CHAPTER 14
Daisy
Fall is well underway in New York City and the trees in Central Park are in that in-between phase, their greens giving up the fight, surrendering to golds and russets and fading coppers.
Some branches are already bare, their leaves scattered across the paths like confetti.
Others are still clinging to summer, stubborn and bright.
My scarf whips across my shoulder as another gust rushes between the buildings. I pull it tight, head down as I cut across Columbus Circle, and the wind catches me again, colder this time, threading icy fingers into the collar of my coat.
Everything has extra bite today and I suspect that’s because my body still remembers too much of last night.
I push that thought down. Deep down.
I’ll unpack it later—preferably never.
Right now, I’ve got another social obligation I can’t ignore… Elias’s twenty-seventh birthday party.
He chose to have his celebration at the Lava Lounge. Appropriately, the neon sign over the door flickers in a molten orange-red. As soon as I enter, the building emits a low pounding bass that vibrates through my joints.
Inside, it’s like stepping into a volcano-themed fever dream.
The lighting is low and amber, pulsing like heat behind sheets of sculpted faux rock.
A long bar is lit from underneath, glowing.
Clusters of hanging lanterns ripple with flame-like patterns.
The DJ booth sits under a structure shaped like a cracked crater.
And the place is packed.
Bodies move in the reddish light, dancing, talking, shouting over the music. Laughter bursts through the air. Girls in shimmering dresses weave through the crowd carrying tequila shots balanced on lava-stone serving trays. Someone’s wearing devil horns while another person swings a glow stick.
It is obnoxious and so entirely Elias’s scene.
And in the middle of the mayhem, I spot him, standing on a raised platform surrounded by friends and acquaintances, a ridiculous red silk shirt half unbuttoned, a birthday sash across his chest reading BORN HOTTER THAN HELL.
“DAAAAAISY TURNER!” he yells, spreading his arms wide. “You made it!”
He’s grinning with that charismatic, troublemaking energy he’s had since freshman year—magnetic and dangerous—drawing everyone close while simultaneously warning them not to ask too many follow-up questions.
“You look like a lava lamp,” I shout back as I reach him and hang my purse up in a safe spot.
“That’s a compliment in my book,” he replies, kissing my cheek.
His friends cheer. Someone hands me a cocktail that is bright red and steaming faintly. It looks like it might dissolve a metal spoon, but I hold it anyway.
“It’s a Molten Manhattan,” Elias says proudly. “The dry ice is completely unnecessary but absolutely fabulous.”
“It looks like a witch’s cauldron.”
“Exactly.”
The platform vibrates beneath us as the music changes to a tune that’s deeper, bass heavy, throbbing through the lounge. The birthday energy is infectious, swirling around us. He walks me toward a more private area of the place where we can actually hear each other speak.
Elias is mid-ramble about how his birthday should be a federal holiday when I reach into my bag. “I come bearing gifts,” I say, lifting a medium-sized, neatly wrapped box.
“For me?” He gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “Daisy Turner brought me a present? Everyone clear out, this is a moment.”
People around us laugh. Someone yells “Open it!” and Elias, ever the performer, holds the box up.
He tears into the paper with theatrical vigor—then stops.
His breath hitches.
“Is this—” he whispers.
I bite back a smile. “Yes.”
He lifts the scarf from the box and for a second, the ridiculous, lava-lit lounge blurs around us.
The scarf is soft dove-gray cashmere, with a faint charcoal pattern.
It’s exactly the one he pointed at in a SoHo shop window months ago, sighing dramatically when he learned it was sold out everywhere.
“You said it was the only scarf on earth that ‘understood your bone structure,’” I remind him.
“I DID SAY THAT!” he shouts, clutching it to his chest. “And I STAND BY IT. Daisy… how? This color was impossible to find.”
“I pulled some strings,” I say simply.
He looks at me, eyes softening, expression warming with the familiarity that reminds me why he’s been one of the most important people in my life for almost a decade.
