“You’re… so beautiful…”

Yeah, okay, but Ryan can’t remember whose Hermès lap she’s planted herself on right now. The guy’s face? A blur. His cologne, though—definitely not Axe. Baccarat crystal glass? Gone. Houdini’d. Meanwhile, there’s this guy behind her, howling like he just found out his trust fund’s been quadrupled. Or maybe he’s just that excited about finishing a bottle of Dom. Typical Tribeca penthouse—everything’s slightly off-kilter, like the whole place is doing a slow, expensive cartwheel and nobody bothered to warn her.

The marble hallways twist in every direction. None of them lead home, obviously. A girl with Chanel No. 5 breath and too much lip gloss leans in, stage-whispers something Ryan does not want in her head. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Here’s the thing: They’ve never even met.

The bass is so heavy it’s practically a second skeleton, vibrating up through her heartbeat, no escape. She looks up, half-expecting stars; hand-painted, of course. Her mother would have insisted. Instead: nothing but moody shadows sliding across Italian plaster. Stars are for people who still believe in childhood wishes. Or at least, people who still sleep in their own beds.

She should be somewhere else. Somewhere cleaner. Prettier. Instagrammable-perfect.

But here she is, sprawled over Egyptian cotton with three strangers—one of whom might be a model, one who definitely isn’t, and one who’s still wearing his sunglasses indoors at 6 a.m. Her mouth tastes like bad decisions and excellent champagne. Someone calls her stage name, the one that sells out covers and racks up likes like it’s her superpower. Not Ryan. Never Ryan.

She ignores it.

This party was supposed to save her. Or at least give her an excuse to vanish for a while, disappear into a thousand other people’s stories. Instead, the anonymity feels like quicksand. You think you’re floating; turns out, you’re just sinking in style. These bodies pressing in? Not freedom. More like, yep, suffocation with a side of caviar.

Morning crashes in without so much as a courtesy knock.

Sunlight slices through the floor-to-ceiling windows like it’s on a mission from God. Or maybe just the building’s co-op board. It’s too honest, too sharp, like it knows exactly what kind of mess happened here and wants to air it out for the neighbors. The scene: Baccarat crystal everywhere, a Hermès throw soaking up a slow, sticky Cristal death, someone’s antique silver ashtray’s worth of confessions strewn all over a Persian rug that probably cost more than most people’s entire wardrobe. The Bang & Olufsen sound system? Still spitting out the remains of last night’s playlist, like a DJ who doesn’t know when to quit.

Ryan pads in barefoot, quiet as a secret. She actually is a gymnast, so she knows how to do that. The Balenciaga hoodie swallowing her whole? Not hers. Probably Andreas’s, or maybe Andreas’s ex’s. The sleeves cover her hands, the same hands that have been on more magazine covers than most people have selfies. Her hair’s a mess. Mascara is doing its best Jackson Pollock impression down her cheekbones. She looks like a kid who just woke up in someone else’s recurring nightmare.

But she moves like she means it. Years of ballet don’t just evaporate because you’re hungover in a stranger’s luxury living room.

Andreas stands at the kitchen island, looking like the kind of guy who’s never waited in line for anything. Technically, that’s true. His family owns most of SoHo and a slice of the Hamptons for good measure. His Tom Ford shirt is untucked just so, like there’s an art form to pretending you don’t care. He sips Evian, cool as ever, like he’s the only one here who didn’t just survive a Category Five party.

He looks at Ryan the way people look at limited-edition artwork after someone’s spilled red wine on it.

“You look like wallpaper that’s sick of the wall,” he says, voice as flat as yesterday’s champagne. Honestly, he could be auditioning for the driest human alive.

Ryan takes the water he offers. Crystal-cold. She drinks slow, lips pressed tight, refusing to meet his eyes. Water with no taste at all, kind of a relief. Kind of a punishment.

“So, what is this? Hospitality or judgement with a side of mineral water?” Her voice actually cracks a little. She’s never heard herself sound so tired.

Andreas shrugs. “You’re the one who crashed my party.”

She turns away, fingers digging through a mountain of designer coats. Tom Ford, Saint Laurent, Bottega Veneta. The usual suspects. The smells stick: Creed cologne, weed that costs someone’s weekly allowance, that weird, sweet funk that always comes with too much privilege and not enough sleep.

She’s not looking for her jacket. Not really. Maybe she’s hunting for a clue—a way to anchor herself to this room, this body, this version of Ryan that she doesn’t quite hate yet.

“You know who I am,” she says, not bothering to look up.

