Nate's head throbs with the particular kind of regret that comes from mixing expensive champagne with Jake's contraband vodka. The winter sunlight streaming through Amber's windows feels like needles in his eyes, even though it's already fading into December twilight. His fingers move carefully over Amber's battered feet, applying antibiotic cream to each blister with the kind of precision that would make his mother proud.

"Ouch," Amber hisses as he touches a particularly angry spot near her heel. She's perched in her vanity chair, one foot propped in his lap while she applies mascara with practiced efficiency. Her black cocktail dress - some designer name he can't pronounce - makes her look like a Renaissance painting come to life.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs, his touch gentling further. "These shoes really did a number on you last night."

Last night. The words echo in his mind like accusations. Because while everyone remembers the perfect couple in matching white, while Instagram stories still circulate of their carefully choreographed dances, all Nate can think about is Hannah Marshall sitting alone in the cold, her midnight blue dress catching moonlight like broken dreams.

"You're in your head again," Amber's voice carries that particular huskiness that comes from too much champagne and not enough sleep. She studies him in her vanity mirror, her ice-blue eyes missing nothing.

The truth burns in his throat like bile - how he wants to scream that he can't do this anymore, can't keep playing these careful games with people's hearts. But then he remembers why he has to, remembers what's at stake, what he's protecting. So instead, he focuses on applying a bandage with exaggerated care.

"Just thinking your feet look like a war zone," he says, keeping his voice light. "Sure you want to attempt heels again tonight?"

"Please," she scoffs, but affection warms her tone. "It's our first Christmas Eve dinner with both our families. I'd wear these even if my feet were literally bleeding."

"At least let me wrap the worst spots," he says, reaching for more bandages. He works carefully, his hands steady as he winds the gauze around her foot, wincing at the angry red blisters. The contrast between her flawless exterior and the raw, tender skin feels almost poetic.

Something inside him twists as he thinks about Hannah's face last night, the vulnerability in her eyes when she'd talked about Lisa. The game they're playing feels worse than any hangover.

"My hero," Amber murmurs, turning back to her makeup routine.

Nate pushes himself up from the floor, his muscles protesting every movement. In her full-length mirror, he adjusts his black tie with hands that want to shake. The suit fits perfectly - of course it does, Amber picked it out - but somehow he feels like he's wearing a costume. Playing a part in someone else's story.

Their eyes meet in the mirror's reflection, and something in her expression makes his chest tighten.

"Did she say anything?" Amber asks quietly, her fingers stilling on her lipstick. "Hannah?"

"We talked," he says carefully, remembering snowflakes catching in Hannah's dark hair, the way his jacket had looked draped over her shoulders. "But she's not exactly opening up yet."

"Keep digging," Amber's voice carries an edge that makes his stomach turn. "We need to know what she knows."

He nods, the gesture automatic as breathing. What choice does he have? Some prices are worth paying to protect the people you love, even if those prices keep you awake at night.

"Help me with my stockings?" Amber asks, breaking through his dark thoughts. Her smile in the mirror carries that particular warmth she saves just for him.

Nate takes the silk stockings from the bed, kneeling before Amber with a look that has nothing to do with innocence. His fingers trace deliberately slow patterns up her calf as he rolls the first stocking into place.

"You have that look again," Amber purrs, watching him through hooded eyes.

"What look?" He glances up, his hands sliding higher, teasing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

"The one that says you're thinking very inappropriate thoughts about your girlfriend right before a family dinner," she replies, her breath catching slightly as his fingers dance along the edge of the stocking.

"Hard not to," he murmurs against her knee. "Especially after this morning."

"Please," she laughs, but it's breathier than intended. "You're just insatiable when you're hungover. Remember after homecoming?"

His smile turns predatory as he reaches for the second stocking. "That was different. You weren't wearing stockings then."

"And now I am," she reminds him, her voice carrying that husky quality that drives him crazy. "Very proper, very appropriate, very 'meeting the parents.'"

Nate looks up at her from his position between her legs, desire coursing through his veins like expensive whiskey. He presses a kiss to her inner thigh, just above where the stocking ends.

Amber's heel catches him in the chest, pushing him back. "Down," she commands, though her pupils are dilated with wanting. "You had plenty this morning."

"Never enough of you," he growls, his hands sliding up her legs again.

"Parents," she reminds him firmly, though her skin flushes at his touch. "Arriving soon. And you're not even properly dressed."

"I'm dressed," he protests, but his mind is definitely focused on getting her undressed.

"Really?" Her eyebrow arches perfectly. "That sports watch with formal wear? And where's the cologne I specifically picked out?"

"So demanding," he teases, but he's already standing to comply. Because that's what loving Amber Rosenberg means - following her carefully orchestrated plans while fantasizing about messing them up completely.

He swaps watches and applies the cologne, all while watching her in the mirror with barely concealed hunger. Tonight will be about proper appearances and careful manners, but after dinner…

"Ready?" Nate asks, watching Amber slip into her heels with practiced grace.

"How do I look?" She turns slowly, the black dress catching light like liquid money.

"Stunning," he says, his voice rough with wanting. "Absolutely fucking stunning."

