Brendon stopped under a streetlamp three blocks away from the restaurant. The vibration in his pocket was constant now. Gloria was blowing up his phone with a frantic mix of insults and demands.

YOU LEFT ME THERE!

I HAD TO USE MY EMERGENCY CREDIT CARD!

MY FATHER IS GOING TO HEAR ABOUT THIS!

ANSWER ME!

Brendon watched the bubbles pop up on the screen, one after another. He felt nothing. The "Simp" was dead. He had been a costume he'd worn to hide the bruises on his soul, and the fabric had finally shredded.

He tapped on her contact. Gloria Talley.

He swiped left. A red button appeared: Delete.

He didn't just delete her. He tapped the small 'i' in the corner. He scrolled to the bottom. Block this Caller.

The system asked for confirmation. You will not receive phone calls, messages, or FaceTime from people on the block list.

"Good," Brendon whispered. He tapped the button.

Then he went to Instagram. Unfollow. Remove Follower. Block.

TikTok. Block.

Snapchat. Block.

It was a digital execution. He was erasing her from his reality, one app at a time. A group of college kids walked past him, laughing, one of them pointing at him and whispering something about "the guy who bought the billboard for the Zeta formal."

Brendon ignored them. He knew his reputation. He was the rich kid who had lost his mind over a girl who didn't want him.

The truth was much worse. He had lost his mind over a girl who had wanted him, and then he'd let her slip through his fingers because his world had caught fire.

He hadn't pursued Gloria because he loved her. He had pursued her because she was the opposite of everything Kiera Richards was. Gloria was loud where Kiera was quiet. Gloria was fake where Kiera was painfully, beautifully real.

Being with Gloria was a form of self-harm. Every time she belittled him, every time she used him for his money, it felt like a payment for the sin of leaving Kiera without a word.

But he couldn't do it anymore. The penance was over.

A notification banner dropped from the top of his screen. It wasn't a text. It was an email from Luxury Living Brokers.

Subject: Welcome to The Kensington - Unit 4B Ready for Move-in.

Brendon felt a flicker of something resembling hope. He had applied for the off-campus apartment weeks ago, desperate to escape the frat house. The brothers at Sigma Chi were great for distractions, but they were terrible for healing. He needed a place where he didn't have to hear the thumping of bass at 3 AM or smell stale beer in the hallways.

He hit reply. Moving in tonight. Send the digital key code.

He hailed an Uber Black. Within twenty minutes, he was standing in the hallway of the Sigma Chi house. The air smelled like Pine-Sol and regret.

"Yo, Hampton! Thought you were staying at Gloria's tonight," Chad, his roommate, shouted from the couch. He was holding a PlayStation controller, his eyes glued to the TV.

Brendon didn't stop. He went straight to his room and yanked his Tumi suitcases out from the closet. He threw them open on the bed and began pulling clothes from drawers and hangers, stuffing them inside with a frantic, chaotic energy.

"I'm moving out, Chad," Brendon said, dragging the half-zipped bags into the common room.

Chad paused the game. "What? Tonight? Did the Queen finally kick you out of the palace?"

"I'm done with the Queen," Brendon said, his voice steady. "And I'm done with this house. I need some space."

Chad snorted. "Space. Right. You'll be back in two days when you realize nobody here is going to cook for you."

"I'll manage," Brendon said.

He didn't say goodbye. He just walked out the door, the wheels of his suitcases rattling against the hardwood floor.

The Uber was waiting at the curb. As the car pulled away from the frat house, Brendon looked back at the Greek letters glowing in the dark. He felt like he was leaving a version of himself behind-the version that needed to be humiliated to feel alive.

"The Kensington," he told the driver.

He leaned his head against the cool leather of the seat. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine a life where he didn't wake up reaching for a ghost.

"New start," he muttered to himself. "No Gloria. No drama. Just me."

He didn't mention Kiera's name. He wasn't brave enough for that yet.

The Kensington was everything the frat house wasn't. The lobby was filled with the scent of expensive candles and the hushed tones of a professional concierge. The floor was polished marble that reflected the glow of a massive crystal chandelier.

