I stood frozen in the hallway of Ashton's penthouse, my hand still raised to knock when the sound of male laughter stopped me cold. The door was cracked open just enough to reveal the scene inside—Ashton's poker night in full swing, crystal tumblers clinking, cigar smoke hanging in the air. I'd come expecting a quiet evening, maybe some takeout and a movie, the kind of normal couple time we'd been missing lately.

But then I saw it. On the massive flat-screen TV dominating the living room wall, my own face filled the frame. Not a photo. A video. *Our* video. The one Ashton had begged me to make, promising it was just for us, something special between him and me.

"Look at that ass," someone drawled, and more laughter erupted. "Rivera, you're a lucky bastard."

Ashton's voice, casual and amused, carried through the gap. "I know, right? She doesn't even know how hot she looks when she's—" He made a crude gesture that had the room howling.

My stomach twisted into a knot. My thumb pressed hard against my wrist, the pressure anchoring me as my world tilted. I should have stormed in. Should have screamed. But I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could only listen as the man I loved treated my most intimate moment like entertainment.

"Seriously, though," another voice cut in, "Kimora would never do something like this. She's one of the guys."

The room went quiet. I watched through the crack as Ashton's face hardened, his easy grin vanishing.

"Watch your mouth about Kimora," he said, voice sharp as a blade. "She's off-limits. You don't joke about her."

The contrast hit me like a physical blow. My body was public entertainment, but Kimora's name was sacred. My throat burned with the scream I wouldn't let out. I pressed my thumb harder against my wrist, swallowing until the taste of bile faded, then turned and walked away before anyone could see me.

The next morning found us in Ashton's garage, his cathedral to chrome and horsepower. I'd come to help him prep for the day's drive, hoping to find some normalcy after the night before. He was detailing his Pagani Huayra, his prized possession, the car he treated like a lover.

I reached for a microfiber cloth on the workbench, my fingers brushing against the car's door panel. It was barely a touch, feather-light.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Ashton's voice exploded. His hands hit my shoulders, shoving me backward with enough force to send me stumbling. I caught myself against the metal frame of the garage door, felt the sharp edge bite into my forearm. Pain flared, bright and immediate. Blood welled from the gash, dark against my pale skin.

Ashton didn't even look at me. He dropped to his knees, fingers hovering over the car's surface, inspecting for the slightest scratch. "If you touched the paint, I swear to God—"

"I'm bleeding," I whispered, but he was already lost in his examination, muttering about swirl marks and clear coat damage.

Twenty minutes later, Kimora strutted into the garage in stilettos that clicked against the concrete like tiny hammers. Without hesitation, she hopped onto the hood of the same Pagani, crossing her legs and smirking at Ashton.

"Look at me," she called, posing like a pinup. "Don't I look like I belong on the cover of a magazine?"

I watched in disbelief as her heels dragged across the pristine paint, leaving visible scratches. Ashton threw his head back and laughed.

"You look perfect, Kim. Always do."

He never asked if I needed stitches. Never even glanced at the blood drying on my arm. When it came time to head to the racetrack, he handed me keys to a rented electric scooter with a dismissive toss.

"No one rides shotgun except the car itself," he said, already sliding behind the wheel of his Lamborghini. "You'll follow the convoy. Keep up."

Kimora settled into the passenger seat of the Lambo, her laughter ringing out as Ashton started the engine. I stood there, scooter keys cold in my hand, watching them pull away. The distance between us grew with every second, but it wasn't just physical space. It was the chasm of a man who could broadcast my most private moments for laughs, then defend another woman's honor like a knight.

I pressed my thumb against my wrist again, the familiar pressure grounding me as I climbed onto the scooter. But this time, something else stirred beneath the hurt—a flicker of something cold and sharp, like the edge of a blade waiting to be drawn.

The apartment was quiet when I got back. Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that pressed against my ears until they rang.

I locked the door behind me and dropped my keys on the counter. They clattered too loud. Everything felt too loud now. My arm throbbed where the bandage covered the gash from Ashton's garage door. I peeled back the edge of the gauze and looked at the wound. It wasn't deep enough for stitches, but it would scar.

I walked to the bathroom and sat on the cold tile floor. The chill seeped through my jeans. I pulled out my phone and opened my photo gallery. I didn't mean to. My thumb just moved on its own, scrolling back through weeks and months of pictures I'd saved without thinking.

