chapter seven: the birthday party I

I stepped out of the car before Nina even unclicked her seatbelt, heart pounding with the thrill of what lay ahead. Before she could react, I darted around to her side, yanked open the door, and caught her hand in mine. She froze, pulling against me for a fraction of a second—her eyes blazing with the same fury she'd carried through the drive—and I barely managed to keep her from stumbling out. "Come on," I murmured, voice low, almost a whisper. "Dinner's this way."

She wasn't pleased—far from it. Her jaw was clenched, nostrils flaring with every shallow breath, and I could almost see the grudges lining her gaze: the missed calls, my little white lies, the way I'd "ruined" the day so far. I could tell she wanted to speak—no, explode—but the words wouldn't form on her lips.

I held her hand tighter, feeling the tension in her fingers as I steered her toward the lobby entrance. The building buzzed with its usual Friday-night crowd: suited professionals tapping on their phones, laughter echoing off marble floors, a faint whiff of expensive cologne in the air. None of it registered to Nina—her thoughts were still stuck in the car, and every stride felt labored, as if I were dragging her through molasses.

When we reached the bank of elevators, I didn't let her pause. I grasped her hand in both of mine—felt her pulse hammer beneath my palm—and gently hauled her forward with the urgency of someone fleeing a storm. It almost looked like I'd run, and frankly, I wouldn't have been surprised if she accused me of just that. My only aim was to get the two of us alone inside a steel box with mirrored walls and a mirrored ceiling.

The doors slid shut behind us. I punched the button for the rooftop floor before she even noticed. Her gaze flitted around—first to the digital panel, then to me, confusion mixing with exasperation. She sucked in a breath so sharp it rattled her teeth.

"What the hell, Ethan?" she finally spat out, nostrils flaring, voice low and deadly. She looked at me like she wanted to throttle me. And in that moment, I thought it was the sexiest look I'd ever seen—so raw, so intense, so hers. I'd missed it today, missed the spark that made her who she was.

Her eyes narrowed. "Why did you do that? I almost dropped my phone. Are you running away from someone? Where are we going?"

Her questions tumbled out in rapid-fire succession, each one punctuated by a different expression: anger, hurt, suspicion, and something I almost missed—vulnerability. I opened my mouth to answer, but my phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at the screen: Henry.

"Sorry," I muttered, hitting accept in one smooth motion.

"Are you guys coming up?" Henry's voice crackled, terse and businesslike. He didn't give her a hint—just the facts.

I kept my voice low. "Yes. She's here."

"All set. I'll swing by tomorrow for the… you know." His tone grew quiet. "See you in a few."

Before Nina could demand an explanation, I snapped the call shut and looked at her. She was livid—arms crossed, chin up, lips pressed into a thin line.

I opened my mouth to speak. She cut me off.

"Don't talk to me, please."

In my head, that couldn't have been better. I know Nina—when she tells me not to speak, she's gearing up to walk away. The elevator dinged, one floor from the top. I sank to one knee, as if tying an imaginary shoelace, and held my breath.

When the doors slid open, she didn't hesitate. She stormed out—heels clicking on polished concrete—just as I'd predicted. I stood and followed her through the quiet service hallway at the edge of the rooftop entrance.

Then, from behind the swing doors, came a roar:

"Surprise!"

I pressed through first, watching her reaction like a hawk. The rooftop exploded into light and color: twinkling fairy lights draped around potted palms, a cluster of translucent balloons floating against the glass railing, a table overflowing with silver trays of hors d'oeuvres and tall flutes of champagne fizzing under soft uplighting. A live jazz trio tuned their instruments to one side, and every face—friends, family, coworkers—turned to her, clapping and whooping.

She froze, mouth slightly ajar, eyes wild. For a heartbeat, nothing moved but her chest, rising and falling as she processed the scene. Then she wheeled toward me, disbelief softening into something like wonder. I saw tears gather at the corners of her eyes.

She took a stumble-step toward the railing and peered down at the city lights flickering like constellations beneath us. We were atop Aurora Spire—the very rooftop she'd dreamed of celebrating on, with its panoramic skyline and glass-enclosed lounge. She whispered my building name—"Aurora Spire?"—the incredulity coating every syllable.