“You always do this,” he murmurs. “You listen to the throwaway stuff. The things I say once and forget. And then you find a way to make them… real.”
I shrug, but my chest tugs. “Someone has to keep you grounded.”
He drapes the scarf dramatically around his neck. “I look incredible. Tell me I look incredible.”
“You look incredible.”
He beams.
Then, with the scarf looped just so, he narrows his eyes at me and gives me a critical once-over. “There’s something off about you.”
I try to look offended, but I have never felt more off in my life. “I am not off,” I say quickly.
“Yes, you are,” he says, grabbing my wrist and pulling me away from the crowd. He shoves me down into a corner table and pulls a chair in close to me. “You’re glowing but not in your usual well-moisturized, frighteningly competent Daisy way. It’s… different.”
“Nothing is different.”
“I know you, Daisy. Your face is doing the thing when something’s wrong.”
I try to look innocent. “What thing?”
Elias rolls his eyes. “That thing where you overcorrect your facial expression because you’re hiding a secret, and even though you think it works, you’re actually screaming ‘I’m off!’ in neon.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter and take a deep sip of my steaming drink.
Elias pulls my cocktail away and sets it out of reach. “Daisy, don’t pull this with me. It’s either a guy or a guy. So,” he says, “let’s try this again—slowly—like you’re confessing a sin to a priest. Give it up to Father Elias.”
I exhale and lean closer to him. “Fine. I… slept with him… Grizz.”
He stares. I stare back.
“And…?” he prompts.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Twice.”
Elias doesn’t gasp or scold. He just settles deeper into his ridiculous lava-themed lounge chair, folds his hands over his new scarf, and says softly, “Okay. Tell me everything.”
The gentleness in his voice undoes me. “I know, I know,” I rush out. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me what a mistake it was, how unprofessional, how messy—”
“Daisy,” he interrupts instantly, quiet but firm. “You know I’m the last person on this earth who would judge you.”
His gaze holds steady, his patience unwavering.
“God…” I breathe out in a grateful tone. “I know and I appreciate it. I guess I’m judging myself.”
“I can’t change that about you, but,” he adds, tilting his head, “how are you feeling about it?”
I laugh nervously. “How am I feeling? Elias, my life is a grenade I keep pretending is a scented candle.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says, linking his fingers with mine. “Talk.”
I swallow and search for the right words, but then I realize… Elias is a safe space. I only need to be honest.
“It feels…” The words stick for a second. “It feels good. Too good. And terrifying. And wrong. And right. He’s—God, he’s complicated. And intense. And a complete disaster most days. And I hardly know him. But also… somehow I feel like I do.”
Elias listens. No wincing or lecturing… yet.
“So maybe it was stupid,” I murmur. “Or maybe it wasn’t. And maybe I should just shut it down and focus on my job. But part of me—” I stop, wrapping my arms around myself. “Part of me doesn’t want to.”
He nods slowly.
“Isn’t this,” I whisper, “where you tell me I messed up?”
He shakes his head. “No. This is where I remind you that you deserve to figure out what you want. Not what’s easiest or convenient. Not what just sort of works. The real thing. The thing that makes your soul feel aligned instead of borrowed.”
Elias has always had a way of slicing to the core of me without ever drawing blood.
“Look,” he says gently, “I’m not going to tell you what to do. I refuse to run your emotional GPS unless you explicitly ask.”
“I’m explicitly asking,” I whisper.
He huffs a soft laugh, then readjusts so we’re face-to-face. “Daisy… you remember sophomore year?”
I blink. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Valentine’s Day. The campus quad. The lanterns.”
Oh. That day. I haven’t thought of it in years, but it floods back.
The volunteer lantern event for the Heart Health fundraiser. Students writing messages to hang from paper lanterns. Everyone giggling and flirting and scribbling inside jokes.