"Is that your dick talking or your eyes?" She smirks, adjusting her perfectly styled waves.

"Both," he grins, pulling her close. "Always both with you, princess."

Her laugh echoes through the room as they step into the hallway, her arm sliding through his with practiced ease. They haven't really talked since stumbling home at dawn - too busy relearning each other's bodies, too caught up in hangover sleep. But now, descending the sweeping staircase, something nags at his mind.

"Lisa's back in the fold," he says quietly, watching Amber's profile for reaction.

"Keep your friends close," she replies, her smile sharp as expensive crystal.

"And your enemies closer." He finishes the thought, understanding flowing between them like expensive wine.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The Rosenberg living room takes his breath away - transformed into something from a designer Christmas catalog. Crystal snowflakes catch light from dozens of perfectly placed spotlights, while garlands of white roses and evergreen wrap around every surface. Even the massive tree looks professionally curated, each ornament placed with surgical precision.

"Your mom's outdone herself," he whispers, genuinely impressed by Victoria Rosenberg's attention to detail.

They find their families gathered in the kitchen, the space smelling of spices and carefully maintained traditions. His father James and Richard Rosenberg occupy the head of the table like matching kings, while their mothers orchestrate what promises to be an epic feast.

"Look who finally decided to join us," Richard's voice carries that particular warmth he reserves for Nate. "Sleep well?"

Katherine Brooks abandons her cooking station to press a kiss to Nate's cheek. "How was the dance, sweetheart? Everything you hoped?"

"It was nice," Nate starts, but Amber swoops in like a perfectly timed rescue.

"Oh my god, Mrs. Brooks, let me show you the pictures!" She produces her phone with practiced enthusiasm. "Nate was absolutely perfect - you should have seen him in that white tux. And the way he handled those slow dances..."

Nate shoots her a grateful look as she commandeers his mother's attention, buying him time to settle between their fathers. James Brooks claps him on the shoulder with careful affection.

"Quite a night, son?" Richard asks with a knowing smile, passing Nate a crystal tumbler of something amber and expensive. "Jake mentioned the afterparty at the Lawrences' was... memorable."

"What happens at the Lawrences' stays at the Lawrences'," Nate replies smoothly, earning appreciative chuckles from both men. This is the dance he knows - careful charm and measured responses, protecting their carefully constructed world one conversation at a time.

Across the kitchen, Amber holds court with their mothers, her laugh musical as she shows carefully curated photos of their perfect night. She plays her role flawlessly - the devoted girlfriend, the perfect daughter, the crown princess of their carefully maintained kingdom.

Hours melt away like expensive scotch on tongues, Nate's hangover dissolving under the influence of Victoria Rosenberg's legendary champagne-whiskey cocktails. The dining room glows with carefully curated warmth as he savors each bite of carpaccio - paper-thin slices of raw tuna dressed with black truffle and aged balsamic, the kind of dish that speaks of wealth without shouting about it.

A delicate pressure against his crotch makes him nearly choke on his wine. He glances up to find Amber watching him with calculated innocence, her heel tracing dangerous patterns under the table. Her smirk could melt ice caps.

"...and of course, Stanford's business program is absolutely stellar," his mother's voice drifts across imported linens. "Though I'll admit, I needed time to accept that my son wouldn't be following me into medicine."

"The business world needs minds like Nate's," Victoria agrees, topping off Katherine's crystal glass. "Especially with how digital markets are evolving."

Nate catches Richard Rosenberg and his father exchanging approving glances, their matching Rolex watches catching candlelight as they reach for their drinks. Richard catches his eye, giving him the subtlest of nods - a promise of conversation to come.

"Victoria, this carpaccio is exceptional," James Brooks offers, ever the diplomat. "The truffle really elevates it."

"Thank you, James. Just wait until you try the duck confit - it's nearly ready for the oven."

Richard pushes back from the table with practiced casualness. "Nate, mind helping me fetch more firewood? Getting a bit chilly in here."

"Of course, sir." Nate rises, catching the ghost of a smile playing at Richard's lips. This dance of excuses and carefully maintained appearances - it's as much a part of their world as the crystal glasses and imported wine.

As he follows Richard toward the door, Nate feels Amber's eyes on him, knowing and hungry. Some conversations require privacy, after all. Even on Christmas Eve.

December wind whips through the Rosenberg estate's manicured grounds, catching snowflakes like diamonds in the spotlights that illuminate carefully sculpted hedges and imported marble fountains. The path beneath their feet radiates gentle heat, melting each snowflake before it can settle.

"Cuban," Richard says, producing an ornate wooden case from his dinner jacket. The cigars inside rest like soldiers in velvet beds. "Marriage ended an embargo, but connections maintain quality."

"Not much of a smoker," Nate admits, accepting one anyway. "Though I'm guessing firewood was just a convenient excuse?"

"Sharp as ever." Richard's laugh echoes across the snow-covered garden as he strikes a match, cupping the flame against the wind. "That mind of yours - it's why I knew you were different."

They walk in comfortable silence until they reach the property's edge, where Riverside Heights falls away into a valley of twinkling Christmas lights. From up here, the city looks like scattered stardust - beautiful, distant, carefully arranged.

