The Stark mansion hummed with the particular brand of chaos that only old money could produce—the kind where everyone was dressed like they were attending a royal wedding but secretly wished they were anywhere else. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto silk gowns and tailored suits, while the smell of champagne and desperation mingled in the air.
It was Bonita's birthday. The house was booming, as the youth might say, though "simmering with barely contained dysfunction" would have been more accurate.
Tiffany stood at the base of the grand staircase, her neck craned upward like a meerkat who'd just heard a rustle in the grass. Her silver floral dress hugged her figure with the desperation of a woman who needed everyone to know she belonged here, and her hair—cobbed to a shine that could blind small aircraft—caught the light with every nervous twitch of her head.
She was lost. Not geographically—she knew this house like she knew the back of her own hand, having spent years memorizing its corners while chasing Adrian like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
No, she was lost existentially. The air felt wrong. The usual warmth of the Stark household had been replaced by something colder, something that whispered, You don't belong here anymore, sweetheart.
"You want to go there?"
Tiffany startled, spinning to find St. Stark materialized beside her like a well-dressed ghost. The old man's eyes twinkled with that particular brand of knowing amusement that made everyone under twenty deeply uncomfortable.
"No. Um... yes," Tiffany said, her voice performing an Olympic gymnastic routine between confidence and panic. She cleared her throat and recalibrated. "Bonita is my friend. I'm Tiffany." She extended her hand with the grace of someone who'd practiced this exact introduction in the mirror approximately forty-seven times. "Tiffany. You know. Tiffany."
She waited for the recognition. The ah, yes, Adrian's girlfriend.
It never came.
"Oh, St. Stark," the old man said, taking her hand with the gentle firmness of someone who'd shaken hands with presidents and peasants alike and found them equally amusing. His grip was warm but his eyes were... elsewhere. Calculating. "Welcome to our home."
Our home. Not your home. Not welcome back.
Tiffany's smile didn't waver—she'd spent too much money on these veneers to let them go to waste—but something inside her curdled.
The Stark family was hiding something. She could feel it in the way the other guests' eyes slid off her like water off wax, in the way conversations dimmed when she passed, in the way even the house itself seemed to be holding its breath. Or was she just overthinking?
She made her way upstairs, her tower heels clicking against the marble with the rhythm of a woman on a mission she hadn't fully admitted to herself yet.
Outside, Lucian's car—a sleek black thing that screamed "I could buy your entire neighborhood but I choose not to"—slid into a parking spot between a Lamborghini and something Italian that probably cost more than the GDP of a small nation.
He killed the engine and sat there, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
Be respectful. Be respectful. Be respectful.
The mantra looped in his head like a corrupted Spotify playlist. Adrian had been clear: all family members present, formal attire required, no criminal energy detectable. Lucian had even worn the silver watch—the one that matched the ring he never took off—and left his tie undone in what he hoped read as "casually sophisticated" rather than "I strangled my last tie in a fit of rage."
He stepped out of the car, adjusted his tuxedo jacket, and exhaled.
Why am I nervous? he thought. I've faced down rival cartels. I've negotiated hostage situations. I once ate gas station sushi and lived to tell the tale.
And yet here he was, palms sweaty, heart doing a little tap dance against his ribs, because he was about to walk into a birthday party.
For Star, he reminded himself. This is for Star.
He stepped inside.
The entrance hall swallowed him whole. Marble columns rose toward a ceiling painted with clouds and cherubs—because nothing said "welcome" quite like naked babies watching you from above. The sound of champagne flutes clinking and expensive laughter filtered in from the main hall.
Lucian took three steps before a hand clamped around his wrist like a bear trap in a bespoke suit.
"Adrian, there you are. Your mother was asking—"
The man stopped. Blinked. Squinted at Lucian like he was a puzzling tax document.
"You're not Adrian."
"Astounding observation," Lucian said flatly, then remembered his mantra. Be respectful. "I mean... no. I'm Lucian."
Alaric's frown deepened into something geological. Without warning, he began dragging Lucian through the crowd like a man towing a reluctant boat.
"I'm Star's friend," Lucian added, his voice climbing an octave he didn't know he owned. Since when do I get nervous? Since when do I let anyone drag me anywhere?