Then she ran back to me and threw herself into my arms with the force of a tidal wave. I caught her under the knees as she jumped, soft laughter mingling with her gasps of joy. She pressed her face into my shoulder, voice cracking as she murmured, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

She pulled back, looking around at the cluster of well-dressed guests—parents in cocktail dresses, coworkers in tailored suits, our friends arm-in-arm—and her eyes glistened. I realized it was the first time I'd ever seen her cry. Those tears, so warm against my chest, felt like a badge of honor, a moment I'd crafted just for her.

I gave a soft clap. The trio launched into "Happy Birthday," and the sound of voices joined in. Champagne corks popped in the background. Nina turned to watch, her hands pressed to her heart, tears rolling freely now.

When the song ended, she wrapped her arms around me and kissed me—slow, deliberate, pouring everything she felt into that one relentless press of lips. I tasted champagne and candle wax on her mouth, warmth and gratitude intertwined. She broke away, cheeks flushed, eyes dancing as the crowd whooped again.

She tapped my arm, and I leaned in. In a conspiratorial whisper, she teased, "How come everyone at my party is better dressed than me?"

I grinned. "I had that covered."

I clapped once more, and a line of ladies entered, each holding a flowing red gown embossed with delicate diamond-like beading along the bodice—sparkles that caught the light like constellations. They walked slowly, almost ceremoniously, as the crowd applauded their entrance. The dress I'd picked for Nina was a deep crimson gown—the Skylet Witch design, with a swept-back skirt that flared at the hem and a subtle off-shoulder neckline trimmed in tiny, shimmering glass beads. It was regal and daring, just like her.

"Follow them," I whispered, gesturing to the row of dresses. "Put yours on. I'll get dressed, too."

Fifteen minutes later, we emerged side by side—she from the left door in her red gown, me from the right in a crisp black suit. Henry grabbed the mic again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the celebrant and her husband!"

The applause swelled as Nina swept her hand through the air, the diamond beading catching every glint of spotlight. She looked radiant—strong, beautiful, unguarded.

Henry handed her the mic. Nina's voice, when it came, was full and confident. She laughed softly.

"Thank you all—for coming, for loving me, for putting up with… well, everything." She turned to me, eyes softening. "Ethan, I'm sorry for everything I said today—every glare, every grudge. You made this… perfect. There's no place I'd rather be than here, with you."

A ripple of applause followed, and someone popped another cork. The jazz band shifted into an energetic swing tune, inviting everyone to the dance floor.

I offered my hand. "Come on. Let's show them what we've got."

She placed both hands on my shoulders, her warm breath against my ear, and we swayed together under the fairy lights. Her cheek brushed against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around her waist. We moved as one, lost in each other's gaze—until her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She glanced down, a puzzled frown knitting her brows. She answered. "Hello?"

Her voice brightened. "Hello?"

Then, as she listened, her face shifted—confusion, then anger, then something far darker. Her hand clenched the handset so tight her knuckles whitened. I stepped closer.

"What's wrong?"

She didn't answer. She squeezed the phone as if it were the trigger of a pistol.

When she finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth, voice low and venomous: "You… you had the audacity to call me?"

In that moment, my heart sank. Of all the guests, the only person missing was Nora. My stomach lurched.

I stepped closer. "What's wrong?"

She hesitated,"Nothing," she said too quickly.

I searched her eyes. "Was that Nora?"

Her eyes snapped to mine.

She stared at me, frozen. "What did you say?"

"Nina…" I began, but she cut me off.

"Since when do you know my sister's number?" she hissed, stepping back. Her eyes were wide, tears glistening again—this time with something like betrayal.

She turned on her heel and practically ran for the service elevator. I sprinted after her, calling her name, but she was faster. She pressed the close-door button before I reached her, and the doors slid shut with her on the inside.

I pressed my forehead against the cool metal, watching the floor numbers blink down: 45… 44… 43… until she disappeared.

And there I stood—alone on the rooftop—surrounded by the remnants of the perfect surprise, with the echo of her last words ringing in my ears.

"Since when do you know my sister's number?"

My world shifted on its axis, and I realized that tonight's celebration had just become the beginning of a whole new storm.