could control.

There was one person in Damen’s life he had always measured himself against and always lost to.

His older brother, Jackson.

Jackson was not louder than Damen, which somehow made him more formidable.

He had the same height, the same dark hair, the same family resemblance, but none of the frantic need to be admired.

He worked steadily, listened more than he spoke, and had that infuriating quality very secure men have of making ego look childish simply by refusing to compete with it.

Damen hated that.

I had always noticed.

The next morning I texted Jackson: I need to tell you something, and I need you not to interrupt until I’m done.

He called within ten minutes.

I told him everything.

The reunion.

The lie.

The rehearsals.

The almost-kiss.

When I finished, he was silent for a long moment.

Then he said, “I need you to repeat the part where he said he told everyone he married Nikki.”

I repeated it.

He exhaled slowly.

“Two weeks ago, I stopped by Nikki’s building to drop something off for a friend who lives nearby.

Damen’s car was there after midnight.”

My eyes closed.

“I hoped I was reading it wrong,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

We did not call it a plan at first.

We just kept talking.

I sent him screenshots of odd payments, dates, and messages I had ignored because I wanted to believe better of the people closest to me.

He sent me back one sentence: Let them keep underestimating you.

The reunion was held at a downtown hotel with ridiculous chandeliers and a ballroom designed to make ordinary people feel important.

Jackson picked me up in a charcoal suit.

I wore a dark green dress Damen had once dismissed as too much for me.

“Too much” turned out to mean unforgettable.

In the car, I asked Jackson one last time if he was sure.

He looked over at me and said, “He made his choices.

You’re just letting him meet them in public.”

When we entered the hotel, I saw Damen and Nikki near the ballroom doors.

She was in cream satin, wearing my grandmother’s pearl earrings, which I had lent her a year earlier and never gotten back.

His hand was on her waist with the casual entitlement of a man who believed the room already belonged to him.

Then the host stepped onto the small stage and tapped the microphone.

“Before dinner,” she said brightly, “we’re doing something fun.

A few couples volunteered to share how they first met.”

Jackson looked at me.

I smiled.

Perfect.

We walked in together.

Damen saw me first.

His face lost color in visible stages.

Nikki turned, saw Jackson’s arm offered to me, and actually stumbled backward half a step.

Every old instinct in me wanted to tremble.

Instead, I smiled like I belonged there.

I did.

A few people near the entrance greeted Jackson immediately.

Of course they did.

Unlike Damen, he had actually kept in touch with people.

One of the men laughed and said, “Jack, I didn’t know you were coming.

And wow, who’s this?”

Before Jackson could answer, Damen crossed the room.

“Carissa,” he said through his teeth.

“What are you doing here?”

I tilted my head.

“Your reunion.

I thought it was for