The ballroom was buzzing in that glossy, electric way only industry events could manage. Chandeliers dripped crystal light over round tables stacked with champagne flutes, the air humming with laughter and conversations that sounded louder than they needed to be. You weren’t supposed to be here—you only ever ended up in rooms like this because of Tate.

Tate McRae fit effortlessly, her green silk dress catching the light as if it was made for her and her alone. She leaned against you at the edge of the room, her fingers laced through yours, that half-smile on her lips that always made you feel steadier.

And then it happened.

Megan Fox.

At first, you thought your brain was playing tricks, but no—she was really there, standing by the bar in a gown that shimmered with every slight movement, her dark hair spilling like ink down her shoulders. You froze, the world narrowing, your chest tightening with that dizzy recognition of a dream colliding with reality.

You didn’t even realize how obviously you were staring until Tate followed your gaze.

Her laugh came, sharp and short. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

Tate pulled her hand out of yours, arms crossing. Her voice lowered, sharp with disbelief. “That’s her. That’s your stupid ‘free pass.’”

The words stung. They’d always been a joke, late-night banter under blankets. Megan Fox was never supposed to be more than a name tossed in the air. But seeing her here—real, breathing, devastating—your reaction had betrayed you.

“Tate, it’s not—”

“You looked at her like—” Tate cut herself off, shaking her head with a bitter laugh. “God, you’ve never looked at me like that. Not once.”

“That’s not true.” You stepped closer, but she shifted away, her arms folding tighter, her jaw clenched.

The room kept spinning around you: laughter, clinking glasses, paparazzi flashes at the doors. None of it mattered compared to the heat between you.

“You always said it didn’t mean anything,” Tate whispered harshly, her eyes glassy now. “And I believed you. But then she walks in and you—you can’t even breathe. Do you have any idea how that feels to watch?”

Her vulnerability cut through you like glass. You wanted to reach for her, to explain, to swear that the joke had stayed a joke in your heart, but your silence—the seconds you’d lost staring at Megan—had already done damage.

And then, as if to twist the knife, Megan’s eyes flicked across the room and landed on you. Her smile was small, knowing, devastating.

Tate saw it too.

“Perfect,” she muttered, turning her face away.

You reached for her arm, desperate. “Tate, listen to me. You’re the one I love. You’re the one I want. Megan Fox is—she’s a fantasy, that’s all. But you—you’re real.”

For a moment, Tate didn’t move. Then she looked at you, eyes searching yours like she wanted so badly to believe you but couldn’t scrub out the image of your face when you’d seen Megan.

“I don’t think I like the joke anymore,” she said quietly, finally pulling away from your hand. “Not after tonight.”

And with that, she walked off toward the edge of the crowd, leaving you torn between the surreal dream of Megan Fox only a few steps away, and the reality of the woman you loved slipping through your fingers.