It’s Friday night, and the party at our beachfront house is loud—laughs, music, the clinking of champagne glasses. I’m standing on the balcony, high above it all, looking down at the mess of Kook perfection. I’ve got my flawless white dress on, makeup done to the gods, and not a hair out of place. Everyone stares when I walk into a room, and tonight is no different.

“Kook Queen,” they call me. But none of them actually see me.

They don’t see the red fingerprint-shaped mark hidden under my bracelet. They don’t hear my mom’s slurred voice calling out for another bottle downstairs. And they sure as hell don’t know that the only thing my dad has said to me this week is, “How are you?” before disappearing again on another trip that doesn’t matter.

So I lie. “Fine.” Always.

And then there’s Rafe. Kook King. Dangerous. Gorgeous. Mine. He walks in like he owns the place—because he kind of does. Blond hair messy, jaw tight, that Cameron confidence that pulls everyone in. And when our eyes meet from across the room, it’s like we’re back to being sixteen and sneaking out to the cliffs, laughing so loud it echoed across the water.

We were happy then. Before.

Now he’s… different.

Earlier today, we argued. Again. I told him to stop messing around with people who only want to drag him deeper. He said I was “acting like a mom.” He grabbed my wrist too hard. Not hard enough to break it. Just hard enough to remind me.

And then—hours later—he showed up with my favorite flowers. Peonies. White and soft and beautiful. Like nothing ever happened.

That’s the thing about Rafe. He breaks me, then stitches me back up with golden thread. Gentle hands. Crooked smiles. Empty promises.

But love? It’s still there.

Buried beneath all the chaos, all the pain—we do love each other. Not the sweet, easy kind. Ours is the kind that scars. The kind that burns and bleeds but still begs to stay. He tells me, sometimes when it’s quiet, when the mask slips, that I’m all he has. And I believe him. Because in the middle of my broken home and his spiraling world, we’ve only had each other.

Everyone says we’re meant to be. Childhood sweethearts. Kooks till the end. My mom used to drunkenly toast to “The future Mr. and Mrs. Cameron.” My dad approved like it was a business deal sealed with champagne and fake smiles. The Camerons and the Martinis. A match made in coastal heaven.

And me? I used to believe it, too.

But now I’m here—standing at this party, drowning in glitter and secrets. My phone buzzes. It’s Rafe. Come upstairs. Need to talk.

My heart lurches. Not because I’m scared. But because I don’t know which Rafe is waiting behind that door. The one who kisses my knuckles and calls me his queen? Or the one whose grip makes me flinch?

I tell myself I’ll walk away if it’s the wrong one. I tell myself that every time.

And yet… I go.

Because even in the chaos, I still believe in us.