1. DAHLIA HARPER

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HI THERE MY DEAR READERS<3

Question for you, dear reader:

Do you run from your fears or walk into them with steady steps?

Choose one: ☐ Hide behind your comfort. ☐ Face the room, even if your knees shake.

Sometimes, I just want to disappear. Not die—no, that feels way too final. I just want to pause. Hit a cosmic stop button on life, thoughts, expectations... everything. Step outside myself for a second and breathe somewhere no one knows my name or the weight I carry. Somewhere I don't have to pretend I'm fine. Somewhere I can finally unclench the tight, invisible fist inside my chest.

I've always wished life came with a remote. A rewind option. A way to delete the choices that replay in my head like a scratched vinyl stuck on the same miserable beat. But reality isn't that kind. And that impossibility settles heavy in my bones, the way grief does—quiet, constant, familiar.

A sudden wave of panic curls in my stomach—sharp, cold, too known. My hands go clammy. I rub my palms together, then swipe them on my jeans, like I can wipe the feeling off me. My eyes dart around the room, scanning corners, shadows, the faint hum of the AC—my brain on autopilot survival mode.

Stop it, Lia. You're safe. You're safe. But safety is tricky. It's not always a locked door or four walls. Sometimes it's just... the absence of fear. And I don't have that today.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, vibrating loud enough to yank me out of my spiral. Sofia's voice comes through the speaker—warm, sharp, grounding, like someone switching on a lighthouse in a storm.

"Lia, are you there?"

I blink, inhale slow. "Yeah, I'm here. Just... lost in my own head for a sec."

I can practically see her rolling her eyes, concern hidden under sarcasm. "You always say that right before you ghost the entire planet."

A small smile tugs at my lips. "I'm just replying to emails, Sofi. You know—my extremely glamorous routine of isolating myself from humanity."

"You seem busy," she says, teasing but gentle. "Don't forget the party tonight. And hey—maybe we'll find you a sexy one-night stand."

I sigh like a tired sixty-year-old. "Tempting. Truly. But I'll pass. I'm just looking forward to hanging out."

Lie. Not all of it—but the excitement part? Definitely a lie.

Because the truth is, sometimes I wish I could erase him. The man who stained my memories in ways that don't leave bruises but somehow still hurt to press. The one who made the word men feel like a loaded gun pointed at me.

That's why I avoid them. Why I wear disinterest like armor and smile like I'm okay. But I'm not. Not always.

And yet—there's still a part of me that wants love. Not the wildfire kind that burns everything. The soft type. The safe type. The kind that feels like warm rain, not drowning.

"Come on, Lia. It could be fun," Sofia urges.

Sofia Volkov—global pop superstar, award-hoarding songwriter, social-media darling—has this way of nudging past every wall I build. Fame hasn't changed her; she's still the girl who smuggled glitter pens into our dorm and forced me to sing ABBA off-key with her at midnight.

"Thanks for the matchmaking attempt," I deadpan. "But you know I don't date."

"You always say that." She sighs dramatically. "One day I'm dragging you into love whether you like it or not."

I smirk. "We'll see."

"You always say that too. It's your code for 'hell no.'"

She's not wrong. At parties, I shrink. I become wallpaper. I admire the architecture more than the people.

I hate attention—the staring, the judging. And I hate the way some men look at women like they're swipes, not humans. Worst of all, I hate how I still hear his voice—You're so dramatic. No one else would ever put up with you—like it's tattooed on the inside of my skull.

But Sofia... she never gives up. She loves too stubbornly. Maybe that's why her music hits so hard—her lyrics bleed hope.

"Pick me up from here?" I ask, my voice small.

Instant softness. "Of course. You're gonna be okay, Lia."

I nod at the empty room. Maybe I will be.

Runways are easier. There's a role to play, a script without words. A version of me that's untouchable. Strutting down a runway feels like stepping into someone bolder—someone who can give a silent, glitter-lined middle finger to the past. Acting does that too. Both let me pretend long enough to breathe.

Later, I wander to the kitchen for water because my brain feels like microwaved oatmeal and my inbox looks like a crime scene.

Instead, I walk straight into my parents having one of their... moments.

My dad's hands are buried in my mom's hair, their lips tangled like they're auditioning for a teen rom-com.

"I live here," I announce, horrified, "just in case that slipped your minds."

They jerk apart like teenagers caught by the principal. Dad's grinning like a fox who got into the henhouse, and Mom's blushing redder than a tomato left in the sun.

"It's always like this," I mutter. Dad grinning, Mom turning into produce.

"Your mom is the reason I have a heart," Dad says. Mom swats him, but she's smiling—soft and real. Their past was messy, but their love is solid, loud, alive.

"And me?" I ask, pouting.

"You're the best part of our love story," Mom croons, pulling me into her warmth.

"Flatterers."

They tell me the party is at Dante's place. Uncle Dante—the chaos king, the fun one, the one who treats me like I'm five and a queen simultaneously.

My mood lifts. That means Josephine will be there.

My ride-or-die. My partner in fashion emergencies and bad decisions. Sure, I love Sofia and Camilla, but in every group of four, two people naturally sync—and Jo is my person.

LATER THAT NIGHT:-

Sofia and James pick me up.

Yes—James Chen. Enigmatic billionaire. Horology prodigy.

He treats us like little sisters. Well... everyone except Camilla,our crown-princess friend. That's different. Everyone knows it.

There's something there—something obsessive and shattered and still, somehow, burning like an ember refusing to die. 

