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.

Maya

I slip the piece of paper into the hidden pocket of my dress, my fingers fumbling against the silk. The note feels heavy there, like a secret I didn't ask to carry. When I look up again, Philip is already walking away from Ethan, heading toward a quiet corner near the windows, he doesn't look back, but I know he's waiting for me.

I hesitate for a long moment, my champagne flute sweating in my hand. The party hums around me, music drifting from the stage, laughter echoing off the high ceilings, the clink of glasses mixing with quiet conversation. My mom is still by the cake table, talking animatedly to her planner, her hands moving as she explains something about the decorations. She hasn't noticed Philip pulling me aside.

I take a final sip of champagne, set the empty glass on a passing waiter's tray, and start walking toward him.

He's standing by one of the tall windows, looking out at the city lights. He doesn't turn when he hears me approach, but I know he's aware I'm there. The air around him feels different-quieter, tighter, like a wire pulled taut.

"You shouldn't let him talk to you like that," he says, his voice low enough only I can hear it over the music. "Ethan has a habit of saying things he doesn't mean...of getting involved where he doesn't belong."

"He's the only one who'll say anything to me." I stop just a few feet away, close enough that I can see the way his shirt collar sits against his throat, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. "Why won't you tell me the truth? Did you or did you not see my mom while she was still married?"

He turns then, and the space between us narrows. He doesn't move forward, but somehow he feels closer, close enough that I can count the silver threads in his black hair, see the way his eyes catch the light from the window. The woodsy scent of his cologne is stronger now, no Ethan to dilute it, just him, all sharp edges and steady calm.

"I didn't," he says. The words are clear, firm, leaving no room for doubt. "But that doesn't mean I'm not responsible for what happened between your parents."

"What's that supposed to mean?" My heart is beating faster now, and I press my palm against my chest to steady it. "If you weren't seeing her, how are you responsible?"

He looks past me, toward where my mom is now laughing with a group of her old friends, she's holding a slice of cake, feeding a bite to a woman in a purple gown, her face bright with joy. When he looks back at me, something softens in his eyes... something I don't recognize.

"Your parents had problems long before I met Monica," he says. "Robert was working too much, traveling three weeks out of every month, never home for dinner, never there for her when she needed him. She felt invisible. Like she was just keeping his house clean and raising his kid while he lived his life somewhere else."

"That's not true." The words come out weak, even to my own ears. I remember the way Dad would leave early in the morning, the way Mom would sit at the dinner table alone, pushing her food around her plate. "He worked hard for us. He was trying to give us a good life."

"I know he was." He takes a small step closer, and the heat from his body reaches me even through our clothes. "But Monica needed more than that. She needed someone to see her. I mean to really see her. I tried to help them work through it. I talked to Robert, told him he needed to be there for her. I talked to Monica, told her to give him another chance. I even offered to help with his business so he could spend more time at home."

"And?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

"And I failed." He runs a hand through his hair, a rare moment of unsteadiness. "Robert didn't want help, he thought he could fix everything on his own. Monica was too tired to keep trying. They made the decision to split up on their own. I didn't have anything to do with it."

"So you decided to marry her instead?" The anger flares up again, hot and sharp in my chest but underneath it, something else is building, something low and warm that makes my skin prickle. "You waited until she was single and then swept in?"

"I cared about her," he says. "I'd been caring about her for a year before they split up. As a friend. When she told me she was getting divorced, I told her I'd be there for her no matter what. That's all it was supposed to be. But then we started spending more time together, and... well, you know how it is when you find someone who sees you the way you need to be seen."

I know. The words hang in the air between us, unspoken but heavy. I think about Noah-my boyfriend of two years, who spends every night at the office, who forgets my birthday and never asks how my classes are going. I think about how lonely I've been, even when I'm right next to him.

"I've been through a lot," I say, my voice cracking. "My dad's been through a lot. Did you ever think about that? Did you ever think about what this would do to us?"

"I think about it every day." He reaches out like he's going to touch my arm, then stops just short, his hand hovers in the air between us, close enough that I can feel the heat from his skin. "I know you hate me. And maybe you're right to. I know I can't make you understand why this is happening, not right now. But I'm not the villain you think I am, Maya. I'm not trying to hurt anyone."

The air between us is thick enough to breathe. My anger is still there, hot and sharp in my chest-but it's mixing with something that makes my breath catch in my throat. I can feel his breath on my cheek, warm and steady. I can see the way his eyes drop to my lips for just a second before snapping back up, dark with something I can't name.

I lean in without meaning to, so close that our foreheads almost touch. My heart is hammering so hard I swear he can hear it-thump-thump-thump against my ribs, matching the beat of the music from the stage. The noise of the party fades to nothing, all I can focus on is him, the way he's looking at me, the heat that's building between us like a storm.

His hand moves the rest of the way, his fingers brushing against my arm; light, careful, like I'm something fragile. The touch sends a sparks through me that makes my knees weak.

"Careful, Maya... you don't know what you're starting."