I wake up feeling like someone's replaced my blood with liquid fire, which is either a very dramatic fever or I'm turning into a dragon.
Given my luck lately, could go either way.
The rational part of my brain suggests I should cancel the birthday party. The rest of my brain, running on spite and poor decision-making, says absolutely not. I've been planning this for months. Also, Hugh will be there.
So yeah. Dragon mode it is.
By noon, I'm stationed in my bedroom being poked and prodded by a makeup artist who keeps asking about my skin temperature.
My best friend Chris arrives around two, bursting through my bedroom door with her usual sunshine, smiles, and red stiletto nails. "Birthday girl! How are we feeling about… Oh my GOD, you look like death warmed over in a microwave."
"Your support means everything to me. Truly."
She perches on the edge of my bed. "Seriously though, are you okay? You're like, otherworldly tired. The concealer's good though!"
"Thanks!" the makeup artist replies excitedly.
"I'm fine. Just a little tired." Another wave of uncomfortable heat rolls through me, and I resist the urge to tear off my robe and stick my head in the freezer. "Long week."
"If you say so." She eyes me skeptically, then her expression shifts to her scheming face. "So. Nineteen… Time we had a very important conversation about the hot old guy you've been obsessing over."
Oh no. I know that tone.
The stylist pauses mid-curl, clearly interested, and I try to deflect. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh please. Hugh Kane has been your sexual awakening since you figured out what those feelings were."
She grins like a shark who's smelled blood in the water.
"When are you finally going to do something about it? What's stopping you? Just go up to him tonight and exist meaningfully in his general direction."
"I wouldn't even know how." The heat in my body ratchets up another notch. "I've never—"
I cut myself off before I can finish that sentence, but it's too late. The stylist and makeup artist exchange one of those looks that says 'rich virgin alert.'
"Yeah, yeah. You've never been with anyone before," Chris continues with all the subtlety of a freight train. "But honey, you can't stay a virgin forever! Eventually you're going to have to—"
"Christina. Can we NOT discuss my sex life right now?" I gesture at the stylist, who's now blatantly eavesdropping.
Chris leans back, but her grin doesn't fade.
"Okay, real talk though. I saw him on my way here near your father's office. That man would absolutely destroy you. In the best possible way, but still. Are you sure you want your first time to be with someone who looks like he could bench press a small building?"
The words make me flush with heat that has nothing to do with my fever. My brain helpfully supplies several extremely inappropriate images involving Hugh and me and various surfaces. Vertical and horizontal.
"I'm not having this conversation," I manage.
"Fine, I'll drop it. For now." She stands, smoothing down her dress. "Just promise me you'll actually talk to him tonight? Like a human person instead of a deer caught in very sexy headlights?"
"I'll try," I mutter, though passing out might be unavoidable.
By evening, I'm dressed in deep emerald green that somehow makes my hazel eyes brighter. Blessfully, the stylist also has worked magic that makes me look elegant instead of like someone who's been slowly cooking from the inside out all day.
The ballroom fills with guests—Dad's business associates, their wives, family friends. I take my position near the entrance, smile plastered on, greeting people while fighting the urge to tear off my own skin.
The conversations blur together with all of that "You look lovely, dear!" "Nineteen already!" "Your father must be so proud!"
Meanwhile, my entire body feels wrong. Too hot. Too tight. Too aware of every texture, every sound. Then, at exactly 8:15, Hugh walks in.
Time stops. Like, actually stops.
As if someone hit pause on the entire universe just so I can have this moment to fully appreciate the devastating sight of him in formal wear.
His tuxedo fits like it was crafted by angels who specialize in women's fantasies. The silver at his temples catches the chandelier light and those steel-gray eyes sweep the room before landing on me with the precision of a heat-seeking missile.
The moment our gazes meet, something fundamental shifts inside me.
Heat floods through my body—different from the fever, more intense, more focused. More desperate. Like the whole world narrowed until it's just him, just us. Just this pull between us that feels strong enough to bend gravity.
He goes completely still, like a predator who's just spotted prey. His expression shutters, but not before I catch something that looks suspiciously like panic mixed with hunger.
Then Dad materializes beside him, and they immediately launch into what looks like a tense, whispered argument near the bar.
And both keep glancing at me. Hugh looks furious in a way that makes my pulse spike, while Dad looks like someone who's just realized he's made a terrible mistake.
I force myself to look away, to smile at another guest, to pretend I haven't noticed anything unusual. But every cell in my body is hyper-aware of exactly where Hugh is standing.
The birthday toast happens at nine. Dad makes a speech about how proud he is, how much I've grown, all the appropriate fatherly things. Everyone raises their glasses and that's when Henry positions himself next to me.
He's one of Dad's business associates—mid-thirties, too much cologne and the kind of irritating confidence that comes from never being told no. He slides up next to me during the toast, pressing a glass of champagne into my hand with a smile that makes my skin crawl.
"Nineteen," he says, standing way too close, his breath hot against my ear. "All grown up now. Quite the young woman."
I'm too feverish, too uncomfortable to deflect properly. I just nod, trying to edge away.
"You know, Claire, if you ever need advice about anything—college, career opportunities, life experience—I'd be happy to mentor you."
His hand moves to my lower back and the reaction is immediate.
Visceral. Wrong.
My skin crawls where he touches me, every nerve ending screaming in rejection. It's not just discomfort—it's physical revulsion. Like my body knows on some primal, cellular level that these are completely wrong hands touching me.
That someone else is supposed to be touching me.
"Your father and I go way back," he continues, completely oblivious to my discomfort. "I'd hate to see you struggle when you have... resources available."
Across the room, I catch Hugh watching us, and the look on his face could probably melt steel. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, shoulders rigid with the kind of tension that usually precedes violence.
There's something almost feral in his expression, like he's barely containing himself from launching across the room and removing Henry's hand. Permanently.
When Henry leans in to whisper something in my ear—something about how beautiful I look tonight, his breath disgustingly hot against my skin—Hugh moves. He cuts through the crowd with clear, focused intent.
The look on his face makes something in my stomach flip with anticipation and terror in equal measure. But before he reaches us, everything goes completely wrong.
The heat in my body intensifies to unbearable levels and my vision blurs.
My skin is on fire, every nerve ending screaming, and there's something more disturbing happening. A need. A desperate physical need I don't understand, building in my core, overwhelming every other thought.
I mumble some excuse to Henry and practically flee toward the nearest exit, my heels clicking frantically against marble as I escape into the mercifully empty corridor. But it doesn't help.
My legs feel like they're made of jelly, and I make it maybe ten feet before they give out completely.
Strong arms catch me before I can hit the ground, and his scent hits me like a drug—cedar and something wild that makes my brain short-circuit completely. And unlike Henry's touch, this feels right.
My whole body relaxes into the embrace almost unconsciously.
Hugh's grip is desperate, almost painful, pulling me against his chest like he's trying to anchor us both. His face is inches from mine, breathing ragged, pupils blown wide with something that looks suspiciously like the same desperate need that's been consuming me.
I can feel his heart hammering against my palm where it's pressed to his chest. Can see the way his eyes flash with something that definitely wasn't there before—something amber and wild.
He looks at me like I'm dangerous and essential and completely forbidden, all at once.
"Hugh…" I manage, my voice barely a whisper. "Something’s wrong with me."
His jaw tightens, and for a moment he looks like he's in actual physical pain. Like whatever's happening to me is affecting him too.
"I know." His voice is rough, strained. "But I won’t let you go through that alone."
Before I can ask what he means, he's lifting me into his arms and carrying me toward the stairs.