Sunlight was a weapon.

It streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, aggressive and blinding, burning straight through Daphne's eyelids.

She groaned. The sound was a croak, dry and painful.

She tried to roll over, to bury her face in a pillow to escape the assault, but her limbs felt heavy, detached from her body.

Her hand brushed against the sheets.

They were silk. Cool, slippery, impossibly high thread count.

Daphne's eyes snapped open.

Her sheets were cotton. Her sheets were from Target.

She shot up in bed, clutching the duvet to her chest. Her head spun violently, the room tilting on its axis.

This was not her apartment.

The room was massive. Modern art hung on gray walls. A sleek fireplace sat opposite the bed. Beyond the windows, the green expanse of Central Park stretched out below like a manicured map.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the hangover fog.

She looked down at herself.

She was naked.

Memories of the bar flashed in her mind like strobe lights. The taste of tequila. The smell of sandalwood. A car ride. The feeling of being carried.

The bathroom door opened.

Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of cedar and mint.

A man walked out.

He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water droplets clung to his chest, tracing the definition of his abs, disappearing into the white terry cloth.

He was rubbing his hair with a smaller towel.

Daphne stopped breathing.

It was Charlton Bernard.

Her high school best friend. The heir to the Bernard fortune. Manhattan's most notorious playboy.

"Charlton!" Daphne screamed.

Charlton winced. He lowered the hand towel, rubbing his left ear.

"Morning, Sunshine," he said. His voice was raspy, deep. "Volume, please. My head is pounding."

Daphne checked under the covers again, just to be sure. Still naked.

"Charlton! What did you do?" she accused, her voice cracking.

Charlton walked to the dresser, completely unbothered by her hysteria. He picked up a bottle of water and tossed it toward the bed.

Daphne caught it reflexively.

"What did I do?" Charlton turned to face her. "I believe the question is what we did."

"We're friends!" Daphne argued, horrified. She uncapped the water and downed half of it in one gulp. "Platonic friends! We have a handshake!"

Charlton leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his bare chest. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips.

"Tell that to the scratch marks on my back," he said.

He turned around.

Daphne gasped.

Four angry red welts raked down his left shoulder blade. They were fresh. They were undeniable.

Daphne's face burned crimson.

A memory surfaced. A flash of heat. Skin against skin. Her hands gripping onto muscle.

She buried her face in her hands.

"Oh god," she moaned into her palms. "This is a disaster. Campbell..."

The name hung in the air, foul and unwelcome.

Charlton's posture stiffened. The muscles in his back tensed, just for a second, before he forced them to relax.

He turned back around, his expression unreadable.

"Campbell is engaged to Kandice," he said. His voice was cold now, stripped of the earlier teasing. "You're free, Daphne."

The reality of the previous night crashed back onto her. The ballroom. The announcement. The smirk.

The pain hit her in the chest, heavy and suffocating.

Tears pricked her eyes. She hated herself for crying in front of him.

"I just lost my fiancé," she whispered. "I can't lose my best friend too."

Charlton stared at her. His jaw tightened. He looked away, pulling a pair of boxers from a drawer.

He stepped into them, hiding a flash of something that looked like disappointment.

"You haven't lost me, Daph," he said, turning back to her. "But things have... shifted."

He walked over to the nightstand and picked up his phone.

"You should see the news before you panic about us."

"I don't want to see the news," Daphne said. "I want to go back to 24 hours ago."

"You can't," Charlton said. He held the phone out to her.

Daphne took it. Her hands were shaking.

She saw her own phone on the nightstand. The screen was lit up with notifications. 50+ missed calls.

She looked at Charlton's screen. Twitter was open.

Trending Topic 1: DaphneTheMeltdown

She clicked the tag.

A video played. It was shaky footage from outside the hotel.

It showed Daphne stumbling out of the service exit, rain plastering her hair to her face. She looked deranged. She looked broken.

Then, she tripped. In the video, she fell to her knees in a puddle, then scrambled up and ran down the street.

The caption read: The ex-ballerina couldn't handle the truth. Sad.

Daphne dropped the phone on the duvet.

"I'm a joke," she whispered. "The whole world is laughing at me."

Charlton sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't touch her. He just sat there, a solid, warm presence.

"Not the whole world," he said. "Just the parts that don't matter."

"My career matters," Daphne said, her voice hollow. "ABT won't keep a principal dancer who is a viral meme for public intoxication."

