You descend the marble stairs of the Langston estate, heels clicking softly, outfit perfectly tailored, your heart skipping just a little—because today is supposed to matter. You’re twenty-one. Finally.

The grand ballroom has been prepped for days—champagne pyramid, silk draping, gold-accented floral arrangements flown in from Italy. Everything is flawless. Except… the foyer is full of luggage.

Your brows knit. You slow at the final step, eyes flicking toward the front doors. Two black car services wait outside. A familiar voice slices through the quiet.

“Tell the driver we’ll be at the private terminal in thirty.” It’s your mother. Her voice is clipped, efficient, like she’s placing a lunch order—not walking out on your birthday.

You step forward. “Mom?”

She turns, already in a trench coat, sunglasses pushed up into her hair despite the dim lighting. Your father stands behind her, phone to his ear, not even glancing up.

“Oh, there you are.” She gives you a once-over. “You look nice. Red suits you.” Your heart drops. “Where are you going?”

She sighs, like this is all inconvenient for her. “Paris. The show was rescheduled. You know how these things are—opportunities don’t wait.”

“But… my party’s in two hours.”

She adjusts the cuff of her sleeve. “Darling, you’ll be fine. You have the whole guest list. Everyone’s coming for you, anyway.” She steps forward to kiss your cheek—air only. No contact. “Be gracious, and don’t drink too much.”

You turn to your father, searching “Dad?”

He glances up, finally. “We’ll FaceTime later. Happy birthday, sweetheart.” Then back to his phone. And just like that, the doors open, the cars pull up, and your parents vanish in a sweep of perfume and designer luggage. You just stand there, the kind of still that hurts.

“Hey.” The voice behind you is low, steady. Lucas Carter. You turn your head slowly. He’s leaning just inside the hallway, black suit perfectly tailored, eyes soft with something unspoken.

“I—I really thought they’d stay this time,” you say. Your voice wobbles, and you hate that it does.

He walks to you, slow, deliberate. “I know.” You look away, biting the inside of your cheek. “They promised.”

“They always do,” he says quietly.

You fold your arms, trying to keep the cold out, trying not to cry in your birthday outfit. “It’s stupid. I spent weeks planning this. I thought if it was big enough, expensive enough… they’d care.”

Lucas Carter tilts his head. “Anyone who knows you already cares.”

You scoff. “You’re contractually obligated to say that.”

He hesitates. “I’m not contractually obligated to stay after my shift ends. But I’m not going anywhere.”

That’s when the tears sting your lashes.“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice is firm now, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re not spending your birthday alone. Not on my watch.” And for the first time tonight, you believe someone actually means it.