"Welcome, Mr. Hampton," the doorman said, handing him a sleek gold-and-black key card. "Your roommate moved in earlier this afternoon. They seemed quite settled."

Brendon paused, his hand hovering over the card. "Roommate? I thought I requested a private unit."

The doorman checked his tablet. "Ah, it looks like there was a glitch in the university-affiliated portal, sir. All three-bedroom units were converted to shared occupancy for the fall semester due to the dorm renovations. The third bedroom in your unit is currently unoccupied, waiting for a mid-semester transfer. Your broker should have notified you."

Brendon cursed under his breath. He didn't have the energy to fight it tonight. "Whatever. Is this person a party animal?"

"They seemed very quiet, sir," the doorman replied. "Carried in a rather elegant-looking instrument case. Couldn't quite tell what it was, but they handled it with care."

Brendon felt a strange prickle at the back of his neck. An instrument.

"Great," he muttered. "I'm living with a band geek."

He took the elevator to the fourth floor. The hallway was silent, the carpet so thick it swallowed the sound of his suitcases. He reached Unit 4B and pressed his key card against the sensor.

Beep. The light turned green.

He pushed the door open. The apartment was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. The lights were low, only a single floor lamp in the corner casting a warm, amber glow over the living room.

Then, he smelled it.

Vanilla. Not the fake, sugary scent of a candle, but the soft, earthy smell of actual vanilla bean and old wood.

Brendon froze. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard it felt like it might bruise. He knew that smell. He had spent two years buried in it.

He looked toward the window. A figure was standing there, silhouetted against the city lights. They were wearing an oversized grey hoodie, the hood down, revealing a mess of dark, wavy hair.

Beside the sofa stood a black, hardshell violin case.

Brendon's suitcases slipped from his grip. They hit the floor with a deafening thud.

The figure spun around, a small gasp escaping their lips.

The amber light hit her face. The high cheekbones. The wide, amber eyes that always looked like they were holding a secret. The tiny mole just below her left eye that he used to kiss every morning.

"Kiera?" Brendon's voice was a broken rasp.

Kiera Richards looked like she had seen a ghost. Her face went deathly pale, her hand flying to her throat. She stumbled back a step, her heel catching on the edge of the rug.

"Brendon?" she whispered.

For a long minute, neither of them moved. The air in the room felt thick, like they were standing at the bottom of the ocean.

Brendon couldn't breathe. This wasn't possible. Kiera had vanished a year ago. She had blocked him. She had moved away. She had left him in the wreckage of his father's scandal and never looked back.

"What are you doing here?" Kiera asked, her voice regaining some of its sharpness. She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture he remembered all too well.

"I live here," Brendon said, his brain finally beginning to function. "This is my apartment. Unit 4B."

Kiera shook her head, her eyes darting to the door as if looking for an exit. "No. No, this is my apartment. I signed the lease three days ago. The office said my roommate was 'B. Hampton.' For a split second, my heart stopped. But I told myself it was impossible. The Hamptons of Hampton Holdings don't live in university-affiliated housing, even luxury ones. It had to be a coincidence. I thought... I thought it was a girl. Bethany. Or Brianna."

"It's Brendon," he said.

He took a step toward her, and she immediately took a step back. The movement stung worse than any of Gloria's insults.

"Don't," she said, her voice trembling. "Don't come near me."

"Kiera, I didn't know," Brendon said, holding his hands up. "I swear to God, if I had known it was you, I wouldn't have..."

"You wouldn't have what?" she snapped, her eyes flashing with a sudden, familiar fire. "You wouldn't have come? Or you would have made sure I was evicted first?"

"I'm not trying to evict you," he said.

They stood there, two people who used to know the rhythm of each other's heartbeats, now looking at each other like strangers across a battlefield.

Brendon looked at the violin case. "You're still playing."

Kiera followed his gaze. She looked back at him, her expression hardening into a mask of cold indifference.

"I'm a freshman now," she said. "I took a Gap Year. Not that you'd know. You were too busy being the campus celebrity with your new girlfriend."