They arrived at a circle of Stark men—a veritable buffet of expensive suits and generational wealth—where St. Stark was mid-anecdote about something that probably involved a yacht.
"Saint," Alaric announced, "who does this kid look like?"
St. Stark turned. His eyes—those ancient, knowing eyes—landed on Lucian, and something shifted in them. A glint. A glimmer. The look of a man who'd just seen a ghost wearing a very nice tuxedo.
"Oh my god," St. Stark breathed.
And then—horror of horrors—the old man reached up and cupped Lucian's face in both hands, squishing his cheeks like a grandmother examining a particularly promising grandchild.
Be respectful. Be respectful. BE RESPECTFUL.
Lucian bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper.
"He looks like Lucian," St. Stark announced, his voice thick with something that sounded suspiciously like emotion.
"I am Lucian," Lucian managed through his squished cheeks.
"No." St. Stark released his face but continued staring with an intensity that made Lucian want to check if he'd suddenly grown a second head. "Lucian is my late son. David's father."
Christine materialized beside them—Lucian hadn't even seen her approach, which was alarming given his usual awareness of everything in a fifty-foot radius. Her eyes lingered on his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the set of his eyes, the particular way his brow furrowed when he was deeply uncomfortable (which was currently).
"Whoa," said a new voice.
Lucian turned to find a younger man—Cassian, presumably—staring at him with the expression of someone who'd just discovered his cat could speak French.
"Okay," Lucian said, his patience fraying at the edges. "Now you're just messing with me."
The men giggled at his nervousness
***
Meanwhile, in a parallel universe approximately fifty feet away, Adrian stepped into the elevator, his blue tuxedo immaculate, his bow tie undone and hanging around his neck like a silk noose. He was the picture of distracted wealth—handsome, brooding, and utterly unaware that he was being watched.
Tiffany peered around a corner, her eyes narrowing as the elevator doors closed. Going up.
"What are you doing?"
Tiffany nearly jumped out of her designer heels. She spun to find Bonita standing behind her, still in silk pajamas, hair in rollers, face bare of makeup. She looked like a movie star in the "before" segment of a makeover montage.
"Oh, hey Bonita," Tiffany said, her voice dripping with the particular sweetness of artificial sweetener. "How have you been?"
"What are you doing?" Bonita repeated, ignoring the question entirely. "Were you peeping in my brother's room?"
"Miss Bonita." A maid appeared, arms laden with packages of plastic plates—the expensive kind that were somehow still plastic. "Your mother needs you in her room immediately."
Bonita didn't move. Her eyes stayed locked on Tiffany like heat-seeking missiles.
"Where have you been all week?" Tiffany asked, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You missed classes. And a lot."
"I didn't miss anything," Bonita replied. "And if by 'a lot' you mean Star's nudes, I didn't miss those either."
Tiffany's expression flickered—just a micro-flinch, gone so fast it might have been a trick of the light. "Yeah, turned out they were deep fakes. Turns out the poor girl was kidnapped."
Almost concern. Almost.
"You had nothing to do with it, right?" Bonita's eyes narrowed to slits.
"What? No." Tiffany's hand tightened against the wall, her manicured nails leaving tiny crescent moons in the paint. "Even though I needed them to be real. I hate that bitch. She's the reason Ad broke up with me."
Bonita studied her for a long moment, then shrugged with the particular indifference of someone who had bigger problems than her brother's messy love life.
"You need to calm your nerves," she said, changing the subject with the grace of a drunk driver swerving lanes. "It smells like old school here and antiques, don't you think?"
Tiffany exhaled, forcing her shoulders down from where they'd crept up toward her ears. "I guess you have something in mind... probably at 10pm?"
"Club Lucky." Bonita's smile was small but genuine—the first real thing Tiffany had seen from her all week. "I bought it out till morning. Just don't leave me behind."
A rusty ho spread across Tiffany's face. "Wouldn't dream of it."
***
The ninth floor was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made you aware of your own heartbeat, your own breathing, the soft whisper of your own guilt creeping up your spine.
Adrian stepped out of the elevator and approached Star's room, where Dr. Mathews was making final notes on his tablet. Most of the machines had been removed now—only an IV of vitamins and water remained, a thin plastic lifeline connecting Star to the world of the living.
"How is she, doctor?"
