Chapter 31
I almost texted Adam to cancel.
The nerves had been building all morning, tangled tight in my stomach, sharp enough to make my coffee sit heavy and bitter in my chest. The thought of being around that many people, possibly running into Andrew or Victoria, seeing Brody again after everything was enough to make breathing difficult.
I’d just worked up the courage to draft a quick Sorry, I can’t tonight when my bedroom door burst open.
“Don’t even think about it,” Clara announced, marching in like a one-woman army.
I blinked at her, caught mid-crime, clutching my phone like she’d materialized out of thin air to arrest me. “Excuse me?”
“You,” she said, pointing at me like an accusation, “are not cancelling.” Her hands planted firmly on her hips, chin tilted high. “Tonight is happening... you, me, music, makeup, outfits... the full thing. We’re getting ready together. End of discussion.”
I raised an eyebrow, ready to push back, but then she hesitated. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she fiddled with the thin band on her left hand.
“…Mason’s picking me up,” she admitted, softer now, almost shy. “And we’re going. Together.”
The words settled between us, delicate and fragile, like glass balanced on the edge of a counter.
“The first time?” My voice came out quiet.
“Yeah,” she said, twisting his ring. “The first time since… everything.”
I swallowed hard and nodded slowly. “Okay,” I murmured, softer than I meant. “We’ll get ready together.”
Her answering smile was small but warm, and just like that, the tight coil inside me loosened, if only slightly. Within minutes, my room was in chaos.
Makeup bags exploded across the bed. Outfits, half-rejected, half-maybe, lay draped over every surface. My Bluetooth speaker blared Taylor Swift’s “Bejewelled”, and the scent of Clara’s favourite cranberry body spray hung in the air.
It felt… like old times.
I sat cross-legged on the floor while Clara straddled me from behind, sitting on my bed, carefully braiding my hair into a loose, messy fishtail that slid over one shoulder.
Her brow furrowed with concentration, tongue peeking out slightly, the exact same way she used to braid my hair before middle school dances.
“You know,” she said eventually, clipping the end of the braid, “this feels like old times.”
“Except for the part where our entire lives imploded,” I muttered, standing to smudge highlighter along her cheekbone.
“Minor detail,” she deadpanned, making us both snort.
She grabbed a lipstick and held it up like a weapon. “Okay, Cass. Do we want soft and romantic or kiss-me-under-the-fireworks bold?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Soft. Definitely soft.”
“You’re no fun.” But she chose the soft pink anyway, applying it with surprising care.
By the time we were done, my reflection barely felt like me.
My hair braided, a sweep of rose-gold shimmer across my lids, lashes curled high.
I’d pulled on a satin black camisole tucked into high-waisted dark jeans, layered with an oversized cream cardigan that fell off one shoulder.
My boots were heeled but comfortable, the kind you wear when you want to look effortless without trying too hard.
Clara, of course, went bold, wearing an ice blue wrap dress that matched her eyes and hugged her in all the right places. Her blonde hair was twisted up in soft curls, and a deep red lip made her look like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.
“You look like trouble, Mrs. James,” I said, grinning as I grabbed a tube of mascara.
“That’s the point,” she winked, reaching into her bag and pulling out a tiny flask. She twisted it open, smirking.
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did,” she said, handing it over. “Figured we’d start the night like the good old days.”
I took a sip, the burn of cheap whiskey curling warm in my chest. “God, this is disgusting.”
“And yet,” she said, taking a sip herself, “tradition.”
For the first time in months, we laughed together, full, unguarded laughter that shook something loose inside me. It didn’t erase everything, didn’t fix anything, but for a moment, it reminded me there were still pieces of me worth keeping.
That I wasn't just Andrew's mistress, the homewrecker, the girl he said he loved, but then... then... he... I was still having a hard time coming to terms with what he had done.
By the end of it, Clara was barefoot on my bed scrolling through playlists, and I was leaning against the vanity finishing the last of my whiskey-chased soda, my nerves buzzing.
Neither of us said it out loud, but I think we both needed this, the music, the makeup, the ritual of choosing armour in the form of clothes and lipstick.
By the time she left to meet Mason, I stood in the middle of my messy room, boots in one hand, phone in the other, my heart hammering as I whispered to no one:
“Okay. You’ve got this.”
By the time I walked into Adam’s pub, my nerves had settled into a low hum beneath my ribs.
The place was alive, thrumming with energy; warm lights were strung overhead, and music spilled over the low rumble of conversation and laughter.
The smell of fried food and whiskey clung to the air, comforting in a way I didn’t expect.
The staff welcomed me easily, folding me into their rhythm like I’d been part of it all along. They were my age, give or take a few years, quick to joke and quicker to laugh. I felt almost… normal.
Adam found me behind the bar, sliding a shot glass toward me. “You ready, little Morgan?”
“Not even a little.” I huffed.
“Good.” He clinked his glass against mine. “Best way to start the night.”
The tequila burned going down, but it loosened something in me. I poured drinks, joked with customers, and even did another shot or two with Adam and one of the servers. For a moment, the gossip, the stares, the whispers, all of it, faded into the background.
I could breathe here.
And I knew part of that was because of who was watching me.
Brody.
He stood at the far end of the bar, leaning casually against a post, his eyes scanning the room, but I felt his gaze every time it landed on me.
I forced myself to look away, heart beating just a little too fast.
Clara and Mason arrived around nine.
Clara looked nervous, like she was waiting for the ground to shift beneath her feet, but Mason looked… hopeful. Happier than I’d seen him in months.
As they passed the bar, he brushed my arm lightly and whispered, “Thank you.”
Before I could respond, Adam swept past me, murmuring just loud enough for me to hear, “You’re magic, little Morgan.”
I rolled my eyes at him, but my throat tightened unexpectedly.
As the night wore on, I stole moments to watch them, Clara and Mason, dancing slowly in the middle of the crowd, laughing softly in each other’s space. My chest ached, but not in the way I expected.
After everything, after the wreckage and heartbreak, maybe they’d make it through.
Therapy. Honesty. The truth about Mel and her obsessive spiral. She had been stalking them long before he had ever hired her. Clara was letting him back in, bit by bit, and Mason looked like he’d crawl across glass to earn it.
I wanted that kind of hope for her. That kind of honest love.
Maybe, someday, for me too.
Love wasn’t easy, not for them, not for anyone. But watching them, I wanted to believe it was worth fighting for.
Five minutes to midnight, the crowd was electric. Someone popped a bottle of champagne behind the bar, foam spilling over onto the counter, laughter chasing it down.
I was setting fresh glasses out when I felt him before I saw him, the warmth at my back, the quiet gravity of him.
Brody.
His chest pressed lightly against my shoulder blades, grounding and steady. His hand brushed mine where it rested on the bar, just for a second, then moved away.
When he leaned down, his lips brushed the edge of my temple, soft and deliberate.
“Happy New Year, Cass,” he whispered, so low it was meant only for me.
My breath caught, but before I could respond, he was gone, moving back through the crowd to where Adam waved him over.
The countdown blurred by in a haze of champagne bubbles and confetti, accompanied by the pulse of music beneath our feet.
I laughed at something Adam shouted from across the room, clinked glasses with Clara, and tried not to think about the warmth still lingering at my temple.
Tried and failed.
Because the truth was, Brody Palmer terrified me, not because I didn’t trust him, but because I did. Because when he’d asked me for tomorrow, for a day that was just ours, I’d said yes.
And I wanted it.
Maybe too much.