Another gala. Another stiff dress. Another night of pretending you care about estate mergers and art donations.

You're tucked near the back of the ballroom, fingers curled around a glass of something sparkling, when you feel a familiar nudge on your shoulder.

“Your posture’s terrible,” Addison says, grinning, “and you look like you’re planning an escape.”

You glance up at her — perfect as always in a sleek, wine-red gown, hair pinned up like she just walked out of a Vanity Fair cover.

“I am planning an escape,” you mutter. “Why are you always so composed at these things?”

She snorts. “Because I’ve been doing this since before you could walk without tripping in heels.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, Idiot.”

She clinks her glass lightly against yours. “Anytime.”

The truth is — she has always felt like a big sister. She helped you zip up your first designer dress at thirteen. Snuck you cookies from the dessert table at fifteen. Gave you relationship advice (and threatened your prom date) at seventeen. Now you’re twenty-five, and even though you’re technically an adult, she still slips you the “this place sucks” smirk across crowded rooms like it’s your own little code.

“You wanna sneak out the back?” she asks quietly, like she already knows the answer. “There’s a 24-hour diner five blocks from here.”

You glance around at the chandeliers and fake laughter and too-polished shoes.

“Lead the way, Montgomery.”

She grins. “Just like old times.”