There was Ashton at the spring gala, his arm draped over Kimora's shoulders while she leaned into him, laughing at something only they understood. I was three feet away in that photo, cut off at the edge of the frame. There was another from a car meet last month—Ashton crouched beside his McLaren, Kimora perched on the hood in a sundress, his hand resting casually on her ankle. I'd taken that picture. He'd asked me to.

I kept scrolling. There was the video I'd never meant to see, the one burned into my brain now. My own face on his TV screen while his friends made comments I couldn't unhear. And then there was yesterday—the way he'd shoved me away from the Pagani like I was a threat, inspected the paint with more care than he'd ever shown my bleeding arm, then laughed when Kimora's stilettos scratched the same surface.

My thumb found the inside of my wrist and pressed down hard. The pressure centered me. Kept me from shaking.

I opened my contacts. Titus's name sat at the top, pinned there since I'd left for this trial. One call. That's all it would take. He'd have a jet at Teterboro in two hours. He'd mobilize the legal team, the PR machine, the entire apparatus of the Chapman name. He'd been waiting for this call since the day I walked away from the penthouse.

My finger hovered over his name.

But I didn't press it.

Because Ashton loved me. He had to. People didn't beg you to make intimate videos unless they loved you. They didn't introduce you to their father unless you mattered. They didn't keep you around for eight months unless there was something real underneath all the rest.

He just didn't know how to show it. That's what I told myself. He grew up with Julian Rivera, a man who measured affection in quarterly earnings. Ashton learned to love cars because cars didn't ask for things he couldn't give. And Kimora—she was just his friend. His childhood buddy. The girl who made him laugh.

I could be patient. I could teach him. I could show him what real love looked like, and eventually he'd reflect it back.

One more chance.

I closed Titus's contact and set my phone on the tile beside me. The screen went dark. The bathroom mirror reflected a girl I barely recognized—soft and small and willing to disappear.

I pressed my thumb harder against my wrist until the ache in my arm faded into the background.

---

Two nights later, we met Ashton's circle at a rooftop bar in Tribeca. The kind of place with Edison bulbs strung overhead and a view of the Hudson that cost forty dollars a cocktail. I wore a simple black dress, the kind that didn't compete for attention. Ashton arrived late with Kimora, both of them laughing about something that had happened on the drive over.

We took a long table near the railing. I sat beside Ashton, my hand resting on the table between us. He didn't take it.

The conversation turned to cars within five minutes. It always did. Someone mentioned a vintage Porsche auction. Someone else argued about the best track for amateur racing. I listened and sipped water, my wine glass untouched.

Kimora leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes bright. "You know, Averie's not really into car culture," she said with a warm, easy smile. "Which is totally fine. Not everyone gets it."

I felt the table's attention shift toward me.

"She'd probably be happier at a book club or something," Kimora continued, laughing lightly. "Somewhere quieter. Less... intense."

Ashton grinned and nodded. "She's not a car girl. But that's fine—I don't need her to be."

The words landed soft, but they cut deep. I sat very still. My thumb found my wrist under the table and pressed down until my pulse throbbed against the pressure.

No one asked what I thought. No one asked if I wanted to be included. They just smiled and moved on, the conversation flowing around me like I was a stone in a river.

Kimora caught my eye across the table. Her smile didn't waver. It was perfect. Warm. Impossible to challenge without looking petty.

I looked away first.

Later, when Ashton dropped me off at my apartment, he kissed my forehead and said, "You were quiet tonight."

"I was tired," I said.

He nodded and drove away.

I stood on the sidewalk and watched his taillights disappear. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Titus: *Still breathing?*

I typed back: *Fine.*

He didn't reply. He never did when I lied.

The McLaren unveiling was at a private gallery in Chelsea. All glass walls and concrete floors. The kind of place where sound echoed and everyone's voice carried. Ashton had been talking about this event for weeks. A limited-edition 720S in a custom cobalt blue. Only fifty made worldwide. He'd put a deposit down months ago.

I wore a cream silk dress. Simple. Elegant. The kind of thing that didn't compete for attention but still looked expensive enough to belong. I'd chosen it carefully.

The gallery was packed with Ashton's circle. Men in tailored suits clustered around the McLaren, talking about horsepower and carbon fiber. Their dates stood in small groups near the champagne table, scrolling phones and checking makeup.

Kimora arrived twenty minutes after we did. She always arrived late. It was her thing. She wore a red jumpsuit that hugged every curve and heels so high I didn't understand how she walked. Ashton's face lit up when he saw her.

