Chapter 1 #2
“I saw this at the market this morning,” he says, offering it to me. “Gemma mentioned you like crystals.”
A palm-size cluster of green fluorite. Its facets jut from the stone like ice.
Light glides across the translucent edges, catching in pale sea-glass depths that shift between sage green and teal.
Along its base, tiny crystals glitter like frost. It feels both fragile and indestructible, a secret the earth revealed in slow angles.
“It’s raw. Not heat-treated,” I say, smoothing my thumb over the uneven facets. “That makes it way better for enhancing mental clarity and focus…activating the third eye. Basically all the things that help open the mind.”
“You know your crystals.” His wide mouth tips in a smile.
I shrug, but of course I know my stuff. Wouldn’t a knight thoroughly check their armor before going into battle?
“And I know,” he continues, “that most things are more powerful when they haven’t been altered.”
I thought Alder would be more sinister, a stick-up-his-ass domineering overlord with a chiseled jaw and a god complex. Instead, he’s charming and thoughtful and disarmingly sweet. For a second, I forget that I hate him.
Then I remember the last time Gemma called me snot crying because he’d tried to convince her that therapy was “self-indulgent” and that she should try being grateful instead of feeling sorry for herself. And bam, my clarity returns.
Still, I tuck the gift into my purse. I’m not a monster.
“Yes, well,” I begin, clearing my throat. “It’s nice to finally see…how tall you are in person.”
Totally normal thing to say. I want to throw myself directly in front of the nearest cab.
Instead, I move to down another sip of my tragically lukewarm green juice when Alder smoothly links his arm through mine.
“Shall we?” he says, and before I can reply, he sweeps me past security and inside the old Midtown hotel.
We follow a steady stream of black-tie guests through the marble foyer, past a gleaming concierge desk, and straight through a pair of doors into the ballroom.
The ceiling sparkles with faux constellations—tiny LED stars pulsing in time with the ambient music, casting soft glimmers over the crowd.
Silk drapes cascade down the walls in long, shimmery waves, pooling on the marble floors like spilled moonlight.
Laughter and soft chatter sweep through the space as cater waiters in cream tuxedo jackets float by with trays of apps.
Everywhere I look, it’s silk, silver, and crystal. The kind of space designed to make people feel important and vaguely immortal. I, on the other hand, feel like I wandered in from a different timeline. One where I still use coupons and haven’t ever figured out if I’m filing my taxes correctly.
I’m scanning the room for Gemma when I realize Alder has been talking.
“There are many aspects of my past I need to explain,” he says, his voice low and serious.
My fingers stick to my green juice bottle, whiffs of wheatgrass rising from the sloshing liquid.
“I was—”
“An insufferable twat.”
He snorts.
Shit. Said that very inside thought out loud. Well, it’s not the first time, and it definitely won’t be the last.
“Precisely.” He flashes a grin so devastatingly charming that, despite myself, I smile back. Damn him.
The crowd shifts, and I finally spot Gemma in a backless emerald-green gown, her honey-blond hair swept to one side and held in place with a glimmering silver and sapphire clip.
She looks happy. Radiant in a way that can’t be faked. At least, not without a bank account with more commas than mine.
She holds up her hands and lifts onto her toes as we get closer. “Amanda! I am so happy you’re here!”
I smile, because that’s what you do when your best friend says they’re happy you’ve arrived. But in the back of my mind, Declan’s “OFFLINE” is blinking like a low-battery warning. I wonder if I’d look as happy as she does if I had someone I wasn’t terrified of scaring off.
My phone stays heavy in my hand, screen dark, no new messages.
But that’s fine.
I’m fine.
I have more important things to do than angst about whether or not a man I’ve never met in person is second-guessing our dynamic.
Alder slows beside her and deposits me at her side with a slight bow. “I’m sure you two have much to catch up on and would prefer to do so without me present.”
He turns to Gemma, brushes an errant curl from her cheek, and murmurs something in her ear that makes her blush like a summer sunset. Then he kisses her hand, gives her a wink, and vanishes into the crush of the crowd like a very well-dressed mirage.
“Umm, excuse me,” I say, mouth open as I recover from mild whiplash. “When did Mr. Emotionally Stunted turn into Prince Freaking Charming?”
Gemma’s blush deepens. “I have a lot to tell you. But first—” She wraps me in a hug that squeezes the sarcasm right out of me.
