The first real snow of winter transforms Riverside Heights into something ethereal, each perfectly maintained mansion glowing softly behind curtains of white. Nate Brooks guides his truck carefully along familiar streets, hyperaware of the precious cargo beside him. Every few seconds, his eyes drift from the road to steal glances at Amber, his heart performing the same complicated dance it did four years ago at freshman camp.
He remembers that night with perfect clarity – the way the stars had seemed impossibly bright, how his hands had trembled as he finally worked up the courage to talk to her, the exact moment her smile had transformed from careful poise to genuine joy. Now, watching her adjust the skirt of her white silk gown, that same feeling washes over him – equal parts awe and disbelief that she's actually his.
Ten minutes earlier, he'd been standing in the Rosenbergs' marble foyer, discussing Stanford with Richard while trying not to fidget in the white tux Amber had selected. Then she'd appeared at the top of the stairs, and his world had stopped spinning.
The dress was everything she'd promised and more – delicate beading catching light like fresh snow, the silk floating around her as if gravity was merely a suggestion. Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves, secured with vintage pearl clips that had belonged to her grandmother. But it was her eyes that caught him, bright with a vulnerability she showed only to him.
Now, guiding his truck through the winter wonderland that Riverside has become, Nate feels like the luckiest person alive. Streetlights catch in Amber's hair, turning each carefully styled wave into spun gold. She hums softly along with the radio, completely unselfconscious in a way she rarely allows herself to be.
"Cold?" he asks, noticing her bare feet propped on his dashboard, designer heels discarded in her lap. The sight makes his chest tight – this private version of Amber Rosenberg that only he gets to see.
"Mmm, perfect actually," she wiggles her toes closer to the heating vent. "Though Susan's going to kill me if these shoes aren't back on perfectly when we get there."
They turn onto Lawrence Lane, where old money sleeps behind wrought iron gates and carefully pruned hedges. The Lawrence estate looms ahead – all Georgian architecture and historical preservation, its windows glowing warm against the gathering dusk. Unlike the Rosenbergs' modern mansion or his own family's architectural statement piece, the Lawrence house bears the weight of generations with quiet dignity.
Nate guides his truck under the porte-cochère where Justin's Audi already gleams like polished obsidian. Before Amber can reach for her shoes, he's out and around to her door, dropping to one knee on the heated brick.
"Allow me, princess," he says softly, taking one delicate heel from her lap. Her laugh – genuine and unguarded – echoes off ancient brick as he slides the shoe onto her foot with exaggerated ceremony.
"My very own Prince Charming," she teases, but her voice catches slightly as he presses a kiss to her ankle.
"You have no idea," he murmurs against her skin, "how beautiful you are." His thumb traces small circles on her heel as he secures the second shoe. "Not just tonight – though god, Amber, this dress is something else. But all the time. Every version of you."
Her hand finds his cheek, turning his face up to meet her eyes. The vulnerability there makes his breath catch. "Even the crazy versions?" she asks softly.
"Especially those." He rises smoothly, offering his hand. "They're my favorites, actually. Because they're real. They're just... you."
Their fingers intertwine as he helps her from the truck, and the touch sends him back to that first kiss – how the campfire had painted shadows across her face, how his heart had threatened to burst from his chest. She'd been wearing his football hoodie, stolen earlier that evening when the temperature dropped. The way she'd looked up at him through those impossible lashes, all her careful defenses temporarily lowered. He'd been terrified of ruining everything, but then she'd risen up on her tiptoes, her lips brushing his with a gentleness that still haunts his dreams. That kiss had tasted like marshmallows and possibility, and he'd known right then that Amber Rosenberg would own his heart forever.
"What are you thinking about?" Present-day Amber asks, squeezing his hand as they walk toward the Lawrence's imposing front door. "You've got that look."
"Just remembering freshman camp," he says, pulling her closer against the cold. "How beautiful you looked in my hoodie."
"God, I still have that hoodie," she laughs. "It's in my bottom drawer, even though it barely smells like you anymore."
"I should be annoyed that we're taking the limo," he says, changing subjects as they climb the slate steps. "But I guess Susan's parents' insistence has its perks." He smirks, thinking of the flask Jake had pressed into his hand earlier. "Like not having to worry about designated drivers."
"The Lawrences never do anything halfway," Amber says, carefully navigating the slate in her heels. "Susan said her dad practically had a coronary when she suggested they just take Justin's car. Something about 'proper protocols for formal events.'" She mimics Mr. Lawrence's precise diction perfectly, making Nate laugh.
"Besides," she adds, reaching up to straighten his bow tie, "This way we can actually enjoy Jake and Jeff's contribution to the evening."
The door swings open before Nate can reach for the bell, revealing Susan Lawrence in all her carefully curated glory. Her emerald silk dress catches the foyer lights like liquid money, the cut somehow managing to be both classic and daring. Even Nate, who generally notices fashion about as much as he notices quantum physics, can tell the dress probably cost more than his truck.