"Kim!" He waved her over. She weaved through the crowd and threw her arms around his neck. He hugged her back, lifting her slightly off the ground. I stood three feet away, holding my untouched champagne flute.

When they finally separated, Kimora turned to me with a bright smile. "Averie! You look so cute."

Cute. Not beautiful. Not elegant. Cute.

"Thanks," I said. My thumb pressed against my wrist.

The three of us moved toward the McLaren. Ashton launched into a detailed explanation of the car's specs, his hand gesturing at the hood, the doors, the exhaust. Kimora leaned in close, nodding like she understood every word. Maybe she did. I stood slightly behind them, listening.

Someone called Ashton's name from across the room. He turned, distracted, and stepped away to shake hands with a man in a navy suit. That left Kimora and me standing beside the car.

She picked up a fresh champagne flute from a passing tray. Held it delicately between two fingers. Turned toward me with that same warm smile.

"It's so great that you come to these things," she said. "Even though they're not really your scene."

I opened my mouth to respond, but she was already moving. Her hand tipped. The champagne arced through the air in slow motion. Cold liquid splashed across the front of my dress, soaking through the silk instantly. The fabric clung to my skin. The stain spread dark and wet from my chest to my waist.

"Oh my God!" Kimora's voice rang out, loud enough to turn heads. "Averie, I'm so sorry! I'm such a klutz!"

Everyone looked. Conversations stopped. I stood frozen, champagne dripping onto my shoes.

Kimora grabbed a cocktail napkin from a nearby table and pressed it against my dress. The gesture was theatrical. Useless. The napkin was too small, the stain too large. She kept apologizing, her voice bright and distressed, drawing more attention with every word.

"I can't believe I did that. You poor thing. That dress is ruined."

Ashton returned, his eyes moving from Kimora to me. He frowned at the stain, then looked at Kimora's hand.

"You okay, Kim?" He handed her a clean napkin. "Did you get any on yourself?"

She dabbed at her wrist where a single drop had landed. "I'm fine. I just feel terrible about Averie's dress."

Ashton nodded. Turned back to the man in the navy suit. Kept talking about the McLaren's suspension system.

I stood there, wet and cold, the silk clinging to my skin. No one asked if I was okay. No one offered to help me find a bathroom. Kimora had already moved on, her apology complete, her attention back on the car.

I pressed my thumb hard against my wrist and walked toward the restroom sign at the back of the gallery.

The bathroom was empty. All white marble and gold fixtures. I locked the door and stood in front of the mirror. The stain covered most of my torso. The silk was ruined. I'd never get the champagne out.

I gripped the edge of the sink. My knuckles went white. I stared at my reflection until my breathing slowed. Until the heat in my chest cooled into something manageable.

I stayed in that bathroom for ten minutes. When I came out, the event was still going. Ashton was sitting in the driver's seat of the McLaren, Kimora leaning through the open window, both of them laughing. I walked past them and waited by the exit.

---

The drive home was quiet. Ashton's hands moved over the steering wheel of his Lamborghini like he was touching something sacred. The city blurred past the windows. I sat in the passenger seat, my ruined dress still damp against my skin.

I waited until we were on the highway. Until the silence felt stable enough to break.

"Ashton," I said softly. "Can we talk about something?"

He glanced at me, then back at the road. "Sure. What's up?"

I pressed my thumb against my wrist. "The other night. At your poker game. The video."

His jaw tightened slightly. "What about it?"

"It hurt me," I said. The words came out smaller than I wanted. "Seeing it on the screen like that. Hearing them talk about me. You promised it was just for us."

Ashton sighed. He didn't look at me. "Babe, the guys aren't going to say anything. It's not a big deal. They were giving you compliments."

"It didn't feel like compliments."

"Because you're being dramatic." His voice was patient. Like he was explaining something obvious to a child. "They thought you looked hot. That's a good thing. You should be flattered."

My throat tightened. "But you told them not to joke about Kimora."

His hands flexed on the wheel. "That's different."

"How?"

"Because Kimora's my friend. She's off-limits. You know that." He reached over and turned up the stereo. Music filled the car, loud enough to end the conversation. "Stop killing the mood, Averie. We were having a good night."

I looked out the window. Watched the lights streak past. My thumb pressed harder against my wrist until I felt my pulse hammering beneath the skin.

I didn't bring it up again.