I return it with gusto, a soft little exhale escaping my chest.
“I missed you,” she says as we pull apart.
“I missed you too.” My smile wobbles as I motion around us, a sweeping gesture that translates roughly to what the actual hell, Gemma?! “I mean, we usually talk at least once a day. And then I don’t hear from you for two weeks, and when I do—”
“I know. I know.” She grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and offers me one.
I shake my head. This green juice bottle is practically glued to my palm by a thin film of sweat. “You’re okay, right, Gem?”
Gemma sets both flutes on the closest cocktail table and turns back to me with a soft smile. “Yeah.” Her eyes gloss over with tears, a full-to-the-brim joy I haven’t seen on her face in a long time. “I am unbelievably okay.”
“And everything with Alder…?” I ask carefully, watching her expression for the smallest twitch, flinch, or cringe—any sign that I should throw a drink in his face and then run him over with one of the valeted sports cars.
She takes a deep breath and brushes an escaped tear from her cheek. “Is perfect,” she says. “He’s perfect.”
“Good.”
And I mean it. I do. Well, I want to mean it. But it’s hard not to feel like the only person still stuck in the opening act of her rom-com while everyone else is already well into their glow-up montage.
But tonight, I’m pulling it together. Gemma’s back. I’m off my couch, wearing real clothes and a full face of makeup. All I need is one good night. One little spark. A reminder that my story is still unfolding.
And something to help me forget that, against my better judgment, I inched closer to being a very tiny bit emotionally naked with Declan. A man I’ve never actually met and now probably never will.
I set my phone face down on the table and dip a hand into my purse until my fingers brush the familiar edge of rose quartz. A talisman against heartbreak. A way to hold myself together when I start to come apart.
However, there’s still hope for me yet. I mean, maybe my own two-week glow-up starts right now.
“You know…” Gemma says, sipping her champagne, a secretive little grin creeping across her face.
“You didn’t go drunk shopping and order a bunch of those creepy, toothed monster key chains again, did you?” I tease, because I’ve seen that smile many times. Usually right before we’re reading a website’s fine print about returns.
“God no. I am never getting online after two drinks again.”
We both laugh, the sound slipping easily into the familiar groove of ten years’ worth of inside jokes.
“No,” she says, still smiling. “You were right when you called him Prince Charming.”
I follow her gaze across the room to Alder, who towers above the crowd with his blue eyes, golden hair, and devastating cheekbones. He looks like the live-action reboot of every animated prince who ever twirled a princess in a castle ballroom.
“He’s definitely got the whole original-Disney-hero thing going for him.”
And, okay, I know I don’t need a man to save me.
I light a candle every morning before work to fortify myself against emails and capitalism and to remind myself that I’m a feminist with a full-time job and a high-yield savings account I opened during a full moon.
The black tourmaline on my coffee table tells me that I know how to rescue myself.
But being whisked off my feet by a handsome billionaire wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
Not that it’s an option. In order to be saved by Prince Charming, I’d have to make myself completely emotionally available. Possibly even open to true love.
No thank you.
I’ve got enough to juggle just keeping up with the rituals that numb the panic long enough for me to move one foot in front of the other.
Declan leaving me on read is for the best.
I take a drink of green juice, and Gemma cringes.
“It’s healthy,” I explain, swallowing a mouthful that tastes like wet grass.
She gestures toward one of the servers weaving past us, silver tray stacked with decadent bites. “You know this event is fully catered with food that’s chewable and seasoned.”
I eye a platter of grilled shrimp skewered between blistered cherry tomatoes and creamy balls of mozzarella.
“I’m recalibrating my gut biome,” I say primly.
“You’re recalibrating your taste buds into an early grave.”
I snort and crack a smile. I missed her so much.
“Laugh all you want,” I say, lifting the compostable bottle and sipping again, grimacing only a little. “But this chlorophyll elixir is going to keep me radiant well into my third divorce.”
Gemma shakes her head. “There’s no way you’ll end up married three times.”
“I could get married if I wanted.” The words tumble out faster than I mean them to, and my cheeks flush hot. “It’s not like there aren’t guys who want to marry me.”
I’m not destined to be alone. I’m just wary of putting myself out there. A lot of people would say my pessimism is healthy realism. And it’s not like I’m the only one hiding behind a carefully crafted dating persona and reinventing myself biweekly.