And me, standing beside Elias, staring at my blank lantern far too long.
I bypassed the jokes, ignored the temptation to scrawl some boy’s initials, and instead wrote a single line: Someday, I want a love that feels like coming home.
I’d forgotten Elias saw that.
He touches my arm. “You think I didn’t notice how embarrassed you were after? Like you’d revealed too much? But Daisy, that’s you. You’re a romantic, even when you try not to be. You believe in big love… deep love. You always have.”
Emotion stings behind my eyes.
“And yes,” he continues softly, “a fling can be fun. Healthy. Therapeutic even. But don’t pretend that’s all you’re wired for.”
I fight back a rush of more emotions.
“I just don’t want you to end up heartbroken,” he says, voice quiet and earnest beneath the thump of the music. “Not because you slept with someone but because you let yourself settle for a person who isn’t worthy of the way you love.”
My breath catches. Elias sees me too well. And a part of me knows he’s right.
“Daisy.” He squeezes my hand. “Whatever you choose, I’m on your side. I’ll always be on your side. But don’t lie to yourself about what you’re capable of feeling. And don’t lie about what you want.”
Elias pulls me into a hug that reminds me I have roots in this city, even when everything else feels unstable.
If I’m honest, the way Elias insists I should be, I have to admit that I want my heart to wrap itself up with Grizz.
I’ve seen enough of him to know that I’m willing to risk the possibility of getting hurt.
“You know I love you, right?” Elias says into my hair.
“Unfortunately for you,” I mumble, “it’s mutual.”
He laughs softly and squeezes once more before pulling back.
Before he can say anything else, a cluster of his friends erupts from across the lounge:
“ELIAS! COME OPEN THE REST OF YOUR PRESENTS!”
He sighs dramatically. “A star’s work is never done.”
But before he heads off, he turns back to me, expression serious beneath the reddish lights.
“Daisy… one more thing.”
“Hmm?”
“You know how my uncle is,” he begins. “Julian doesn’t do gray areas. If something looks like an HR violation, he treats it like a federal crime.”
My stomach sinks.
“And dating a player—or even something that could look like dating a player—could be a flirtation with disaster,” he finishes gently.
I blink, processing that. The music blares around us, but suddenly it feels like I’m inside a mind-numbing hangover.
“I’m just saying… be careful. It’s a delicate situation.”
I nod slowly. “I know.”
He touches my arm. “I just don’t want you to get blindsided.”
Then someone drags him away by the elbow, and he flashes me a parting smile over his shoulder. “Come cheer for me when I open my extremely expensive gifts!”
And he’s swallowed back into the crowd—red sash, gray scarf, all charisma.
I stand there for a moment, letting his warning settle in my mind.
The room feels louder now. Hotter.
Then, a buzz in my pocket and I glance down at my phone.
A text from Grizz. You coming over tonight?
Four words and a question mark. The screen glows.
We didn’t make plans when we parted this morning. I suspect that was intentional—Grizz keeping the boundaries clean, making sure I understood the terms. This isn’t dinner and a movie. This isn’t meeting friends. This is bodies in the dark and nothing more.
Around me, the bass throbs through the floor. The lava-hued lights flicker and Elias’s words loop through my head: Don’t lie to yourself about what you want.
The truth is, I want more than a warm body. I want the glimpses I’ve seen beneath Grizz’s armor, those sweet, tender parts he guards so fiercely. I want more of the way he softened when he talked about his past. The cracks in the mask where light slips through.
I think of that lantern from sophomore year. The words I wrote before I knew better than to admit them out loud.
A love that feels like coming home.
Maybe Grizz isn’t that. The odds say he isn’t. But somewhere beneath the bravado and the walls and the raw heat between us, there’s a broken man who needs help.
I won’t know unless I stay close enough to find out.
My thumb hovers over the screen. The music pounds. The lights flicker molten orange.
I type three words and hit send before I can talk myself out of it: On my way.