"Oh my god, look at you two!" Susan's voice carries that particular tone of calculated enthusiasm that seems bred into Riverside's elite. "Amber, you absolute goddess! And Nate – who knew white could look so perfect on you?"
Nate can't help but notice how Susan's designer heels make her exactly Justin's height, how her blonde hair falls in waves that probably took hours to look effortless. Everything about Susan Lawrence is precise as a business merger, from her expertly applied makeup to the family diamonds glittering at her throat.
"Are your parents around?" he asks as they step into the warmth of the foyer, helping Amber out of her wrap. "Should we say hello?"
Susan's laugh tinkles like expensive wind chimes. "Aspen," she says, leading them through the house. "Daddy's closing some ridiculous deal, and Mother couldn't possibly miss the social season there. Which means..." Her smile turns mischievous. "We can start the party early."
The Lawrence living room looks exactly like old money should – all antique Persian rugs and oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors. Crystal decanters catch light from a fireplace big enough to roast a small cow, while leather-bound books line walls in perfectly coordinated colors.
Justin Moore rises from one of the leather armchairs like an advertisement for genetic perfection. His black tuxedo fits like it was poured onto him, making Nate suddenly self-conscious about his own carefully tailored ensemble. But Justin's grin is genuine as he pulls Nate into a back-slapping embrace.
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"Looking sharp, Brooks!" Justin's cologne probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Though I still say you should've gone classic black. White's a bold choice."
"Bold wasn't exactly my choice," Nate laughs, catching Amber's eye. She blows him a kiss from where she's settled onto a leather sofa that probably witnessed the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
"Drinks?" Susan's already at the bar cart, her hands moving with practiced efficiency over crystal bottles. "Daddy just got this amazing small-batch bourbon. Though personally, I'm thinking champagne is more appropriate for the occasion."
"Dealer's choice," Nate says, sinking into the chair beside Amber. Her hand finds his automatically, their fingers intertwining with the ease of long practice. The fire throws dancing shadows across her face, making her look almost ethereal in her white silk.
Susan pours with the confidence of someone who's been mixing drinks since middle school, the amber liquid catching firelight as it flows. She hands out crystal tumblers with careful grace, saving one for herself before perching on the arm of Justin's chair.
"To us," she raises her glass, diamonds flashing at her wrist. "May this be a night worth remembering – or worth forgetting completely."
They all laugh, crystal clinking against crystal. The bourbon burns pleasantly in Nate's throat as he watches Amber from the corner of his eye. The liquor's strong enough to make his eyes water slightly, but Amber takes another sip with perfect poise, not even a flicker of discomfort crossing her features. His princess, always proving she can handle anything thrown her way.
"When's the limo scheduled?" he asks, his thumb tracing circles on Amber's wrist.
Susan checks her phone, the designer case catching firelight. "Nine. Plenty of time to enjoy Daddy's bourbon before we switch to Jake's contribution." Her smile turns wicked. "Though between the Patrón he's smuggled in and those White Claws Morris insisted on bringing, we'll be set for the evening."
Nate laughs, shaking his head. "Pretty sure there's more alcohol stashed in the men's bathroom than Main Street Liquors has in stock. Jake went a little overboard."
"Speaking of Jake - who's he bringing?" Justin leans forward, curiosity sparking in his eyes.
Before Nate can respond, Amber's voice carries that particular tone that means gossip is about to drop. "Olivia Reeves," she says, satisfaction evident in every syllable. "You know, that girl from the CrossFit gym by the country club? The one who can probably deadlift more than most of the football team?"
"Olivia?" Susan's eyebrows shoot up. "How did Jake manage that? She's turned down half the lacrosse team this year."
"You should've seen it," Nate says, remembering the scene at the gym. "Jake walked in on her doing some insane workout - like, hanging upside down from gymnastics rings or something. Started matching her rep for rep until she finally agreed to spot him." He shakes his head, admiring his best friend's technique despite himself. "By the time they finished, she was practically asking him to Winter Ball herself."
Susan takes another sip of bourbon before making a face. "God, this is like drinking lighter fluid. Justin, be a dear and grab that bottle of Veuve from the kitchen? The ones behind Mother's 'special occasion' vodka? And the Waterford flutes – you know, the ones with the gold rim?"
Justin rises immediately, eager as a golden retriever with a new task. "The crystal cabinet by the window?"
"That's the one." Susan's smile is sweet as arsenic honey. "Third shelf, toward the back."
As Justin's footsteps fade toward the kitchen, Amber raises an perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Look at you, having him trained already."
Susan's laugh is musical, but there's an edge to it that makes Nate's skin prickle. She waits until Justin's steps fade completely before leaning forward, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"It'll take him at least ten minutes to find those glasses," she says, all pretense of casual conversation evaporating. "And we need to talk about something..."
