Fellon's pov:
The interior of Xaden's sedan smelled of expensive leather and the cold. We sat in a row—a wall of silk and steel—watching the lights of Washington, D.C., blur into long, neon streaks against the tinted windows.
Amber's hand was tucked into mine, her fingers twitching with a nervous excitement, I couldn't quite share. Elsa sat on my other side, her gaze fixed on the digital clock on the dashboard, her face a mask of porcelain indifference.
When the car finally hummed to a stop, the valet opened the door to a wall of bass. The club was an architectural marvel of glass and shadow, a place where the air felt expensive and the people looked like polished versions of themselves.
We walked past the velvet ropes without a word, the heavy rhythm of the music thumping through the soles of my heels. The VIP section was a raised gallery of plush velvet booths, and there, standing by the railing with a glass of amber liquid in his hand, was the ghost from the morning.
Adrian.
He wasn't the professor now. The academic robes were gone, replaced by a charcoal-colored suit that fit him like a second skin. His blonde hair caught the strobe lights, and his dark eyes were already fixed on the entrance. When our gazes met, the world seemed to tilt. That same electric tension from the graduation stage coiled in my gut, hot and demanding.
I saw his grip tighten on his glass.
I didn't break eye contact. Instead, I tilted my chin up, a slow, defiant smirk spreading across my lips.
I didn't give him a nod, and I certainly didn't give him a "thank you." I simply looked through him as if he were part of the scenery, then turned to my friends.
"The music is too good to waste standing here," I said, my voice projecting over the bass. "Let's dance."
Amber's face lit up, and even Elsa's eyes sparked with a rare sense of mischief. We bypassed the VIP tables entirely, heading straight for the heart of the dance floor.
For the next three hours, I lost myself. I let the vibrations of the music drown out the echoes of the fire. Every time, I catch Adrian watching me from the shadows of the balcony—there was an electric sensation that spread throughout my body.
Around 2:00 a.m., the air in the club grew stagnant. The adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind the dull ache of my heels and a strange, prickling sense of dread.
"Where's Xaden?" Amber asked, her voice tight. She had been looking for him for the last thirty minutes.
"He's by the private exit," Elsa said, her eyes narrowing as she spotted him near the back. "He looks... intense."
We made our way through the thinning crowd. Xaden Ridley stood near the door, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw set like granite. When he saw Amber approaching, he didn't reach out for her. He didn't even smile.
"Xaden!" Amber reached for his arm, her "Sunshine Princess" energy trying to break through his frost. "There you are. We were thinking of heading back—maybe get some late-night food?"
Xaden stepped back, effectively breaking her touch. The movement was so sharp it felt like a slap.
"I'm not going back to the apartment, Amber," he said. His voice was flat. "I'm moving. My flight to Britain is in four hours. My father finalized the enrollment at Oxford for my post-grad. I'm leaving."
The sound of the club seemed to die in an instant. Amber went perfectly still. "Britain? Xaden, that's amazing, but why are you telling me this now?
When are you coming back for the summer?"
Xaden let out a short, brutal breath. "I'm not coming back for the summer, Amber. And I'm not doing the long-distance thing. We're done."
The word done hung in the air like a guillotine.
"Done?" Amber whispered, her voice cracking. "You're breaking up with me? Here? Now?"
"It's a clean break," Xaden said, as if he were discussing a business merger.
"New country, new life. You should focus on your art, and I'll focus on the company. It was fun while it lasted."
He didn't wait for her response. He simply turned his back on us and walked through the exit, the heavy steel door swinging shut with a final, metallic thud.
The car ride back was a funeral procession. Amber was slumped between us, her head on Elsa's shoulder, her quiet, ragged sobs the only sound.
We reached the brightly lit 24-hour street stall on the corner—the one that sold the spicy, crispy drumsticks we always craved after a long study session.
"We aren't going in yet," Elsa said firmly. "Food first. Then the breakdown."
We sat around our small dining table ten minutes later, the grease-stained paper bags a stark contrast to our expensive dresses.
We had shed our heels and loosened our hair, but the "war paint" on Amber's face was ruined, mascara tracking down her cheeks like ink on a canvas.
Elsa pushed the carton of spicy drumsticks toward her. "Eat, Amber. Spite tastes better than tears."
Amber picked up a drumstick, her hands trembling. She took a small bite, the familiar crunch and the heat of the spices seemingly anchoring her back to reality for a second.
"He had his bags packed," she choked out.
"While I was at the mall yesterday buying him a graduation gift, he was booking a one-way ticket to a different continent."
"Because he's a coward," I said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "He chose the easiest way out for himself, without a single thought about the wreckage he left behind."
Elsa took a bite of the food, her eyes cold as ice. "He's a Ridley. They don't see people; they see assets. It has nothing to do with your worth, Amber, and everything to do with his lack of a soul."
Amber let out a watery, broken laugh, leaning her head back against the chair. "I defended him to you guys. I told you he was misunderstood. I made him the center of my graduation day."
"We've all been fools for the wrong person," I said, thinking briefly of Adrian's dark, unreadable expression as he watched the scene from the balcony.
He had seen the whole thing.
He had watched my friend break, and I hated that he was a witness to our vulnerability.
We stayed there for hours, the three of us, hunched over spicy street food in our ruined silk dresses.
We talked about nothing we just sat there with Amber.
As the sun began to peek through the blinds, casting long, golden fingers across the floor, I looked at my friends. We were a physicist, a designer, and an artist. We were survivors of fires, of cold parents, and now, of cruel boys.
I looked at the grease on my fingers and the certificate on the counter. I had my dream job. I had my girls. But as I watched the sunrise, I knew the storm hadn't passed. It was just changing shape.