Lana balanced her tray with practiced grace, weaving through the glittering guests once more. Her cheeks still burned with the memory of Dylan's voice in her ear, his fingertips grazing her hand. She hadn't seen him again since their hallway encounter, but she could feel him. Somewhere in the crowd. Watching.
But just as the butterflies in her stomach began to settle, a hush fell over the room, followed by a sudden wave of applause.
Lana blinked toward the stage.
A spotlight clicked on.
The elegant double doors opened… and there she was.
Bailey Harrington.
Stepping into the light in a silver satin gown that shimmered like it was stitched from stardust. Her trademark glossy smile spread as the guests clapped and cheered. Lana felt her spine stiffen. Her stomach dropped.
"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered under her breath.
Carlyle appeared beside her with a flute of champagne. "Is this…?"
"Bailey," Lana finished grimly.
"She's the guest of honor?"
Lana could only nod, trying to process it. Of all the places, of all the nights…
Carlyle was equally stunned, her brows drawn tight. "I swear I didn't know. My aunt just books the gigs. I had no clue this was her party."
The crowd parted for Bailey as she descended the stage gracefully, accepting kisses on the cheek, compliments, and flashes of cameras. Her eyes flicked casually over the crowd—until they locked on Lana.
And her smile changed.
Sharper. Like a knife freshly polished.
Bailey raised one manicured hand and strutted straight toward them.
"Well, well, well," she purred, her voice sugary sweet with a poison undercurrent. "Did someone sneak in through the service door?"
Lana blinked, gripping her tray tighter. "I'm working."
"Oh, how humble of you," Bailey said, head tilted. "Never figured you for the black-apron type. Do they let just anyone serve wine here now?"
Carlyle stepped forward, voice calm. "We're catering. It's a job, Bailey."
Bailey didn't even look at her. "Cute. Tell me, Lana, do you refill glasses and clean toilets, or is that a separate department?"
Lana's jaw clenched. But before she could open her mouth, the heel of her shoe caught on the edge of a stair behind her. She stumbled—hard—her tray tipping. A chorus of gasps broke out as crystal glasses clattered, champagne splashed, and the edge of the table slammed against her ribs.
Carlyle gasped. "Lana!"
"I'm okay—" she started, wincing.
But before she could stand fully, a strong hand wrapped around her arm.
"Easy," came a voice she instantly recognized.
Dylan.
He was at her side in an instant, eyes dark with concern as he steadied her. His hand slid protectively to the small of her back.
"She's hurt," he said, his voice low but commanding. "Where's the nearest chair?"
The crowd parted, and someone pulled one forward. Dylan helped Lana down into it, crouching in front of her like she was the only person in the world.
"Are you dizzy?" he asked. "Let me look at your side."
Lana tried to catch her breath, flustered not from the fall—but from his nearness. "It's just a bruise," she whispered. "I'm fine, really—"
"I'm taking you home."
Carlyle looked torn. "I can—"
Dylan cut her a sharp look. "She needs rest, not another hour on her feet."
Bailey stood a few feet away, lips pursed, clearly annoyed by the attention. "Oh please," she muttered. "It was barely a slip."
Dylan didn't even glance at her.
He turned back to Lana. "Can you stand?"
She nodded hesitantly, and he helped her up—his touch gentle, but firm. The crowd murmured and stared, but Dylan ignored them all, guiding Lana toward the exit.
And Lana? She didn't care who was watching.
Because when he opened the door for her and helped her into the sleek black car parked out front, she knew something had shifted. Not just in her ribs from the bruise… but in the air between them.
Something irreversible.
Something dangerously close to fate.
The front doors closed behind Dylan and Lana, leaving a tense silence in their wake. The noise of clinking glasses and muted laughter resumed, but Carlyle barely registered it. She stood still for a moment, staring after them, her heart still racing from the near disaster she hadn't seen coming.
Bailey hadn't moved far. She was nearby, swirling a glass of champagne with a smirk that made Carlyle's blood simmer.
"You just had to push her," Carlyle muttered, striding forward with her jaw set.
Bailey turned slowly, her smile never faltering. "Don't be so dramatic, Carlyle. It was an accident. The tray, the stumble—it could've happened to anyone."
Carlyle's brow arched. "Funny. It only seems to happen when you're around."
Bailey gave a light laugh. "You know, you've gotten awfully sharp since you decided to play undercover scholarship girl."
Carlyle's smile was tight. "Better than playing high society princess your whole life."
Bailey's expression flickered for just a second. "You were one of us once. Don't forget that."
"I haven't," Carlyle said quietly. Her voice held an edge of something old—hurt, perhaps, or maybe betrayal. "I just chose to stop pretending it meant something."
Bailey's eyes narrowed. "You chose to disappear. You turned your back on everything we built."
"We didn't build anything," Carlyle snapped. "We played dress-up and lied to each other."
Bailey stepped forward. "I never lied to you."
Carlyle looked at her, genuinely curious. "Didn't you?"
The silence between them stretched.
Bailey looked away first, downing a sip of champagne. "You're still bitter."
"No," Carlyle said. "Just done."
She bent to gather the scattered glasses from the tray Lana had dropped earlier, hiding the emotions that threatened to surface.
Bailey took a step back. "You should watch yourself. People like us don't get to play poor for long before the mask slips."
"I'm not playing anything," Carlyle replied, straightening. "You're the one still trapped in a role."
Bailey turned, heels clicking as she returned to her group of laughing friends.
Carlyle stood there a moment longer, heart still pounding. The memories clawed at the edges of her thoughts—of gala nights, whispered secrets, and friendship bracelets exchanged in marble halls.
She had known Bailey Harrington long before NYU. Before the designer heels and the backhanded smiles. Once, they had been inseparable. Best friends.
But not anymore.
Now, Carlyle was a stranger in a life she used to live—and Bailey? She hadn't changed at all.
She exhaled and headed toward the back of the hall to finish the shift. But something told her this wasn't the last time the past would come knocking.