The champagne tastes like expensive regret and poor decision-making.

I'm on my third glass, which is either the best or worst idea I've had all week, depending on how you measure these things. The Riverside Hospital Foundation Gala is exactly what I expected—all marble columns, string quartet, and people who measure their worth in donation amounts. My board seat bought me entrance to this particular circle of hell, and tonight I'm determined to earn it by being professionally charming and emotionally absent, which is basically my brand.

I've been here forty-five minutes and haven't seen him yet.

This is good. This is fine. This is exactly what I wanted when I agreed to attend this godforsaken event three weeks ago, back when I thought I could compartmentalize my life like a well-organized closet. Keep Marcus in the "high school nostalgia" section, Dev in "current boyfriend," and my own spiraling anxiety in the locked box in the back where it belongs.

The universe, apparently, has other plans.

Elena texted me this afternoon: Don't do anything stupid tonight. Which is therapist-speak for "I know you're going to see him and I know you're going to panic." My sister knows me too well. It's both her greatest gift and my greatest curse.

I turn a corner near the silent auction tables, my champagne flute raised in a toast to absolutely no one, when I collide with something solid and warm and distinctly human-shaped.

The impact is immediate and catastrophic.

Champagne erupts like a golden tsunami, cascading down the front of what is clearly an expensive tuxedo. The kind of tuxedo that costs more than my monthly car payment. The kind worn by someone who doesn't buy clothes so much as invest in them.

"Shit, I'm so—" I start, but the word dies in my throat because I'm looking up at a face I haven't seen in person in far too long, and my brain short-circuits like faulty wiring.

Marcus.

Of course it's Marcus.

He's frozen for a moment, champagne dripping from his lapel, and his expression cycles through emotions like he's channel-surfing through his own feelings. Shock, then something that looks dangerously like longing, then a flicker of regret so raw and unguarded that I have to look away.

Then he smiles.

It's the same smile he's had since high school—warm and genuine and utterly devastating. The kind of smile that makes people want to trust him, believe in him, follow him into whatever disaster he's walking toward.

"Sadie."

Just my name. Three syllables. But the way he says it makes it sound like a complete sentence, like an apology and a greeting and a question all at once.

"Reid." I keep my voice light, weaponize my humor like the defensive mechanism it is. "Still as graceful as ever, I see. Did you step directly into my path, or was that just a happy accident?"

His eyes crinkle at the corners—that particular expression I remember from sophomore year when he'd catch me doing something stupid in the cafeteria. "I was just thinking about you."

The honesty of it hits me like a physical blow.

"That's not creepy at all," I say, but my hand is already reaching for napkins from a nearby table, my movements jerky and overcompensatory. Anything to avoid standing still, avoid being present in this moment that feels like it's been waiting for me for years. "Let me help with that. I feel like I owe you a tuxedo. Or at least the dry cleaning bill."

"You don't owe me anything." He takes the napkins, dabs at his chest with the precision of someone who's used to controlling situations. "Though I'm going to smell like a fancy bar for the rest of the night, so that's something."

I should leave. This is the moment where I execute my escape plan, make some excuse about the silent auction or a work call or literally anything else. I'm good at exits—I've had years of practice.

Instead, I stand there like I'm rooted to the floor.

"You look incredible, by the way," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes my skin prickle. "That dress is—"

"Expensive?" I offer, because I need to redirect this conversation into safer territory. The dress is midnight blue silk, fitted in a way that suggests I have my life together when the reality is significantly messier. "I clean up okay when I have to. Board meetings and charity galas require a certain level of performative sophistication."

"That's not what I was going to say." He tosses the damp napkins onto a nearby table, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are serious. Focused. Like I'm the only thing in this ballroom worth looking at. "I was going to say you look like yourself. Like the real version, not the one who's performing."

My chest does something complicated and unwelcome.

"Well, that's unsettling," I say, but my voice is quieter now. "How are you so good at reading people? That should be illegal."

"Occupational hazard. I spend my days making sure people's bodies work properly. Turns out I'm decent at noticing when someone's not functioning at optimal capacity." He steps closer, and I catch the scent of him—warm sandalwood and cedar, like autumn mornings and expensive soap. It's exactly how I remember it, which is somehow worse than if he'd changed. "You look like you haven't slept properly in weeks."

