The chandeliers of the Grand Astoria Hotel cast everything in warm gold, but the warmth never reached the people standing beneath them.

It was the kind of reunion where everyone pretended to be happy. Old classmates who hadn't spoken in years hugged like lovers. Business cards exchanged hands like secrets. Champagne flutes clinked in a rhythm that matched the shallow laughter.

User wanted to be anywhere else.

Marcus's hand was on her lower back again. The same hand that had been wrapped around another woman's waist three nights ago. The same fingers that had typed "she means nothing, you're the one I love" into a text message he forgot to delete.

User had seen it.

She had seen them.

And now, standing in a room full of people who didn't know, who would never know, she was supposed to smile and pretend.

"You're quiet," Marcus said, leaning in. His breath smelled like whiskey. "Still mad about that?"

User said nothing.

"Babe, I told you. It was a mistake. It won't happen again."

It was the fourth time he had said that. The fourth time she had heard it. The fourth time she had almost believed it.

User pulled away from his hand.

"I'm done, Marcus."

He laughed. Actually laughed. As if she had told a joke.

"You're not done. You've been saying that for weeks. You're still here."

"I'm done," User repeated, louder this time.

A few heads turned. A few conversations paused.

Marcus's smile tightened. His hand found her wrist.

"Don't do this here."

"Let go of me."

"No."

The room was watching now. User could feel it—the weight of thirty, forty, fifty pairs of eyes. The reunion had become a live show. Her humiliation, their entertainment.

"Let go," she said again, her voice shaking.

"Not until you stop being ridiculous. You're not breaking up with me. You're not going anywhere. You know that."

User knew that tone. She had heard it before. The one that said I will win this argument because I always win.

And something inside her—something that had been shrinking for months, for years—finally snapped.

"I already have a boyfriend."

The words came out before she could stop them.

Marcus froze. His grip loosened, just slightly.

"What?"

"I have a boyfriend," User repeated. Stronger this time. "We're done."

His eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened. The mask of charm cracked, and beneath it was something uglier. Something colder.

"Bullshit."

"It's not—"

"Show me."

The room went silent.

"Show me right now," he said, his voice rising. "You say you have a boyfriend? Prove it. Where is he? Show him to me. In front of everyone."

He was calling her bluff. He knew. He knew she was lying. And he was going to make her admit it in front of all these people.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her palms were sweating. Her mind raced through every excuse, every escape, every possible way out—

And somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the humiliation, beneath the crushing weight of everyone watching—

A desperate wish.

I wish someone would just appear. Just for tonight. Just pretend to be my boyfriend so I can get out of this. I don't care who. I don't care what. Anyone. Please. Just someone.

It wasn't a prayer. User didn't believe in those.

It was simply a moment of pure, exhausted longing.

I wish.

User looked around.

A man. She just needed a man. Any man. Someone who could play along for thirty seconds. Someone who would—

Her eyes landed on him.

Standing at the edge of the crowd. Apart from everyone else. Holding a champagne flute he hadn't touched. Dressed in black from head to toe, his suit so dark it seemed to drink the light around him.

Dark hair falling across his forehead. Dark eyes that weren't looking at anyone in particular—until, somehow, they were looking at her.

He was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful. In the way a storm is beautiful right before it makes landfall.

User didn't think.

She crossed the distance between them. She grabbed his hand—his fingers cool, long, unmoving. And she turned to face the crowd.

"This is my boyfriend."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Not the silence of surprise.

The silence of terror.

User watched the blood drain from Marcus's face. Watched his mouth open and close like a fish pulled from water. Watched his hand fall away from her wrist as if he had been burned.

User watched everyone step back.

The man whose hand she was holding had not moved. Had not spoken. Had not even blinked.

But everyone else was moving. People were excusing themselves. Remembering urgent appointments. Forgetting forgotten phone calls. The crowd dissolved like sugar in water, scattering, fleeing, leaving a wide empty circle around her and the stranger.

Marcus was backing away too, his face pale, his hands raised.

"I—I didn't know—I'm sorry—I wouldn't have—"

He didn't finish. He turned and walked away. Almost ran.

Within thirty seconds, they were alone.

User finally looked up at the man whose hand she was still holding.

His face was unreadable. A mask carved from marble. But his eyes—those impossibly dark eyes—were watching her with an intensity that made her forget how to breathe.

She tried to pull her hand back.

His fingers tightened.