Nate leans forward, his hand tightening instinctively around Amber's. The memory of Susan bursting into his pool house last week is still fresh – how she'd interrupted them in a moment of heated intimacy to deliver news that had turned their carefully maintained world sideways. Lisa Chen and Hannah Marshall, playing detective in Brookswood, stirring up ghosts better left buried.
"Lisa's been handled," Susan whispers, her voice barely carrying over the crackle of expensive firewood. "Though I have to say, that photo was a stroke of genius, Amber."
Nate watches his girlfriend's profile, seeing the careful mask slip into place. He hadn't liked it – using Lisa's moment of weakness as leverage – but when Amber had explained the necessity, he'd understood. Some prices were worth paying to protect the people you love.
"The little bird won't be singing anymore," Amber confirms, taking another deliberate sip of bourbon. Her voice carries that particular tone that makes Nate's chest tighten – like ice forming over deep water. "But Hannah Marshall..."
"She's alone now," Nate offers, remembering how Hannah had looked in history class yesterday, isolated at her usual table. "Cut off from her only ally."
"That's what makes her dangerous," Susan leans closer, her diamonds catching firelight. "She has nothing left to lose. Those are the most unpredictable players."
Amber shifts beside him, and he watches her toe off one designer heel, a gesture that would look nervous on anyone else but somehow appears calculated on her. "She's not going to let this go," she says softly. "I know that look in her eyes. She's like a dog with a bone."
"So what's the plan?" Nate asks, though something in his stomach turns to lead as the words leave his mouth.
Susan and Amber exchange a look that makes his blood run cold – the kind of silent communication that comes from years of orchestrating social executions together.
"What?" he demands, not sure he wants the answer.
Susan's smile is sharp as broken glass. "Everyone sees how she looks at you, Nate. The way she has since elementary school. Those longing glances in the hallway, the way she blushes when you say hi..."
"No." The word explodes from his chest as understanding dawns. "Absolutely not. You can't be serious."
"You think I like this idea?" Amber's voice cracks slightly. "Watching you pretend to... to notice her? But it's the cleanest solution. Get close, find out what she knows, what evidence she might have. Then..."
"We've played our parts," Susan says, her voice carrying an edge of steel beneath the velvet. "Now it's your turn to protect what matters. Find her weakness, exploit it. One broken heart in exchange for everyone's safety. It's simple mathematics"
"This is madness," Nate whispers, running a hand through his carefully styled hair.
"It is," Amber says softly, and something in her voice makes him turn to look at her. Her fingers twist in her lap, the only sign of distress she'll allow herself to show.
"It's not just Jake facing prison, Nate." Susan's words land like stones in still water. "We all played our parts that night. Every single one of us."
Nate's attention shifts to Amber, really seeing her now. The careful way she holds herself, like something might shatter if she moves too quickly. He remembers that night at Hampton Beach – how she'd found him afterward, mascara streaking her cheeks, hands shaking as she'd told him what happened. How they'd all come together in the aftermath, spinning stories like spider silk, each thread connecting them more tightly to the lies they'd created.
Images flash through his mind – Amber at freshman camp, starlight in her hair as she leaned in for their first kiss. Their first real date at the Riverside Cinema, how she'd hidden her face in his shoulder during the scary parts. The way she'd blushed when he'd asked her to be his girlfriend by her locker. Their first time together in his pool house, how vulnerable she'd looked afterward, curled against his chest. And just tonight, appearing at the top of those stairs like something from a dream he never wants to wake from.
"I'll do it," he says finally, the words tasting like ash. "For you. For us."
Susan's smile is a masterpiece of satisfied calculation. Beside him, Amber presses a kiss to his cheek, her lips trembling slightly. "I'm so sorry, baby," she whispers against his skin. "I hate this as much as you do."
Justin's return breaks the heavy moment, the bottle of Veuve Clicquot glinting like liquid gold in his hands. "Found them!" he announces triumphantly, completely oblivious to the tension he's walking into. "Though your mom's crystal cabinet is like a maze, Sue."
"Give it to Nate," Susan commands smoothly, all traces of conspiracy vanishing from her voice. "He's got the steadiest hands on the football team."
"Just don't hit Great-Grandfather Lawrence," Justin laughs, passing Nate the bottle. "Pretty sure that painting's worth more than my college tuition."
Nate rises, muscle memory taking over as he positions his thumbs exactly as his father taught him during countless country club events. The pop echoes off ancient walls as foam cascades over his hands, but none touches the priceless carpet. He pours with practiced precision, the bubbles rising like tiny stars in each crystal flute.
His hands don't shake at all, and he wonders what that says about him – that he can calmly serve champagne moments after agreeing to break an innocent girl's heart. But when Amber's fingers brush his as she takes her glass, he remembers why he's doing this. Because some loves are worth any price, even if that price is your own soul.