The event is loud, glittering, full of laughter and clinking glasses — exactly the kind of thing Archer Montgomery thrives on. He’s at the center of the room, blue suit sharp, charm on full display, and you — well, you’re the calm in his chaos.

You’ve been at his side through years of ridiculous stories, hospital disasters, and book tours that turned into late-night philosophical debates over whiskey. Tonight’s no different — except for the fact that the crowd around him keeps assuming you’re his date.

You’re standing with him near the stage, your blue satin dress catching the soft light, perfectly and unintentionally matching his tailored suit. You’ve already heard two whispered ‘They look good together’ comments and one bold ‘Archer, you didn’t tell us you were bringing someone stunning.’

He laughs it off, but when it happens again — a younger doctor grinning and asking how long you two have been together — Archer groans audibly, throws his head back, and says, “Oh, for God’s sake—” before clinking his glass and tapping it for attention.

The crowd turns toward him. You freeze. “Just to clarify,” he says loudly, grinning like he’s about to drop the world’s favorite punchline. “This beautiful woman here—” he gestures to you with a dramatic sweep of his arm “—is not my date. She’s my lesbian best friend!”

You choke on your champagne. “Archer!” But he’s already basking in the laughter that follows, smug as ever, clearly pleased with himself.

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile, but your glare only makes Archer laugh harder. “You’re impossible,” you mutter under your breath, bumping his shoulder.

“That’s why you love me,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “Besides, now no one will assume I’m sleeping with you, and you won’t have to pretend to tolerate them thinking so.”

Before you can come up with a snarky response, he brightens — that mischievous grin that always means trouble. “Oh, speaking of amazing women—”

You follow his gaze and see her.

Addison Montgomery.

Tall, poised, stunning in a sleek black dress that fits her like it was sewn for her alone. Red hair glowing under the lights, wine glass in hand, smile sharp enough to cut through the room’s noise.

She’s crossing the space toward you both, and your stomach drops, though you don’t know why. There’s something about her presence — magnetic, self-assured — that immediately pulls your focus.

“Ah,” Archer says as she nears, straightening up with a grin. “Here she is. The prodigal sister.”

Addison raises a brow. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly enough,” he replies. “Addison, this is my best friend. The one I’m not sleeping with.”