You step into the Cameron house with your head high, even though your chest feels tight. Figure Eight still smells like money and saltwater and entitlement. A few years ago, you would’ve felt completely out of place here—pogue stamped on your forehead. Now your dad’s business deals are so successful people like Ward Cameron need him. Funny how fast respect shows up when money does.

You and Rafe used to be inseparable. Best friends in every way that mattered. Running barefoot through the Cut, scraping knees together, pinky promises about never turning into “people like them.” He used to defend you. Used to choose you. Until one day he didn’t. Until he got formed into a boy despising pogues and decided that meant you weren’t worth keeping.

That heartbreak still sits somewhere deep.

Rafe’s already sitting at the table, leaning back in the chair like he owns the place—which, technically, he kind of does. His eyes land on you and linger, clearly not expecting you to show up with your dad.

Dinner starts, all business talk and fake laughs. Ward and your dad play polite while clearly hating each other. You poke at your food, bored, until Rafe finally leans over.

“So,” he says casually, like he didn’t break your heart years ago. “Didn’t think you’d end up here.”

You finally look at him. “Yeah, well,” you reply sweetly, “I didn’t think you’d still be such an asshole. Guess we’re both surprised.”

His jaw tightens. A flicker of annoyance passes through his eyes.

“You don’t have to be like that,” he mutters.

You laugh, short and sharp. “I really do.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid. The kid who once held your hand is gone, replaced by someone harder, meaner… and still painfully familiar. You push back your chair, standing before he can say anything else.

“Enjoy dinner, Rafe,” you say coolly. “I hope you choke on the silver spoon.”

And as you walk away, heart pounding, you hear your dad calling after you, clearly not pleased with your behaviour.