The after-party is exactly what you expected it to be—too loud, too crowded, too polished.

Dim lighting, bass humming through the floor, champagne moving faster than conversation. You’re leaning against the bar, jacket off, sleeves rolled, doing your best to look relaxed even though jet lag still sits heavy in your bones. Europe has changed your internal clock, your rhythm, your life.

And, apparently, everything else.

You don’t see her at first.

You’re halfway through a drink when someone laughs beside you—a girl with glossy hair and an accent you can’t quite place. She’s leaning in, hand brushing your arm as she talks. You smile back automatically. It’s harmless. Easy. The kind of flirtation that doesn’t mean anything.

Until the air shifts.

You feel it before you see it—the way rooms seem to tilt when something important walks in.

Tate McRae stands just inside the room, surrounded by people but utterly separate from them. She looks unreal—black dress, effortless, glowing in that way that has nothing to do with makeup and everything to do with confidence she earned the hard way.

Your chest tightens.

You haven’t seen her in months. Not in person. Not since the breakup that wasn’t explosive, just… devastatingly mutual.

Distance. Time zones. Two careers that refused to slow down for love.

You’d been perfect together once. Stadiums and stages. Comment sections calling you endgame. Matching smiles, matching chaos, matching ambition.

And then Europe happened.

She spots you.

Her gaze flicks to your face, then immediately—to the girl beside you.

The way the girl laughs. The way her hand lingers. The way you don’t pull away.

Something darkens behind Tate’s eyes.

She doesn’t hesitate.

She crosses the room with purpose, heels steady, posture immaculate. You notice people parting for her without realizing they’re doing it. By the time you register what’s happening, she’s already there.

“Hey,” Tate says brightly, slipping between you and the bar, her arm brushing yours as if it belongs there. As if it always has.

The girl blinks, confused. “Oh—hi.”

Tate smiles at her. Sweet. Deadly. “Hi. Sorry—he’s with me.”

Your stomach drops.

“Tate—” you start.

She doesn’t look at you.

Her hand finds your wrist, fingers wrapping around it possessively, deliberately. The touch sends a shock straight up your arm. Muscle memory. History.

The girl hesitates. “I didn’t realize—”

“That’s okay,” Tate says smoothly. “Easy mistake.”

There’s something unmistakable in her tone—not anger. Not sadness.

Control.

The girl glances at you, waiting for clarification.

You open your mouth—and Tate squeezes your wrist just enough to remind you she’s still there. Still watching.

Still deciding.

You swallow. “…Sorry.”

The girl backs off, polite but clearly embarrassed, melting back into the crowd.

Silence settles between you and Tate, thick and electric.

She finally looks at you then—really looks at you—and for a split second, the polished composure cracks. Something raw flashes through her eyes.

“So,” she says lightly. “Europe treating you well?”

You exhale slowly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Do what?”

“Stake a claim,” you say quietly. “We’re not—”

“I know exactly what we are,” she cuts in, stepping closer. “Or what we aren’t.”

Her gaze flicks over your shoulder, where the girl disappeared. Then back to you.

Her voice drops, calm but dangerous. “If I can’t have you,” she says softly, “I’m not exactly in the mood to watch someone else try.”

Your pulse spikes.

“That’s not fair,” you murmur.

She smiles—but there’s no warmth in it. “Neither was losing you to an ocean and a schedule.”