Amber watches her reflection in the gym's glass doors, her white silk dress catching the fairy lights strung across the entrance. The December wind carries snowflakes that melt against her bare shoulders, but she barely feels the cold. Tonight, she is untouchable. Tonight, she is exactly who she's supposed to be.

"Justin, I swear to god, if you make us late for the first dance..." Susan's voice carries that perfect mix of affection and exasperation as she adjusts her emerald dress for the hundredth time. Justin fumbles with his boutonnière, the white rose trembling slightly in his fingers.

"Here," Susan sighs, batting his hands away. "Let me do it before you destroy a perfectly innocent flower." Her movements are quick and precise as she pins the rose, her fingers lingering perhaps a moment too long on his lapel.

Amber can't help but smile, remembering how they'd all placed bets on when Susan and Justin would finally get together. She'd won, of course. Amber Rosenberg always wins.

"Come on, princess." Nate's hand finds the small of her back, guiding her toward the waiting photographer. His touch is warm through the silk of her dress, grounding her in this perfect moment. "Can't keep your subjects waiting."

"The first dance..." she starts, but he cuts her off with that smile that still makes her pulse skip.

"What's a Winter Ball without its Queen?" His voice carries a warmth that melts any protest. "Pretty sure the DJ knows better than to start without Amber Rosenberg gracing the dance floor."

The photographer positions them with practiced efficiency – Nate's arm around her waist, her hand resting perfectly on his chest. The white of his dinner jacket matches her dress exactly, a detail that had taken weeks of coordination with Giovanni.

"They look like movie stars," a freshman girl whispers loudly from somewhere behind them.

"Seriously, how does anyone look that perfect?" another voice mutters enviously. "It's not even fair."

"I heard he spent weeks planning the proposal," someone in the growing crowd adds. "Like, coordinated everything with her dress and everything."

"Man, they make the rest of us look bad" a boy groans.

But it's Nate's whisper that makes her heart stumble in her chest: "You don't just look like a queen tonight," his lips brush her ear. "You are one. My queen."

The camera flashes capture them in that perfect moment – her smile genuine and unguarded, his eyes fixed on her like she's the answer to questions he never knew to ask.

"Ready?" Nate offers his arm with exaggerated formality once the photos are done. She takes it, feeling the solid strength of him beneath the expensive fabric.

The gymnasium doors swing open, revealing a transformation that takes her breath away. The usual fluorescent harshness has been replaced by thousands of twinkling lights, creating the illusion of stars captured indoors. Crystal chandeliers – Susan's contribution, borrowed from some Lawrence family collection – cast prismatic patterns across walls draped in midnight blue silk. Paper snowflakes drift from the ceiling, catching light like diamonds, while actual ice sculptures create a winter wonderland effect that makes the room feel more like a palace than a high school gym.

"They outdid themselves," she murmurs, taking in the details she and Susan had spent months planning. The photo area with its throne-like chairs and backdrop of silver birch trees. The refreshment tables with their tiered displays of petit fours and chocolate-covered strawberries. The dance floor, transformed into a frozen lake complete with frosted edges that catch the light like actual ice.

Couples are already gathering for the first dance, their formal wear creating a kaleidoscope of color against the winter white decor. Jake towers over Olivia in her crimson dress, while Susan practically glows in Justin's arms. Charlotte and Morris take their places, her lavender tulle floating like morning mist.

The first notes drift through the air – Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Snowflakes, a piece that instantly transports Amber back to childhood ballet recitals and dreams of sugar plum fairies. Nate's hand finds her waist with practiced ease as he guides her to the center of the floor.

"Remember the first time we danced together?" he whispers as they begin to move. "Freshman formal, when I stepped on your dress three times and nearly face-planted into the punch bowl?"

She laughs softly, remembering his teenage awkwardness, how endearing his nervousness had been. "And now look at you," she murmurs. "Leading like you were born to it."

"I was born for this," he says, but his voice carries a weight that makes her look up. His eyes meet hers with an intensity that steals her breath. "Born to dance with you, to hold you, to love you. Even when I mess up the steps or nearly crash into the punch bowl – I was born to be yours, Amber Rosenberg."

The music swells around them as he spins her in a perfect turn, her dress floating like fresh snow. In this moment, surrounded by crystal light and paper stars, Amber allows herself to believe in fairy tales. Because some loves are worth any price.

Nate pulls her closer as they dance, and she breathes in the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with leather and winter air. His heart beats steady against her cheek, a rhythm more familiar than her own. This is what safety feels like, she thinks. This is what forever tastes like.

"I love you," she whispers, the words carrying more weight than any carefully crafted speech or social power play ever could. Because in this moment, she is not Amber Rosenberg, Queen of Riverside High. She is just a girl, dancing with the boy who holds her heart in his gentle hands, praying he never discovers how dark that heart truly is.

"I love you too," Nate whispers back, and Amber's world narrows to just this – his arms around her, the music wrapping them in their own private symphony, the way his eyes never leave hers as they move across the dance floor.

