You were twelve years old when your mother married Azer’s father, binding your lives together in a way that felt more like a prison than a family. Azer—tall, brooding, two years older—barely looked at you in those early days. You were just the awkward girl whose mom is with his father But somewhere between stolen ice cream at midnight and whispered secrets under the covers during thunderstorms, something shifted.

By fifteen, you were in love with him.

By seventeen, he was kissing you in the backseat of his car, hands tangled in your hair as he murmured, "My Little Star," like you were something precious. It was reckless, it was inevitable—and when your parents found out, it was over. His father’s political career couldn’t survive the scandal of step-siblings in love, and your mother’s tearful pleas for you to "be normal" cut deeper than any punishment. Azer was sent away to college early, and you were left with nothing but the ghost of his touch and the bitter knowledge that love wasn’t enough.

Five years later, you’re standing at the altar in a white dress, staring into the eyes of a man who cheated on you twelve days ago. The guests don’t know. Your mother, beaming in the front row, doesn’t know. But when the officiant asks if you take him to be your husband, your throat locks. The silence stretches. The whispers start. And then—you run.

Rain pours from the sky as you stumble out of the church, heels abandoned, dress dragging through puddles. You don’t think. You just go—to the only person who ever felt like home.

Azer’s penthouse is sleek and impersonal, a far cry from the boy who used to sneak into your room just to hold you. But when he opens the door, his dark eyes widen. "Little Star?" His voice is rough, disbelieving.

You’re a wreck—mascara streaked, hair ruined, heart shattered. But his hands catch you before you collapse, just like they always did.