"James," Sofia sighs dramatically, flipping her hair as she buckles her heels in the backseat, "not all of us want to die alone surrounded by antique clocks."

James doesn't even blink. "I'd prefer vintage watches. At least they keep better time than your dating choices."

She gasps. "Slut-shaming my love life? In this economy?"

"Your love life shames itself," he says dryly.

I choke on a laugh. They're exhausting in the best way.

The moment we step out of the car, the night wraps around us like velvet. Warm breeze. Jasmine drifting from the garden. Soft jazz floating across the lawn. The whole estate shimmers—tuxedos glittering, sequins catching the chandelier lights spilling out the windows, the air alive with laughter, champagne bubbles, and expensive perfume.

Sofia is electricity beside me. Her pastel gown hugs her like it was stitched directly onto her confidence. Her heels click like she's announcing her entrance to the universe. Waves of dark hair bounce with every step, the red lipstick bold enough to be a signature.

She slips her arm through mine, grounding me. Her perfume—mandarin and wild rose—wraps around us.

"You ready, Lia?" she murmurs with her trademark impish grin.

I adjust the thin straps of my black slip dress. The fabric clings just enough to prove I can be soft when I choose, but not so much that I feel exposed. It whispers across my skin like a secret.

"Yeah," I manage. "Just... presentable."

Sofia snorts. "Girl, you are always presentable. Sometimes too presentable. Calm down, you gorgeous menace. Just breathe, okay?"

I inhale. Sharp. Uneven. The air tastes like nerves and possibility.

James clears his throat behind us. He looks like he stepped out of a glossy magazine—navy suit sharp enough to cut glass, gold flecks in his hazel eyes catching the lights like secrets.

Then the entrance door opens.

And Josephine Russo steps out.

Her dress is a pale-gold dream—chiffon layers floating around her like she's made of sunrise. Intricate beading glimmers against her olive skin. Her dark hair cascades in soft waves, glossy enough to shame silk.

She smiles when she sees me, and something unclenches in my chest.

"LIA!" she beams, her voice the warmest thing I've heard all week.

Before I can react, she barrels into me, wrapping me in shimmering fabric and warmth. She smells like vanilla and money and home. Her hug is tight, grounding, the kind that squeezes the loneliness right out of you.

"You look stunning," she whispers in my ear, voice low and warm. "I'm so glad you came."

That's the thing about Josephine Rus

She pulls back, eyes sweeping over my dress with genuine appreciation. "This is perfect on you. Understated. Dangerous. Very Dahlia."

Then she spots Sofia.

"Oh my GOD," she gasps. "Sofi—you look like sin."

Sofia twirls dramatically. "It's custom. A girl can't show up to Dante's looking off-the-rack. Come on, Jo."

Josephine kisses her cheeks, European style, squeezing her arms affectionately. "And the waves? The red lip? You look lethal."

"That's the goal," Sofia laughs.

I stand between them, warmth blooming across my shoulders, and for the first time tonight...I don't feel like a shadow.

But then—

A door creaks behind Josephine.

And a voice slides into the air like a slow-burn fuse:

"Jo, what are you doing out here? Mom's already driving me insane."

I freeze.

Because I know that voice.

Marco Russo.

His name alone shakes something loose in my ribcage—something I thought I buried years ago.

The last time I saw him was graduation at Thayer. He'd stood far across the quad, navy suit perfect, posture perfect, life perfect. Polished. Untouchable. Surrounded by people who fit into his world effortlessly.

He didn't look my way. Of course he didn't.

After that—he vanished. London. Singapore. New York. Investments. Deals. Rumors. He was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

But none of that prepared me for this.

Because Marco Russo in person... is devastating.

Tall. Broad. Expensive charcoal suit tailored to a body built from discipline and maybe a touch of violence. Olive-gold skin. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. A mouth too beautiful for someone who looks like he could bench-press a small car.

And his eyes—

His eyes are looking at me.

Not passing over me. Not polite recognition. Looking. Like he's cataloguing every detail.

My breath stutters.

Josephine gives him a shove. "Stop brooding and come say hi properly."

Marco's gaze doesn't break from mine—even as he wraps an arm loosely over Josephine's shoulder, smile slow and knowing, like he's already figured me out.

He steps forward. Deliberate. Controlled. A king entering a new territory.

"You must be Dahlia Harper," he says, voice smooth enough to glide. He extends his hand like this is a negotiation, not a greeting. "Josephine talks about you."

I place my hand in his.

A mistake. A shockwave. His palm is warm, steady, too sure of itself. Electricity skims up my arm, settling dangerously somewhere near my pulse.

"Nice to meet you," I whisper— and my voice cracks.

Kill me.

"You have met her, idiota," Josephine cuts in, smacking his arm. "She is the princess of Uncle Christian's kingdom."

"Oh, I have?" Marco blinks slowly. "Right. I have."

"She's always trending, stupido," Josephine mutters, leaning on the wall like she can't believe she's related to him.

Marco's lips curl. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just... assessing. Like he's putting together a puzzle labeled Dahlia.

"I've been out of the country," he says— and he's talking to me, not her. "Back now. Probably for good."

Josephine bumps him. "Lucky us."

But I barely hear her.

Because I am drowning. And I don't want to come up for air.

I spent years building walls—not to keep people out, but to keep myself guarded. Safe. Unreachable.

Marco Russo should not look at me like that.

Like I'm something he wants to understand first— and claim second.

And the worst part?

Some broken, reckless part of me— the part that has survived everything— wants to let him.

THANKS FOR READING, WELL, ITS KINDA FAST PACED. SO BE PREPARED!