The next hour passes like a dream, the kind Amber wishes she could bottle and save forever. Her silk dress floats around her legs, catching light like fresh snow, while Nate guides her through each dance with the same precision he uses to run perfect routes on the football field.

They eventually join their group near the refreshment tables, where Jake's busy "improving" the punch with vodka smuggled in his jacket pocket. Amber watches him pour with practiced efficiency, remembering other parties, other drinks. She pushes those thoughts away, focusing instead on how perfect everything is right now.

The room spins pleasantly as she accepts another red cup from Nate. She's not drunk – Amber Rosenberg doesn't get drunk at school functions – but there's a warm buzz under her skin that makes everything sparkle a little brighter. Around them, their carefully curated court has assembled: Jake with his new conquest Olivia (who actually looks decent in that crimson dress), Justin hovering near Susan like a lovesick puppy, Morris and Charlotte swaying slightly to the music, Jeff with whatever cheerleader he's managed to charm this week. Even Sarah and that lacrosse player – Noah something – orbit their circle at a respectful distance.

"Oh my god, look at this!" Susan thrusts her phone into Amber's face, nearly spilling her punch in her excitement. The screen shows a series of snapchat stories – Amber and Nate's first dance captured from multiple angles. They look ethereal, otherworldly, exactly like the power couple Riverside expects them to be.

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Amber steals a glance at the real Nate, watching him laugh at something Jake's saying. Even now, after four years together, the sight of him makes her breath catch. The white dinner jacket that matches her dress perfectly, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, how his smile transforms his whole face into something that belongs in dreams.

"You hit the absolute jackpot with that one," Susan whispers in her ear, following her gaze to Nate. Her words are slightly slurred – apparently Jake's punch improvements are working their magic.

"I know," Amber murmurs back, unable to keep the satisfaction from her voice. Because she does know – knows exactly how lucky she is to have Nate Brooks, to be the girl he looks at like she's the answer to every question.

Susan drains her cup, making a face at the too-sweet punch. "Okay, I'm done with this amateur hour stuff. Time for those White Claws the boys stashed in the bathroom."

"How do you even know about that?" Amber asks, though she shouldn't be surprised. Susan Lawrence knows everything that happens at Riverside High, especially when it involves contraband alcohol.

"Some people won't shut up about them," Susan rolls her eyes fondly. "Morris here thinks they're 'like, totally revolutionary' or whatever."

"Best stuff in the world!" Morris exclaims, nearly spilling his punch in his enthusiasm. "It's like drinking stars, but make it alcohol!" His declaration makes Amber wince. She's pretty sure fancy seltzer water isn't exactly changing the beverage game, but Morris's earnest excitement is almost endearing.

"Slight problem," Amber gestures to her dress, the silk whispering against her legs. "Not exactly dressed for a covert bathroom operation."

"I got you, ladies." Nate materializes beside them, offering both arms like some kind of knight in a dinner jacket. "Allow me to escort you on this noble quest."

Amber watches Susan hesitate, catching the shadow that crosses her best friend's face.

"Relax, Sue," Nate laughs, his voice deliberately light, trying to dispel the heaviness of their shared secret. "Just escorting my two favorite ladies on a covert mission."

As they make their way toward the hallway, Amber feels that familiar warmth in her chest – the one that comes from knowing Nate Brooks would do anything to protect her. To protect them all. Even if that means breaking an innocent girl's heart into pieces too small to ever put back together.

The hallway stretches ahead like a dark promise as they make their way toward the men's room, the music from the gym growing fainter with each step. Susan hobbles dramatically beside them, her designer heels clearly taking their toll.

"I swear these Louboutins are actually torture devices," Susan groans, leaning heavily on Nate's arm. "Like, did Christian personally hate women or something?"

Amber's own feet throb in protest, but she wouldn't trade these moments for anything – not even comfort. Every pinched toe and forming blister is worth it for how perfect they all look, for how this night feels like something stolen from a dream.

"Don't worry, beautiful," Nate murmurs against her ear, his voice carrying that mix of charm and sincerity that still makes her heart skip. "Later tonight, those heels come off, and I'll remind you why you keep me around." He winks, and Amber feels her cheeks flush despite herself.

They're almost at their destination when the music changes. The heavy bass line of "Levels" by Avicii floods the hallway, and suddenly Amber isn't at Winter Ball anymore.

She's at Hampton Beach.

The memories hit like physical blows: sand between her toes, still warm from the summer sun. That chemical euphoria flooding her system, making everything feel limitless and electric – each sensation amplified until even the air touching her skin felt like silk, colors blazing too bright, her body light as if gravity had forgotten her. The beach house's strobing lights fracturing into kaleidoscope patterns as the music pulsed through her blood like liquid starlight.

Then Emily Thorne's face appears in her mind – mascara streaked down her cheeks, eyes wide with terror, mouth open in a scream Amber still hears in her nightmares. The way Emily had looked at her, begging without words, before—

The world tilts sideways.

