Vivian Kingsley is staring at me again.

I feel it before I see it—like static in the air, crawling up the back of my neck. I shift under the weight of the girl in my lap, who keeps giggling and whispering something about how she’s always had a thing for bad boys. It’s probably the third time she’s said it tonight, like she’s trying to convince herself more than me.

I pretend to laugh, lean in just enough to keep her interested, but my eyes drift over the rim of my glass to the girl on the velvet couch across the room.

Vivian fucking Kingsley.

Gorgeous. Untouchable. Legs crossed at the ankle like she’s royalty. Chin lifted, posture perfect, like her spine was carved out of marble. There’s a soft curl at the end of her glossy hair, and a black ribbon tying it back like she didn’t just walk into a party where people are doing coke in the guest bathroom.

She’s dressed like she might sue you for looking at her the wrong way, but her mouth is curved around the rim of a crystal glass, eyes locked on me with the kind of calm that makes you want to ruin something.

She’s not mad. No—she’s something worse.

Indifferent.

Except we both know she isn’t.

“Are you even listening to me?” the girl on my lap whines, tugging at my shirt collar.

“Nope,” I mutter, not taking my eyes off Vivian.

She shifts slightly, as if she knows she’s being watched. Which she does. Vivian always knows.

It’s not like I’m trying to make her jealous. It’s not that simple. Nothing ever is with her. Vivian has been in my life since we were old enough to spell inheritance. Our parents dragged us to the same fundraisers, dumped us in the same private schools, smiled too hard when people joked about our future wedding like it wasn’t already a fucking spreadsheet.

And once—once—I kissed her.

Not one of those sloppy, forgettable party kisses either. I’m talking about the kind that rewires something in you. The kind that buries itself in your bloodstream and refuses to fade. She tasted like champagne and something sweeter, something that didn’t belong to the world we grew up in. I’ve had sex since then—more times than I can count—but I’ve never felt anything that touched what I felt kissing her against the railing on her family’s balcony, her hands fisting in my shirt like she hated me and wanted me at the same time.

I’ve been haunted ever since.

She takes a sip of her drink, pinky lifted slightly like she’s at a goddamn tea party instead of a party where three of our friends are currently throwing beer bottles at a statue out back.

“You know,” I say idly, resting my hand lower on the girl’s bare thigh just for show, “Kingsley’s gonna burn a hole in my face if she keeps looking at me like that.”

The girl—Jess? Jenna? Something with a J—turns her head.

Vivian’s gaze doesn’t move.

I smirk.

Because underneath all that perfection, that quiet composure, I know her. I’ve seen the cracks. I’ve felt her nails in my skin. I’ve heard the way her breathing changes when I’m too close.

Possessive, that’s what she is.

She acts like I disgust her—like she wouldn’t be caught dead breathing the same air as me—but I’ve caught her watching. I’ve seen the way her jaw clenches when I flirt with other girls. The way her fingers curl too tight around her champagne flute when I walk past.

And yeah, maybe I like it.

Maybe I like that no matter how many times she rolls her eyes at me, no matter how many times she calls me insufferable, she never leaves.

She stays.

In our group. In our lives. Across the room with her perfect hair and her thousand-dollar heels, sipping her overpriced drink and looking at me like she’s already planning my funeral.

“Be right back,” I mutter, peeling the girl off my lap before she can protest.

Because if Vivian Kingsley wants to play this game again, I’m not going to waste another two years waiting to touch her.