Anthony steered me into what had to be some rich kid’s overflow bedroom—the kind of space that probably cost more than most people’s entire apartments, complete with a California king and a view of Central Park that screamed “Daddy’s money.”

Before he could even close the door properly, I launched my preemptive strike. “Nothing’s going to happen between us.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge. He actually looked wounded for half a second, like a puppy who’d been told he couldn’t have the designer shoe he was chewing.

Then his face rearranged itself into something more familiar—mild amusement mixed with resignation.

“Jesus, Wallace. Not everything’s about sex.” He flopped onto the edge of the bed, suddenly looking exhausted. “Though after that study performance, I can see why you’d think I was angling for round two.”

Fair point. I stayed by the door, arms crossed, waiting for whatever bombshell had driven him to corner me at a party where we were both supposed to be forgetting our respective disasters.

“My parents are obsessed with us,” he started, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that probably took his stylist hours to achieve. “The photos, the engagement announcement—they’re eating it up like it’s their personal romance novel. They called me this afternoon. Want to move the wedding to next month.”

The words hit like a slap from my mother—unexpected and stunning in their impact. Next month. Four weeks. Thirty days until my life became a prison with designer curtains and monogrammed towels.

“That’s… insane.” My brain short-circuited, trying to recalculate my escape timeline. Four months had felt impossible. One month was a death sentence.

“Welcome to having parents who treat you like a merger acquisition,” he said, laughing bitter and sharp. “Apparently the Wallaces and Harrises can’t wait to start breeding the next generation of soulless capitalists.”

I moved from the door, needing to sit before my legs gave out. The plush carpet felt like quicksand under my heels.

“They can’t just… move it up. There’s planning, venues, the fucking flower arrangements my mother will obsess over for weeks.”

“Money solves everything, remember? They’ve already got the St. Regis on standby. The Harris family apparently keeps wedding vendors on retainer like they’re attorneys.” He shook his head, disgust evident. “It’s efficient. Cold as fuck, but efficient.”

We sat in silence for a moment, two prisoners comparing notes on their matching life sentences.

“Look,” Anthony said suddenly, his voice dropping the bitter edge for something more genuine. “You’re smart. Beautiful. Definitely more interesting than the trust fund princesses they usually throw at me. But I don’t… feel it. The pull. The thing that makes people do stupid shit for each other.”

The honesty was refreshing after weeks of everyone dancing around the truth like it might bite them.

“No offense, but after the study thing—which was hot, don’t get me wrong—I realized I’m not ready for this. Any of this. Maybe when I’m thirty and my frontal lobe finishes developing.” He paused, searching my face. “Christ, I sound like my therapist.”

A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep—real, genuine relief flooding through my system like good champagne. “Thank fucking god. I thought I was broken for not wanting to play house with you.”

“Broken?” He snorted. “Wallace, you’re probably the least broken person in our entire social circle. You just have the misfortune of having parents who think the 1950s were the pinnacle of social progress.”

“Friends?” He extended his hand like we were closing a business deal, which honestly wasn’t far from the truth.

I shook it, appreciating the simplicity of the gesture. No pretense, no performance. Just two people agreeing not to ruin each other’s lives. “Friends who are accidentally engaged.”

“So what’s our play?” he asked, shifting into strategy mode. “How do we torpedo this without getting disowned?”

My mind raced through possibilities—each more disastrous than the last. Develop sudden religious differences? Too complicated. Orchestrate a public scandal? Too risky with our fathers’ business connections.

“Your parents’ place. Working late with your father. Where are you?”

The protectiveness bleeding through his careful control made my chest tight.

“Some party. Upper East Side. Josie dragged me here but it’s… not my scene.” I didn’t have to explain further. He knew me well enough to fill in the blanks—too many people, too much performance, too little authenticity.

“Send me the address. I’ll come get you.”

My father would lose his mind if he knew. My mother would probably have another breakdown. The smart thing would be to decline, to maintain the careful boundaries we’d been dancing around since that night in my room.

“One condition,” I heard myself say, heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. “We’re not going home.”

The pause stretched between us, electric with possibility. I could practically hear him weighing the consequences, calculating the fallout. Then, voice low and certain: “Understood.”

I sent my location with shaking fingers, then wandered back into the party chaos. But something fundamental had shifted.

The music hit different when you knew escape was coming. The bass became a countdown, each beat bringing me closer to… what? Disaster? Freedom? Both?

I let the rhythm move through me, dancing with strangers who didn’t know my name or my father’s net worth.

For the first time in weeks, I felt twenty-two—not a pawn or a trophy or a disappointment. Just a girl at a party, waiting for a guy who made her burn from the inside out.