"I have got cologne waiting inside," Richard says, noting Nate's slight hesitation with the cigar. "Been doing this longer than you've been alive, son."

The tobacco tastes like money and secrets as Nate inhales, watching his future father-in-law study the kingdom spread beneath them.

"Freshman year," Richard begins, his voice carrying the weight of memory, "when she first mentioned your name... I gave it six months. Maybe less." He taps ash into immaculate snow. "Teenage romance - volatile as nitrogen, twice as explosive. Especially with Amber."

City lights paint shadows across Richard's face as he turns to study Nate. "But here you stand, four years and countless storms later. Still at her side."

"Wouldn't want to be anywhere else, sir." The words flow honest as blood.

"My daughter," Richard's voice softens slightly, "she burns hot. Like a star that can't help but scorch everything it touches." Another drag from the cigar, another moment of careful consideration. "She overwhelms most people. Hell, some days she overwhelms me. But you..."

Nate watches his breath fog in the December air, mixing with cigar smoke.

"You steady her," Richard continues. "Ground her when she's flying too close to the sun. And you do it with a grace I wouldn't have thought possible in someone so young."

"That's what any man would do," Nate offers, but Richard's laugh cuts him off.

"No, son. That's what boys do when they're in love." Richard's eyes reflect city lights as he studies Nate's profile. "But men? Men protect what matters, no matter the cost."

Smoke curls into the winter darkness as Nate savors another draw from the cigar, letting the expensive tobacco ground him in this moment.

"Strange time, your age," Richard muses, brushing snow from his sleeve. "No clear line anymore between boy and man. No ritual, no passage. Just one day you're playing video games, and the next..." He trails off, studying the city below. "The next, you're making decisions that define the rest of your life."

Nate takes another hit from the Cuban cigar. It burns slightly in his lungs, but he doesn't cough.

"You're not a boy anymore, Nate." Richard's voice cuts through the darkness in his mind. "This summer proved that. When everything went sideways at Hampton Beach..."

He pauses, choosing his words with careful precision. "Lesser men would have broken. But you? You did what had to be done."

A flashback hits Nate like physical force - dead weight dragging through wet sand, the body heavy and awkward, his muscles screaming with each step. He blinks hard, forcing the memory back into its carefully locked box.

"Had no choice, sir." The words scrape his throat like sand.

"There's always a choice," Richard counters sharply. "You could have panicked. Called the police. Run away. Taken the easy path." His eyes lock onto Nate's with laser focus. "Instead, you handled it. Like a man should."

"I did it for Amber." The words taste like ash and truth on his tongue.

"I know." Richard's voice softens slightly. "When you called me that night... I heard it in your voice. Not some scared teenager, but a man protecting what matters."

Pride blooms in Nate's chest despite himself, warring with the dark memories that pulse behind his eyes - lifeless weight being pulled across endless beach, choices that echo like waves in the night. He takes another drag from the cigar, letting the burn chase away phantom sensations of cold flesh against his palms.

"Never properly thanked you," Richard says quietly. "For what you did."

"Don't have to." Nate's voice comes out steadier than he feels. "I'd do it all again. For her."

Richard studies him through the gathering snow, something like approval warming his usually calculating gaze. "She means that much to you?"

"Everything." The word carries the weight of absolute truth.

The cigar smoke hung thick in the winter air as Richard studied him with that particular gaze that had made lesser men crumble in boardrooms across the country.

"Stanford," Richard said, tapping ash into pristine snow. "Application's in?"

"Yes, sir. Early decision." Nate watched his breath fog in the December air, mixing with Cuban tobacco. "Should hear back any day now."

A smile played at Richard's lips as he surveyed the kingdom of lights spread beneath them. "Cardinals could use a fresh wide receiver. Been a few disappointing seasons." His eyes gleamed with calculated promise. "Interesting coincidence, don't you think?"

Nate's heart performed a complicated dance in his chest. "Coach Martinez mentioned spotting their scouts at a few games." He took another careful drag from the cigar, letting the burn steady his voice. "Though they could be watching Jake. Or Jeff. Both have solid stats this season."

"Mmm." Richard's noncommittal hum carried worlds of meaning. He studied his cigar like it held secrets to the universe, then met Nate's eyes with that shark-like smile that had built empires. "Let me see what I can do about that. After all," he gestured expansively at the glittering city below, "connections are currency in our world. And I've been making deposits longer than you've been alive."

The implications settled around Nate's shoulders like scotch - warm, dangerous, and impossible to refuse. Because this was how their world worked, wasn't it? Not just money and privilege, but carefully maintained networks of favors and promises, each one binding them tighter into this gilded cage they called home.

As they turned back toward the warmth of the house, Nate caught one final glimpse of Riverside spread beneath them - a tapestry of Christmas lights and carefully maintained facades, each one hiding its own collection of secrets and lies. He wondered, not for the first time, if the price of belonging would ever stop increasing.

But then he thought of Amber waiting inside, of her smile that still made his heart skip beats, of all the careful lies they maintained to protect what mattered most. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would pay whatever price their world demanded.