the corner that serves the best whiskey sour you've ever tasted. And they've got a jukebox that plays nothing but old soul music."

I glance toward Philip, he's looking at us now, his conversation with the other men forgotten. His eyes are dark, unreadable, and I feel a jolt of something that's part anger, part something else I don't want to name.

"I shouldn't," I say.

"Probably not." He grins, pulling out his phone. "But when has that ever stopped anyone? I'll even call you a cab if you want to leave after one drink. No pressure."

Before I can answer, a hand touches my shoulder...heavy, firm, familiar. I turn to find Philip standing behind me, his eyes fixed on Ethan.

"Ethan," he says, his voice low. "We need to talk. Now."

Ethan sighs, but he doesn't argue. He gives me a small smile and slips a piece of paper into my hand, folded small, still warm from his pocket. "If you change your mind. The bar's called The Blue Note-you'll know it when you see it."

He follows Philip toward the back of the room, leaving me standing there with the paper in my hand and the taste of champagne on my tongue. I unfold it, his number is written there in neat handwriting, along with a note: Ask for the house sour. They put extra bitters in it.

I look up just as Philip turns back to glance at me...his eyes meet mine, and this time there's something in them I recognize.