Charlton didn't answer immediately. He looked at the floor.

"We need to fix this," Daphne said, wiping her eyes. "I need to go. I need to explain."

"Explain what?" Charlton asked. "That you were heartbroken?"

"That it was a mistake!"

Charlton looked at her then. His eyes were dark, intense.

"Was last night a mistake too?" he asked.

Daphne looked at the scratch marks on his shoulder.

"Yes," she lied. "I was drunk. I didn't know what I was doing."

Charlton stood up. The warmth vanished from his face, replaced by a cool, unreadable mask.

"Get dressed," he said flatly. "Breakfast is in ten minutes."

Daphne scrambled out of the bed, dragging the top sheet with her. She wrapped it around her body like a toga, tucking the end securely under her armpit.

She scanned the floor for her clothes.

Her silver dress lay in a heap near the door. It was ruined. Stained with mud, rain, and tequila. One strap was broken.

"I need to go. I need to fix this," she muttered frantically to herself, picking up the dress and realizing it was unwearable.

Charlton was leaning against the doorframe. He was wearing gray sweatpants now, holding a small espresso cup. He took a sip, watching her panic with detached interest.

"Fix what, exactly?" he asked. "The truth?"

Daphne found one of her heels under a chair. She couldn't find the other one.

"It was a mistake! I was drunk!" Daphne insisted, turning to him. "You know I wouldn't... we don't do that. We're us."

Charlton raised an eyebrow. He set the espresso cup down on a coaster.

"You didn't seem to think it was a mistake at 2 AM," he said.

"I don't remember 2 AM," she lied.

Flashes were returning, though. His hands in her hair. Her mouth on his neck. The desperate need to feel something other than rejection.

Charlton reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote.

"My security system records the living room and the hallway," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

Daphne froze. She clutched the sheet tighter.

"You wouldn't."

He pointed the remote at the giant OLED screen mounted on the wall. He clicked a button.

The screen flickered to life.

The footage was grainy but clear. It showed the entryway of the penthouse.

The elevator doors opened. Charlton and Daphne stumbled out.

On screen, Charlton was trying to guide her toward the guest room. He was being gentle. Respectful.

On screen, Daphne stopped. She grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.

She pushed him against the wall.

Real-life Daphne gasped.

On screen, she stood on her tiptoes. She kissed him. It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was aggressive. It was demanding.

Charlton's hands hovered in the air for a moment, hesitant, before they settled on her waist.

On screen, Daphne pulled back slightly. Her face was visible. She looked desperate.

"Make me forget him, Charlie," the audio picked up clearly. "Please. Just make it stop hurting."

Then she kissed him again, pulling him toward the bedroom.

Real-life Daphne felt all the blood rush to her face. She covered her eyes with her hands.

"Turn it off! Turn it off right now!"

Charlton paused the video. The image froze on her face-eyes closed, lips parted, an expression of raw hunger.

"You initiated, Daph," he said. His voice dropped an octave. "I just... obliged."

He walked over to her. He reached out and gently pulled her hands away from her face.

She refused to look at him. She stared at his chest.

"I'm not Campbell," he said. "I don't regret things I want."

Daphne looked up at him then. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

His eyes were searching hers. There was a question there, something vulnerable beneath the playboy mask.

She pulled away, stepping back. Her defense mechanisms slammed into place.

"This ruins everything," she said, her voice shaking. "Our friendship... it's the only stable thing I have."

Charlton's face hardened. The vulnerability vanished.

"Our friendship was built on you dating a moron," he said. "That foundation is gone."

He walked to the massive walk-in closet. He disappeared for a moment and came back holding a crisp white dress shirt.

He tossed it to her.

"Shower. Eat. We have a situation to discuss."

His tone was purely business now. The shift gave Daphne whiplash. One minute he was the lover, the next he was the CEO.

"What situation?" she asked, catching the shirt.

"Just get cleaned up," he said.

Daphne nodded, retreating toward the bathroom.

She closed the door and locked it. She leaned against the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

Her mascara was smeared under her eyes. Her hair was a bird's nest.

She looked closer.

A hickey, dark and purple, was blooming on her collarbone.

She touched it. It was tender.

Outside the bathroom, Charlton stood in the middle of the room.