Brendon winced. He wanted to tell her that Gloria was a lie. He wanted to tell her that he had spent every day of that year looking for her in every crowd.

But the look in her eyes stopped him. It wasn't just anger. It was trauma.

And he was the one who had caused it.

Kiera didn't wait for him to respond. She grabbed her phone from the coffee table and began dialing a number with shaking fingers.

"What are you doing?" Brendon asked.

"Calling the leasing office," she said, her voice tight. "There's been a mistake. A massive, disgusting mistake. I am not living with you, Brendon. I'd rather sleep in the subway."

Brendon watched her. She looked thinner than he remembered. The grey hoodie swallowed her frame. He felt a sudden, fierce urge to take the phone from her hand and make her look at him, but he stayed where he was.

"Richards," she said into the phone, her voice dropping into a professional, albeit strained, tone. "I'm in Unit 4B. My roommate just arrived. There is a serious problem. We need to be reassigned immediately."

She paused, listening. Her face went from pale to a frustrated red.

"I don't care if it's after hours," she snapped. "This is a safety issue. No, I am not being dramatic. I... I cannot share a space with this person."

Another pause. Brendon could hear the faint, tinny sound of a man's voice on the other end of the line.

"What do you mean 'no vacancy'?" Kiera's voice rose. "The Kensington has over two hundred units! Fine. Then I want to terminate my lease. Right now."

She went silent. Her eyes closed, and her shoulders slumped.

"Twelve thousand dollars?" she whispered. "That's the penalty?"

Brendon felt a pang of guilt. He knew Kiera's situation. Her family didn't have Hampton money. Her scholarship covered her tuition and a portion of her housing, but twelve thousand dollars might as well have been twelve million.

Kiera hung up the phone without saying goodbye. She stared at the floor, her chest heaving. She leaned against the wall, the number echoing in her head. Twelve thousand dollars. It was a debt that would follow her for years. She was trapped.

"They won't move us," she said to the rug. "And I can't afford to leave."

Brendon pulled his own phone out. He didn't call the office. He texted his broker.

Get me out of 4B. Now. I'll pay whatever it costs.

The reply came back almost instantly. Mr. Hampton, the university has a block on all Kensington transfers until mid-semester due to the housing crisis. Even with your father's influence, the SEC investigation has made the board... cautious about special favors. My hands are tied.

Brendon stared at the word SEC. It was a reminder of why he'd lost her in the first place. The investigation into Hampton Holdings had frozen his life a year ago, cutting off his phones, his bank accounts, and his ability to explain why he'd missed her biggest recital.

He looked at Kiera. She was still standing by the window, looking like she wanted to jump out of it.

"I can't move either," Brendon said. "The university won't allow transfers."

Kiera looked at him, her amber eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. "So what? We're just supposed to live together? Like nothing happened?"

"I don't want to hurt you, Kiera," Brendon said softly.

"You're a year too late for that," she spat.

She walked toward him, her footsteps heavy. For a second, he thought she might hit him. Instead, she just stopped a few inches away. The scent of vanilla was overwhelming now. It made Brendon's head spin.

"Here are the rules," she said, her voice trembling but determined. "You stay on your side of the apartment. I stay on mine. We don't share food. We don't share a bathroom. And most importantly, we do not talk. Ever."

Brendon looked at her. He wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind her ear. He wanted to tell her he was sorry until his throat bled.

"I'm staying in the master suite," she continued, "because I got here first. You take the guest room."

"Fine," Brendon said.

"And Brendon?"

He looked up.

"If I see one trace of that girl-Gloria-in this apartment, I will throw your things off the balcony. I don't care about the lease."

"You won't see her," Brendon said. "She's gone."

Kiera let out a short, bitter laugh. "Right. Until you get bored and need someone to stroke your ego again."

She turned and headed toward the master bedroom. She didn't look back. The sound of her door slamming shut felt like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Brendon stood in the living room for a long time. He looked at the city lights. He had wanted a new start. He had wanted to forget.

Instead, he was trapped in a four-wall cage with the only person who could truly destroy him.