"I sleep fine," I lie smoothly. "I just have excellent genetics and a skincare routine that costs more than most people's car payments."

"You're also deflecting," he says, and there's a hint of amusement in his voice. "Still doing that, huh? Making jokes when someone gets too close to the truth?"

"It's called humor, Reid. Some of us use it as a coping mechanism instead of just assuming everyone wants to be psychoanalyzed." But even as I say it, I'm aware of how close he is. How the space between us feels charged with something I don't have a name for. How my body is responding to his proximity in ways that are deeply inconvenient and impossible to ignore.

"Fair point." He pauses, and I can see him weighing his words carefully. "I've been back in the city for two years, you know."

The statement lands like a grenade.

Two years.

He's been here for two years, and I didn't know. Or rather, I knew intellectually—the internet exists, social media exists, our mutual friends exist—but I didn't know in the way that matters. The way that means he chose not to reach out. The way that means I was easy enough to leave behind that it didn't warrant a phone call.

"That's nice," I say, and my voice has gone sharp. Protective. "Good for you. How's the surgery thing going?"

"Sadie—"

"No, I'm serious. You must be incredibly busy. Successful surgeon, probably dating someone equally impressive, the whole package." I'm aware I'm spiraling, aware that I'm doing exactly what he called me out on—deflecting, performing, building walls. But stopping feels like drowning. "It's great that you're doing so well. Really. I'm happy for you."

"I'm not dating anyone," he says quietly.

I don't know why that matters. I don't know why my heart just did a backflip at that information when I'm currently in a relationship with someone who's probably somewhere in this ballroom right now, looking like he stepped out of a fashion magazine.

"That's—" I start, but I don't get to finish because Dev materializes beside me like a designer-clad specter, his hand finding the small of my back with a possessiveness that makes my skin crawl.

"Sadie, there you are." His voice is smooth, practiced, the tone of someone who's used to getting what he wants. "I've been looking for you. We need to make an appearance at the Hendersons' table."

I watch Marcus's expression shift. The warmth fades, replaced by something colder. More guarded. He looks at Dev's hand on my back like it's something distasteful, something that shouldn't be there.

"Dev, this is—" I start, but Dev is already extending his hand to Marcus with the kind of smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Dev Patel. Sadie's boyfriend." The emphasis on "boyfriend" is unmistakable. Territorial. "And you are?"

Marcus takes his hand, and I watch the handshake—it's a power play, all firm grips and measured pressure. "Marcus Reid. Old friend."

"Old," Dev repeats, and there's something cruel in the way he says it. Like "old" means "obsolete." "That's nice. Well, we should probably—"

"I need to use the restroom," I blurt out, because I'm suddenly suffocating. The ballroom feels too small, the air too thick, and the space between Marcus and Dev feels like it's about to collapse into something explosive. "I'll catch up with you in a minute, Dev."

"Sadie—"

"I said I'll catch up."

I don't wait for his response. I just move, pushing through the crowd with single-minded determination, heading toward the bathroom with my heart pounding like it's trying to escape my chest. Behind me, I can feel Marcus watching me go, and I don't look back because if I do, I might not leave.

The bathroom is mercifully empty. I lock myself in a stall and lean against the cool marble, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person instead of someone having a panic attack at a charity gala.

Two years. He's been here for two years.

I pull out my phone and scroll through his Instagram without really meaning to. There he is—pictures of him at medical conferences, at the hospital, at some beach somewhere looking like he just stepped out of a commercial for expensive sunscreen. But no pictures of him with anyone else. No pictures that suggest he's been building a life with someone.

No pictures that explain why he didn't call.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror looks like someone I don't recognize. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, the expression of someone who's just realized that the carefully constructed compartments of her life are about to explode into chaos.

Elena was right to warn me.

I should have ignored that warning and gone home.

Instead, I'm standing in a bathroom at a charity gala, smelling like expensive champagne and regret, thinking about a man who smells like sandalwood and autumn mornings, while my boyfriend waits outside like he has some kind of claim on me.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

When Marcus looked at me, I felt more seen than I've felt in two years of dating Dev. I felt like maybe, just maybe, I've been living in black and white and he's the only one who knows I'm supposed to be in color.

Which is terrifying.

Which is exactly why I need to avoid him for the rest of the night.

Which is, of course, exactly what I won't do.