I wake up alone, which is honestly not my favorite character arc.
The bed beside me is cold—abandoned-hours-ago cold. There's a note on my nightstand, folded with irritating precision, because Hugh probably learned origami from a monk or something.
‘Rest. You need it. —D’
That's it.
No explanation. No "we should talk." No "sorry I gave you multiple earth-shattering orgasms and then vanished like some kind of extremely talented ghost."
Just rest, like I'm a sick puppy instead of someone whose entire world just got rearranged by a man who may or may not have supernatural tongue skills.
My body feels weird. Not a bad weird—actually better than I have in days.
Energized, clear-headed, almost buzzing, like someone hit a reset button. Which makes zero sense given the "severe fever" that apparently required intensive manual therapy.
I'm still processing this when my bedroom door opens and Dad appears with Dr. Morrison in tow.
"Claire, sweetheart." Dad's at my bedside immediately, taking my hand in both of his. "How are you feeling? Hugh mentioned that you left the party early last night because you felt bad, so he helped you to your room to take a rest."
Oh, dear Father. Believe me, he did more than that.
Not that he should know about that.
The concern in his voice is so genuine it hurts. This is classic Dad—hovering, worrying, treating every scraped knee like a potential catastrophe. His overprotectiveness has always come from love, even when it suffocates me.
"I'm okay," I say. "Actually, I feel completely fine. Better than fine."
Dr. Morrison starts her examination while Dad hovers anxiously nearby.
"The temperature's normal," she says. "Pulse is good. Blood pressure's excellent." She checks my eyes, throat, the usual routine. "Any nausea? Dizziness?"
"No, nothing. I feel totally normal."
On that she just exchanges one of those meaningful doctor looks with Dad.
"Based on my examination, it appears you experienced a severe viral fever last night. These things can onset rapidly and resolve just as quickly. The important thing is your body fought it off successfully."
"Viral," I repeat slowly. "Like... the flu?"
"Possibly. But your immune system did its job." She packs up her little medical bag. "I'd recommend taking it easy for the next day or two. Plenty of fluids, rest, and call me immediately if any symptoms return."
Dad thanks her profusely, sees her out, and returns to perch on my bed. He's still holding my hand, his thumb rubbing circles on my knuckles.
"You scared me," he says quietly. "When I found out you weren't feeling well…"
"I'm fine, Dad. Really." I squeeze his hand. Then, carefully: "Do you think... could someone have put something in my drink last night?"
I need to make sure, I still think about it obsessively. Because what else could possibly explain what happened to my body last night if not some aphrodisiac shit or drug that predators use to make women willing and that desperate?
His face transforms immediately at my words. The gentle father disappears, replaced by something fiercely protective.
"Did somebody give you something? Did you take it?"
"No, I… I don't think so. I don't remember." The memory is still fuzzy. "It's just, the way it came on so suddenly…"
"Claire." He cuts me off, his voice tight. "Did anybody do something to you? Because if they did, I will personally—"
"No! No, Dad, nothing like that. I just got sick. But it was so sudden, and I thought maybe…"
"Our guests are trusted associates, people I've known for years."
His jaw is tight, but he forces himself to calm down, squeezing my hand tighter.
"I would never put you in danger. Never." He adjusts my pillows with unnecessary focus. "I've already sent apologies on your behalf to everyone. Everything's handled, you don’t have to worry."
Of course it is. Dad's specialty: handling everything so I don't have to. Protecting me from the world whether I want it or not.
"Where's Hugh?" The question slips out before I can stop it, and I watch Dad's expression shift.
"Handling some business matters. He'll be unavailable for a while." His tone makes it clear this isn't up for discussion. "Focus on resting, sweetheart."
He fusses over me for another ten minutes—bringing water, adjusting curtains, asking three more times if I need anything—before finally leaving for a conference call.
By the time he's gone, I feel like I've been wrapped in very expensive, very loving bubble wrap. I need to talk to someone who won't treat me like I'm made of glass.
I need Chris.
She answers before the first ring finishes. "Oh thank God, you're alive. I was starting to think you'd actually died at your own birthday party, which would be tragic but also kind of iconic."
"Can we meet? I need coffee and someone who'll tell me if I'm losing my mind."
"Say less. Our usual place in thirty?"
I throw on jeans and an oversized t-shirt, successfully ninja my way past Mrs. Walker before she can report my movements to Dad, and drive to the coffee shop with all the windows down.
The summer air feels incredible against my skin—everything feels more intense, more vivid. Even the colors seem brighter.
Chris is already there when I arrive, having claimed our corner table and ordered me what she calls my "emotional support latte."
"Okay." She slides the cup across. "Let's address the elephant in the room: your dramatic exit last night was at least memorable. People are going to be talking about it for years. Very Gatsby-esque.
Despite everything, I laugh. "Glad my potential medical emergency could provide entertainment."
"That's the spirit I know and love." She grins, but it fades when she actually looks at me. "Seriously though, what happened? You look incredible. Like, annoyingly incredible. Are you glowing?"
I wrap my hands around the warm cup. "I think someone might have drugged me."
The playful expression drops from her face like someone flipped a switch. "What? Claire, that's not... what exactly happened?"
So I tell her. Well, an edited version anyway.
The sudden onset of symptoms, the overwhelming heat, the champagne from Henry that I'm not sure I didn't actually drink. I leave out the part where Hugh spent hours making me come until I couldn't think straight. Some things aren't coffee shop material.
"That's absolutely terrifying." Chris reaches across the table and grabs my hand with both of hers. "Did you tell your dad?"
"The doctor insists it was just a virus. And Dad swears all the guests are people he's known forever." I stare into my latte like it might have answers. "Maybe I'm being paranoid."
"Or maybe not." Chris's expression is serious. Look, whatever happened, it wasn't your fault. And if you want to investigate this, I'm your girl. We'll be a detective duo. I'll bring the snacks."
The offer makes something tight in my chest loosen. "Thank you. Really."
"That's what best friends are for." She takes a dramatic sip of her iced coffee. "But right now, you need some aggressively normal conversation. So now you're gonna hear about the absolutely catastrophic date I had last week."
And just like that, we're back in familiar territory.
Chris launches into an epic tale involving a failed restaurant reservation, an unexpected fumigation, and an improvised parking lot picnic that ended with them being chased by what she describes as "a goose with anger issues."
"I'm never trusting a man who says he 'knows a spot' ever again," she declares with the gravity of someone making a blood oath. "The spot was literally a Wendy's parking lot, Claire. A fucking Wendy's."
I'm laughing for real now, the knot in my chest loosening. Chris moves on to asking about college plans, what schools I've heard from.
Normal friend stuff. Safe conversation that doesn't involve mysterious fevers or disappearing business partners.
As we're leaving, Chris pulls me into a hug.
"Promise me you'll call if you need anything," she says fiercely. "If you want to investigate this, if you need to vent, if you want me to key someone's Tesla. I'm here for all of it."
"I promise."
"Good. Because whatever happened, you're going to be okay."
I watch her drive off in her little red convertible, standing there with the afternoon sun warm on my face and her words echoing in my head.
I almost believe her. Almost.
But Chris doesn't know about Hugh. Doesn't know about the way his eyes flashed amber in the dim light, or how his touch felt like coming home to something I didn't know I was missing.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do with that terrifying, impossible thought.