"Her vitals are stable, Mr. Adrian." Dr. Mathews didn't look up from his pad. "It won't be long now before she wakes."
Adrian's eyes caught movement—Star's fingers, twitching against the white sheets. A tiny rebellion against stillness.
"Her fingers are still moving."
"Yes." Dr. Mathews placed his stethoscope against Star's chest. His brow furrowed. He removed it, repositioned, listened again. The furrow deepened into a canyon.
"What's wrong?"
"It's her heart." Dr. Mathews reached for a syringe. "Beating too fast—200 beats per second. I'm going to run some tests."
The needle slid into Star's arm, and she jolted—a full-body flinch that made Adrian's heart stutter in sympathy.
"Why isn't she waking if she can feel that?"
"She's on the surface, Mr. Adrian. She will wake." Dr. Mathews packed his things with practiced efficiency.
"You should get a plate and a drink if you're not staying for the party." Adrian hummed
"Thank you, Mr. Adrian."
The door clicked shut, and Adrian was alone now.
He sat beside Star's bed, studying her face. She looked... peaceful. Fresh. Her skin was smooth, her dark lashes fanned against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted. The bandages on her head were gone, leaving only the ones wrapped around her chest—a stark white reminder of how close he'd come to losing her.
His hand moved without permission, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so gentle, so tender, that it surprised even him.
An inch away. That's how close he was to her face. Close enough to see the tiny freckle near her hairline, the one he'd memorized weeks ago without meaning to. Close enough to remember the kiss—that kiss—with devastating clarity.
His eyes dropped to her lips. Red. Soft. Right there. Endearing
Adrian bit his own lip, hard. The pain was grounding.
"The doctor says it won't be long now," he said, his voice rough. "I miss you so much. I can't wait for you to be here—lively, and sound, and awake."
He paused, the words piling up behind his teeth.
"I was a jerk the other day. I waltzed in with lawyers without even asking how you were doing. Maybe if I'd stepped up, believed in you... that woman would be in jail and you wouldn't have been stabbed." His voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough. "I can't afford to lose you, Star. Under any circumstances. I would always be there for you. To save you. To have your back."
His phone rang, shattering the moment. He glanced at the caller ID and canceled it.
"I have to go now."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that said I'm sorry and please wake up and I think I might be falling for you and it terrifies me all at once.
He didn't notice the shadow in the hallway. He didn't see Tiffany pressed against the wall, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white as bone, her eyes blazing with the particular fury of a woman who'd just watched her replacement receive everything she'd ever wanted.
She'd have to apply lotion again. Her knuckles were ruined.
***
Downstairs, the party continued its elegant crawl toward the night's event.
Adrian stepped out of the elevator and into the main hall, where the glitterati had assembled in their finest. Diamonds caught light. Champagne caught lips. Conversations caught fire and died in the space between breaths.
His eyes scanned the crowd, landing on Lucian—surrounded by the Stark men like a gazelle at a lion convention.
Good, Adrian thought. Phase one complete.
He'd agreed to let Lucian come for one reason and one reason only: so his family could see exactly what kind of person Star associated with. A crime lord. A killer. Someone unworthy of being in their home, let alone in Star's life. By the end of tonight, Lucian Throne would be persona non grata, and Adrian would never have to see his smug, handsome, infuriating face again.
He approached the circle, his expression carefully neutral.
"There is the man of the house," St. Stark announced.
"Your friend has been waiting for you," Alaric added, clearly tipsy and clearly amused.
"He's not my friend," Adrian and Lucian said in perfect unison.
A pause. Exchanged glances. The kind of awkward silence that usually preceded either violence or wedding toasts.
"I'm here for Star," Lucian added.
"Yes, you said that for the millionth time now," Cassian said, clapping a hand on Lucian's shoulder. "Dude, relax. Drink. Let's celebrate."
Lucian looked at the hand on his shoulder with the expression of a man considering whether to break it. Cassian removed it with impressive speed.
"So, AUDO?" Darius leaned in, steering the conversation toward safer waters. "That's a big project. Who are you partnering with?"
"I enlisted Throne Enterprise," Adrian said, pouring himself champagne. "They rejected the meeting."
Lucian's eyebrow twitched.
"But I'll force it. I don't take no for an answer."