Andreas doesn’t miss a beat. “Ryan Lecavalier. Daughter of the guy who’s always getting papped mid-scandal, and the mom who’d rather die than sweat in public. Used to be an Olympic hopeful. Now you’re the Instagram specture. The girl who’s always almost something.”

He says it like he’s reading a press release. Or maybe her Wikipedia page. The words land sharp. She’s not flinching, though.

“You forgot ‘performance art with a trust fund.’” Her mouth quirks, like she’s daring him to laugh.

He almost does. “Redundant, don’t you think?”

Her iPhone, which is obviously the newest model (what else?), buzzes against the marble. Seven minutes. That’s how long until her driver shows. Seven minutes until she has to put on the Ryan everyone expects—polished, perfect, ready for her close-up.

She doesn’t move.

Andreas slides a plate toward her. Toast. One perfect, golden slice, like it just stepped out of a Goop newsletter about “recovery chic.” She stares at it like it’s a science experiment.

“Do I look like someone who wants carbs?” she says, eyebrow doing its best arch.

“You look like someone who’s trying very hard not to become a cautionary tale,” he shoots back.

For a second, neither of them moves. The party’s leftovers stare back. She can still taste last night—Dom, regret, the faint trace of a kiss that never quite happened. Outside, Manhattan is already awake, pretending nothing ever happened.

Ryan thinks about leaving. Or staying. Or maybe just sitting there forever, wearing someone else’s hoodie and someone else’s life.

Three minutes left.

She takes the toast.

Because sometimes, the only thing you can do is eat the carbs and keep moving.

Morning isn’t golden, not here. It seeps, careful, through curtains that are, she guesses, worth more than her first car: cherry-red, rusted, dead in two months, but she loved it. The marble floors are cold, a flat expanse pretending to be a lake, reflecting shapes without ever giving anything away. There are two of them, two girls tangled in the aftermath; dresses sequined and twisted, the fabric clinging to skin in places it shouldn’t. Regret comes up sharp, like static electricity after the wrong kind of party.

She surfaces first. Or maybe just faster. There’s a desperate scramble for oxygen, lungs tight, the kind of tight that says: you’ve had too much, and none of it by choice. Her skull pulses. She doesn’t remember the details; just the feeling of being used up, and not in the sexy way. The room won’t sit still. Curtains glow, too bright. The light makes everything look expensive and false.

“Where are we?” It comes out dry, not quite her voice. Maybe she’s still dreaming.

A sound—snap—and suddenly there’s a woman in the room. Not just in the room—she fills it, somehow, all angles and pressed white, slacks crisp enough to cut. Even her gloves are deliberate: black, immaculate (no fingerprints. A detail that sticks.)

“Good morning.” The voice is precise, quietly amused. There’s something in it... money, maybe, or just the memory of it. Cold, like a glass left sweating on a marble bar. “Rook, be a dear and help our guest up.”

Another snap, and Rook appears, she doesn’t know if that’s his real name, but he wears it like a second skin. Big, but not clumsy. He doesn’t hesitate. His hands are gentle, almost, but efficient. He pulls her up, drapes a silk robe around her shoulders. Lavender. It smells like her grandmother’s closet, which should be comforting, except right now it’s just... wrong.

The other girl is still on the floor. She’s chained, somehow. Makes a sound, low and maybe almost a word. Her hair’s tangled, face turned away. There’s something familiar there. Or maybe that’s just the drugs, making everything echo.

She tries for bravado, fails, but only just. “Who are you? What do you want?” Her voice shakes, embarrassingly.

The woman smiles, and it’s not a comfort. It’s the kind of smile that leaves paper cuts. She moves, circling the chained girl, a little too close, like she’s hunting for a weak spot. “Names aren’t important right now.”

She looks at the girl on the floor. Something at the edge of her memory tugs, insistent. I know her. I do. I know...

“You might think you know her.” The woman’s laugh is glass breaking, sharp and final. “But she’s not quite what you remember.”

The fear shifts, gives way to something harder. “You have no right. Let us go.”

The woman just steps closer. She’s so calm, it’s infuriating. “I have a particular distaste for disorder. When people meddle in things they shouldn’t—” She lets it hang. The threat isn’t even veiled, she wonders if this is what her mother meant about consequences.

Rook’s grip tightens. He’s protective, but it’s not for her, not really. Or maybe she’s just imagining; she’s always been good at imagining the wrong things.

The woman crouches beside the chained girl, brushes hair out of her face with a tenderness that feels like a trick. “Hello there, Amaria.” The voice softens, almost loving but with an edge. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”

She feels it then: something old and frightened waking up inside her, the memory of a memory, a name on the tip of her tongue. No one here is quite who they seem. Maybe not even her.