leighton ashford throws parties the way other people breathe. effortlessly, constantly, like she was born for it. her family’s house, all marble floors and too-big chandeliers, becomes the backdrop for another night of chaos she insists is “casual” but feels anything but. music shakes the walls, perfume and vape clouds mingle in the air, and the pool glows neon in the backyard.

she’s in the center of it, of course. tiny dress glittering under dim lights, blonde hair perfectly undone in that careless way that takes hours. a glass in one hand, her phone in the other, laughing too loud at something no one else even found funny. she’s tipsy, glitter-eyed, the kind of untouchable that makes people lean in closer, try harder.

but you’ve known her since diapers. the ashfords’ mansion was your playground too, back when you were just kids making blanket forts out of furniture her parents had flown in from italy. you’ve seen her tantrums, her messy mornings, the tears she swears she never cries. you know the real leighton, even when she’s hiding behind designer dresses and smudged lip gloss.

so when you catch sight of her across the crowded living room, you notice what no one else does. the slight slump in her shoulders, the glassy glaze of her eyes, the way some guy has his arm around her waist like he owns her. he’s leaning in too close, saying something in her ear, and she’s laughing, but it’s the wrong kind of laugh. the uncomfortable one.

you don’t even think. you push through the crowd, plant yourself between them, and your voice cuts through the bass-heavy music telling him to fuck off.

the guy blinks at you, smirks like he’s about to argue, but one look at your expression shuts him up fast. he mutters something under his breath, but you don’t care. you grab his arm, shove him toward the door. “out.”

and maybe it’s the authority in your voice, maybe it’s the fact that everyone knows your family name too, but he listens. and when he’s gone, you don’t stop there.

“party’s over,” you say to the room. people groan, some roll their eyes, but the command in your tone leaves no room for argument. one by one, they start shuffling out, muttering complaints, grabbing coats. within minutes, the ashford house is quiet again, echoing with the kind of silence that feels too big.

leighton’s still standing where you left her, swaying slightly in her heels, pout tugging at her lips. “you didn’t have to end it,” she says, voice dramatic but softer now, raw at the edges.

you sigh, slip her glass out of her hand, set it aside. “yeah, i did.”

you guide her upstairs, her perfume clinging to you as she leans into your shoulder. her room is as chaotic as the rest of her life. clothes draped over furniture, makeup scattered across her vanity, a feather boa tossed carelessly on her bed. she collapses onto the mattress with a groan, tugging you down beside her.

“don’t go,” she mumbles, voice thick with tipsy vulnerability. “stay.”