Lucian smirked. He'd ordered wine—a specific wine—and was waiting for it to arrive. When it did, carried on a silver tray by a waiter who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, Lucian took the glass with a satisfied hum.
"Alswini '85 red sweet?" Adrian's voice was pure disbelief. He looked around at his family, making sure everyone was witnessing this atrocity. "Sweet? You're kidding, right?"
"What's wrong with sweet?" Lucian took a slow, deliberate sip.
"Who are you impressing here? Saint?" Adrian scoffed.
"There's nothing wrong with drinking sweet," Darius interjected diplomatically.
"You're Lucian Throne, for goodness' sake," Adrian said—and the words landed like grenades.
Silence. The kind of silence that made ears ring.
"You're the Lucian Throne?" Alaric's voice had changed. Hardened. His expression shifted from mild annoyance to something darker, something personal.
"The Lucian Throne that terrorizes the city?" Alaric continued, his volume rising. Nearby guests turned, sensing blood in the water. "Killing innocents? Blackmailing authorities? That Lucian Throne?"
Adrian leaned back, satisfaction curling in his chest like a well-fed cat. Perfect.
But Alaric wasn't done. The man was angry now—the particular anger of someone who'd built a career on law and order and now found chaos wearing a tailored suit in his own home.
"I vowed to myself," Alaric said, his voice trembling with barely contained fury, "that if I ever met Lucian Throne, I would punch him in the face."
He grabbed Lucian's wrist.
"Let's not make a scene," St. Stark warned, but it was too late. The scene had already RSVP'd and was making itself comfortable.
"We can't have a criminal in our midst, Saint" Alaric hissed. "We can't harbor this inhumanity. A killer."
He tried to drag Lucian toward the door but Lucian didn't move. Not an inch. He might as well have been trying to drag the marble floor itself.
"Do you want to fight me?" Alaric's voice cracked. "Kill me in my own home?"
Lucian downed the rest of his wine in one smooth motion. The sweet drink suddenly turned bitter. Then, with deliberate care, he let the glass slip from his fingers.
It shattered against the floor, crystal fragments scattering like tiny stars.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"You tell me," Lucian said, his voice dangerously calm.
Alaric's hand moved around his waist. A glint of metal. A gun—small, sleek, very real—pressed against Lucian's forehead.
Adrian's blood ran cold. This wasn't part of the plan.
"Uncle," he said, his voice higher than he'd like. "Maybe we should put the gun away."
But Alaric's thumb was already on the trigger, his eyes searching Lucian's face for fear. Trembling. Anything.
He found nothing. Lucian's expression was bored. Amused, even. Like a man watching a particularly predictable play.
***
"What's going on here? Why are we having guns?"
Christine's voice cut through the tension like a knife through overpriced butter. She descended the stairs with Maria and Bonita flanking her, a trio of feminine authority that made even Alaric hesitate.
"The Stark Heiress, everyone!" The butler's announcement boomed through the hall.
Bonita stepped forward, and for a moment—just a moment—everyone forgot about the gun.
She was stunning. A gold dress that hugged her curves like it had been painted on, a silver necklace that covered her throat like liquid moonlight, a small crown banding her hair behind her ears. The mantle flowing from her back gave her the presence of royalty.
She descended the stairs with practiced grace, Maria beside her, both women radiating the particular energy of people who knew they looked incredible and weren't afraid to weaponize it.
Alaric holstered his gun. The tension didn't disappear—it just went underground, burrowing into the foundation of the house like termites.
St. Stark stood, raising his glass.
"A family doesn't need royal blood to be royal," he began, his voice carrying through the hall. "Everyone is royalty in their own way."
He turned to Maria and Bonita, his eyes warm.
"This is our queen. She bore us the only female child in our bloodline. We're all men—and she's the only woman." A pause. "As a token of gratitude and appreciation, I give 10% of Stark Enterprise to Maria Stark, and 5% to Bonita Stark of my shares."
Applause.
Maria's smile widened into something that bordered on predatory. Twenty percent from her company, plus this... she'd surpass Adrian. She'd own Stark Architects.
Bonita, meanwhile, looked like she'd rather be literally anywhere else becasue it doesn't feel like her birthday anymore. That's why she's made plan for after all these mess.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching.
Where is Tiffany?