Her knees buckle, but Nate's reflexes are faster than gravity. His arms catch her before she hits the ground, and dimly she hears Susan's panicked voice: "Nate! Help me get her in here!"

The world blurs into smears of color and movement. She's vaguely aware of being half-carried, half-dragged through a doorway. The darkness of what must be an empty classroom envelops her like a blanket, but it's not enough to keep the memories at bay.

"Amber? Baby, look at me." Nate's voice cuts through the chaos in her head. His hands cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. When did she start crying? "You're here. You're safe. Just breathe with me, okay?"

She tries to nod, but her head feels disconnected from her body. Everything is too much – the silk of her dress suddenly suffocating, the lingering bass from the gym mixing with phantom music from that terrible night.

"Here." Susan materializes beside them, pressing something cool into Amber's hands. A water bottle. "Small sips, A. Just like Dr. Harrison taught you."

The plastic is slick against her trembling fingers, but Nate's hands steady hers as she brings it to her lips. The water is shockingly cold, helping to anchor her in the present moment. Gradually, the classroom comes into focus – desks casting strange shadows in the dim light filtering through the windows, a periodic table hanging crookedly on one wall.

"Better?" Nate's voice is so gentle it makes her chest ache. He's crouched in front of her chair, his white dinner jacket probably getting dirty on the classroom floor, but his eyes never leave her face.

"I'm sorry," she manages, hating how weak her voice sounds. "I just... the song..."

"Don't." Susan's hand finds hers, squeezing tight. "Don't you dare apologize. Not for this. Not ever for this."

Amber focuses on their faces – the two people who know all her darkest parts and love her anyway. Nate, who would burn down the world to keep her safe. Susan, who's been beside her through every triumph and tragedy since they could walk.

The music has changed again, something current and harmless floating down the hallway. But Amber knows she'll never hear "Levels" without being transported back to that beach, that night, that moment when everything changed. Some songs carry memories like poison, and no amount of time or therapy can fully extract their venom.

"Do you want to go home?" Nate asks softly, his thumb tracing circles on her wrist. "We can make up some excuse. Food poisoning or something."

The offer is tempting. But Amber Rosenberg didn't get to where she is by running from her demons. She built her throne on carefully buried secrets and midnight tears, and she'll be damned if she lets one panic attack rob her of her crown.

"No," she says, forcing steel into her voice. "Just... give me a minute. Please?"

In the darkness of the empty classroom, Amber finds her anchor in twin points of contact – Nate's steady hand on her thigh, Susan's gentle pressure on her shoulder. They don't speak, don't push, just exist there with her in the aftermath of her panic. It's a choreography they've perfected over months of similar moments, each knowing exactly what she needs without asking.

Amber forces herself to remember Dr. Harrison's techniques. Breathe in for four counts, hold for seven, release for eight. Focus on what's real right now: the scratch of chalk dust in her nose, the distant thrum of bass from the gym, the warmth of Nate's palm through her silk dress. Not the beach house. Not that night. Not Emily's face or the weight of secrets that never quite stop crushing her chest.

"How bad is my makeup?" she finally manages, her voice steadier than she feels. It's such a superficial concern after what just happened, but sometimes holding onto superficial things is the only way to keep from drowning in deeper waters.

Susan springs into action like she's been waiting for her cue. Her fingers move with practiced precision, erasing tear tracks and fixing smudged mascara. "A little touch-up here... blend this... and..." Her voice carries that particular tone she uses when she's taking care of Amber, the one that somehow makes everything feel fixable. "There. Like it never happened."

Amber manages a smile, small but genuine. Because that's what they do – make terrible things disappear behind perfect makeup and practiced smiles. They're artists of erasure, specialists in making nightmares look like dreams.

"That fucking song." Nate's voice cuts through the darkness as he starts pacing, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor. The movement reminds Amber of a caged animal, all contained energy and barely controlled rage. "The second I heard those first beats..." He trails off, running a hand through his carefully styled hair.

"Which is exactly why we need to do this." Susan's voice drops lower, taking on that edge that means she's shifted from best friend to strategist. "We can't keep living like this, jumping at shadows, waiting for the next thing to trigger us. We need to..."

She doesn't finish, but she doesn't have to. Amber's eyes find Nate's in the dim light, and she sees the moment his resistance crumbles. Because Nate Brooks – golden boy, star receiver, perfect boyfriend – is about to become something else entirely. Something that goes against everything he believes in, everything he is.

He nods once, short and sharp, like ripping off a bandage. "For you," he says simply, and those two words carry the weight of everything he's willing to sacrifice to keep her safe.

Amber watches him in the darkness, this boy who loves her enough to corrupt his own soul. The white dinner jacket that had looked so perfect in photos now seems almost ironic – a symbol of false purity, of choices that can never be unmade.

Because some salvations require sacrifice, and some heroes have to become villains to protect the things they love. Even if those things are built on foundations of carefully maintained lies and midnight confessions in empty classrooms.

The music from the gym changes again, something current and harmless floating through the walls. But Amber knows they've all changed too, right here in this moment.