He looked at the frozen image on the screen. He looked at the way Daphne was holding him, as if he were the only thing keeping her from falling off the earth.

He selected the file.

Delete.

Confirm Deletion.

The screen went black.

He exhaled a long breath, his hands shaking slightly as he put the remote down. He would never let anyone see that. But he needed her to see it. He needed her to know that she wanted him, even if she wouldn't admit it yet.

Daphne stood under the hot spray of the shower. She scrubbed her skin with a loofah until it turned pink, trying to wash away the feeling of the gala, the alleyway, and the confusion of the morning.

The steam filled the shower stall, thick and white.

It triggered a memory.

Flashback. Eight years ago.

The library at St. Jude's Prep. It was raining then, too.

Young Daphne sat hidden behind a stack of encyclopedias, sobbing. She was sixteen. She had just been cut from the terrifyingly competitive summer intensive at the Royal Ballet.

Footsteps approached.

She curled into a tighter ball, expecting a teacher to scold her.

"You're getting snot on the Britannica," a voice drawled.

She looked up. It was Charlton. He was wearing his blazer carelessly, tie askew.

He didn't ask why she was crying. He didn't offer empty platitudes.

He just handed her a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief.

"Dry your eyes, Flynn. Red isn't your color."

He sat down next to her on the floor, opening a comic book, acting like sitting on the dusty library floor was the most natural thing for a Bernard heir to do.

A few minutes later, Campbell walked by the aisle. He saw Daphne crying.

He paused. He looked at his watch. Then he saw the headmaster talking to a donor near the entrance.

Campbell turned and walked toward the donor, flashing his winning smile, leaving Daphne in the dust.

End Flashback.

Daphne snapped back to the present. She turned off the tap.

She realized with a jolt that Campbell had always been transactional. Even back then. She had just been too blind to see it.

She dried off and put on Charlton's shirt. It was huge on her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She rolled up the sleeves.

She lifted her arm to smell the collar. It smelled like sandalwood and safety.

She hated that she liked it.

She walked out into the living area.

Charlton was standing by the kitchen island, talking on his phone. He was speaking rapid-fire French.

"Non, c'est inacceptable. Bloquez tout," he commanded.

He hung up as she entered.

"Lawyers," he explained briefly.

He didn't smile. He slid an iPad across the marble counter toward her.

"Campbell gave an exclusive to 'The Daily Look' this morning. It went live ten minutes ago."

Daphne felt her stomach drop. She walked over and looked at the screen.

The headline screamed in bold black letters:

BROCK HEIR CHOOSING DUTY OVER RECKLESS ROMANCE

She read the first paragraph.

Sources close to the couple say that Campbell Brock ended the engagement due to Flynn's increasing emotional volatility and erratic behavior. Rumors of infidelity on her part have plagued the couple for months...

"Infidelity?" Daphne gasped. "I never looked at another man!"

"Read the next line," Charlton said.

Flynn was seen leaving the gala with notorious playboy Charlton Bernard, confirming suspicions of a long-standing affair.

"He's spinning the narrative," Charlton said, his voice hard. "He's using last night against you. He's making you the villain so he looks like the noble victim who had to choose the 'good girl' Kandice."

"How did he know?" Daphne asked. "About us leaving together?"

"He didn't," Charlton said. "He guessed. And we just gave him the proof he needed."

Daphne sank onto a barstool. She felt weak.

"My career," she whispered. "ABT has a morality clause. They won't keep a scandal-ridden principal dancer who is cheating on America's Golden Boy."

"They won't," Charlton agreed brutally. "You're already trending as a 'Gold Digger' and a 'Cheat'."

Daphne felt the walls closing in again. The panic from the night before returned, sharper this time.

"I have nothing," she said. "No family. No fiancé. No job. I'm going to be cancelled."

Charlton walked around the island. He stood directly in front of her.

He placed both hands on the counter, one on either side of her, boxing her in.

"You have me," he said.

He held her gaze. His eyes were intense, demanding she believe him.

"But I'm the 'reckless playboy', remember?" Daphne laughed bitterly. "Being with me just confirms the rumor. It proves Campbell right."

"So I'm doomed," she concluded, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Not if we change the narrative," Charlton said, a glint appearing in his eye. A gambler's glint.

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick document bound in blue paper.

He dropped it on the counter next to the iPad.

"Have you ever heard of the Bernard Family Trust Marriage Clause?"