***
The ninth floor was silent. Too silent. The kind of silent that made guilt echo.
Tiffany paced back and forth in Star's room, her heels clicking against the floor with the rhythm of a woman talking herself into something terrible.
Thirty minutes. That's how long it had been since anyone had checked on Star. No Adrian. No maid. No family members. Just Tiffany, Star, and the quiet beeping of machines.
She stopped. Looked at Star's peaceful face. So innocent. So sleeping. So conveniently unable to fight back.
If she was dead...
The thought bloomed in Tiffany's mind like a poisonous flower. If she was dead, everything would go back to normal. Adrian would come back to me. We'd get married. We'd have the life we were supposed to have.
It might take Adrian a while to move on. But she'd be there. A shoulder to cry on. A warm body to fall into.
He'd realize eventually. He'd come back.
She closed the door. Locked it. Pulled on the blue rubber gloves she'd found in a box nearby.
Her hands wrapped around Star's throat.
The machines began to beep faster. The numbers dropped. A flat line approached—
"What are you doing?"
Tiffany froze. Her grip loosened but didn't release. The voice was unfamiliar. Male and close.
She turned slowly, her heart performing a drum solo against her ribs.
A man stood in the doorway—how had he gotten in? She'd locked it—looking at her with eyes that were too blue, too sharp, too knowing. He looked like Adrian, if Adrian had been carved from ice.
She remembered him. He was at Crestfall University one day. A fleeting glimpse. He didn't know her so she could salvage this.
"I'm Dr. Jackson," she said, her voice remarkably steady. "I'm on duty for Star."
"Hmm." The man—Lucian, though she didn't know his name—looked at the machines. The readings had steadied, as if Star's body knew it had been granted a temporary reprieve. "How is she doing?"
"Her condition is still serious. That's why the machine readings were decreasing earlier."
Please don't know medicine. Please don't know medicine. Please—
"What's wrong with her?"
"She... um..." Think, Tiffany. THINK. "She fell. Hit her head hard on the ground at school yesterday."
"Oh, really?" Lucian's voice dripped with amusement. "For a second, I thought you were strangling her to death. You know, given that Adrian loves her instead of you."
Tiffany's blood turned to ice water.
"No, I wasn't!" Her voice came out hoarse, desperate, guilty.
But Lucian wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking at Star—at her still body, her reddening neck, the marks where Tiffany's fingers had pressed too hard. His expression shifted. Softened. Glistened.
Tiffany saw her chance instead.
She grabbed the nearest vase—heavy crystal, probably worth more than her car—and swung.
Lucian caught it mid-air. He didn't even look at her. Just caught it, like she'd tossed him a softball.
His blue eyes turned to her, and they were dark. Dark with something she recognized from nightmares.
She screamed as her knees gave away in terror.
***
Downstairs, the ceremony had reached its crescendo.
The floor was covered in gifts—boxes upon boxes of expensive things that Bonita would probably regift or forget about entirely. The Stark men had outdone themselves, as they always did, because nothing said "we love you" quite like conspicuous consumption.
"And now," St. Stark announced, "the crown."
A tiara. Seven large diamonds set in curved gold. Heavy with history and probably worth enough to solve world hunger.
St. Stark lifted it with reverent hands. Then, inexplicably, his hands shook. The tiara slipped, tumbling toward the floor in slow motion—
The butler caught it.
"It's really heavy," the butler said, handing it back.
St. Stark cleared his throat. "With this crown, may—"
"WHAT IN THE HELL?"
Adrian's voice cut through the ceremony like a foghorn at a meditation retreat.
Everyone turned.
The elevator doors were open, and Lucian was walking out. In his arms, cradled against his chest like something precious, was Star. Her eyes were closed. Her hospital gown was wrinkled.
"Where are you taking her?" Adrian's voice was pure, unfiltered rage. "Give her back!"
Lucian didn't respond. He tried to walk around Adrian, but Adrian blocked him.
"I said give her back. She's still recovering!"
The Stark men rose from their seats, moving toward Lucian like a coordinated wave of disapproval.
"You're really disrespectful and stupid, aren't you?" Alaric snarled. "I asked you to leave!"
"Give the girl back," Darius added. "She's not safe with you."
"Safe?" Lucian's laugh was hollow. Empty. Dangerous.
"Yes, safe." Alaric stepped forward. "I don't care if she's your friend or not. She's Adrian's, and at least here she doesn't have to hear you kill people."
"She's never safe here," Lucian said, his voice dropping to something cold and quiet. "Not as long as your girlfriend is here."
He tried to move past them. Adrian and Alaric blocked him. Hands reached for Star, trying to pry her from Lucian's grip. Forcefully.
Lucian fought back.
The guests watched in stunned silence as the scene devolved into chaos—men grappling, Star's limp body caught between them, voices rising and falling like a violent symphony.
Tiffany slipped down the stairs, her expression carefully arranged into innocent confusion. She slid into a nearby seat, smoothing her dress after measuring the event mood.
"Excuse me," she said to no one in particular, her smile plastic and perfect. "Am I late?"
No one answered. They were too busy watching Lucian Throne fight two grown men while holding an unconscious girl.
Alaric had enough. He pulled his gun—again—and fired.
The shot echoed through the hall like thunder.
Lucian's leg buckled. Blood bloomed across his thigh, dark and immediate. But his grip on Star didn't loosen. Even as he fell backward, even as his body hit the floor, he held her up, kept her from the impact.
She landed on top of him. Protected.
"THAT'S ENOUGH, ALARIC!" St. Stark's voice thundered through the hall.
Christine rushed forward to the scene.
But Lucian wasn't feeling the pain yet. The bullet had torn through muscle and sinew, but his body hadn't caught up to the betrayal—adrenaline was a generous liar, and right now it was telling him he was fine. More than fine. Because Star's hazel eyes were open, blinking up at him from inches away, and that was the only thing in the universe that mattered.
She was on top of him, her palms planted against the cold marble on either side of his head, her hospital gown hanging loose, her hair a wild curtain falling forward. She looked confused. Disoriented. But Beautiful.
"Lucian?" Her voice was barely a whisper, rough from days of disuse, like the first crackle of a radio tuning in from very far away.
Lucian smiled—a real smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look, for one fleeting moment, like a boy who'd just gotten exactly what he wanted for Christmas. His hand came up, trembling only slightly, and he tucked the stray lock of her hair behind her ear with the tenderness of someone handling spun glass.
"Hey, sleepyhead," he wanted to say, but all that came out was a breathless exhale.
Star's gaze swept the room—slowly, like her eyes were learning how to focus again. A sea of faces. Expensive fabrics. Jewels catching light. An angry man in an expensive suit, his hand still hovering near his hip where a gun had been moments ago. And Adrian—Adrian—standing frozen, his hand pressed over his mouth like he was physically holding back whatever sound wanted to escape. Shock. Guilt. Relief. All of it warring on his face at once.
She looked down at herself. Bandages wrapped tight around her chest. A thin hospital gown that smelled like antiseptic and starch. Her body felt foreign, heavy, like she was wearing someone else's skin.
What was happening?
"Where am I?" The words came out small. Lost.
"Shh..." Lucian's voice was fading at the edges, softening like candlelight running out of wick. "You're safe."
His arms came around her back—not pulling her down, but holding her close, like she was the only anchor he had left. His grip tightened. His eyes fluttered.
And then it loosened entirely.
"Lucy." Her voice cracked. "Lucian. Lucian!"
She shook him—gently at first, then harder, her fingers pressing into his shoulders as if she could push consciousness back into him through sheer will. His head lolled. His eyes stayed closed.
Something warm and wet spread against her thigh. She looked down.
Blood. Dark and glistening, soaking through the thin cotton of her gown, pooling on the marble beneath them. Her breath caught. Her brain—still sluggish, still clawing its way out of whatever fog it had been trapped in—struggled to connect the dots.
She tried to stand. Her legs betrayed her immediately, wobbling like a newborn fawn's, and she pitched forward—
—only to be caught.
Adrian's arms were there, steady and sure, wrapping around her before she could hit the ground. His voice was shouting something—"Call the doctors! NOW!"—but it sounded distant, like she was hearing it through water.
Her eyes found the angry man again. He was tucking the gun back into his jacket, his movements calm and practiced, like he hadn't just shot someone in the middle of a birthday party. Like this was just another Tuesday.
Star's frown deepened into something harder. Sharper.
What the hell just happened here?