Alive If

Chapter 20

(Claire's POV)

"Fucking hell."

My pillow is wet. My neck feels like I got crowned by an anvil. If it's this or a hangover, I'll take the tequila.

I sit up and peel the useless ice pack off my forehead, flopping it onto the nightstand. I vaguely remember falling off the bed—and Fie sprinting around like she forgot the ice and instead brought back a full-blown panic attack.

The house doesn't look haunted in daylight. But the nail gouges I left in the staircase railing say otherwise.

The smell of buttered toast lures me like a cartoon character floating toward pie on a windowsill. I follow.

And then—

"Why the fuck is he here?"

Kai—stupidly tall, stupidly charming, currently wielding a butter knife like it's a murder weapon—flinches like I'm holding the actual knife. He opens his mouth, then closes it. There's something heavy behind his eyes, like he wants to say something real but chokes on it instead.

He fumbles. The knife clatters. Nearly impales Fie's foot.

"Jesus, Kai!" she yelps, hopping back like the floor just bit her. Then she's on me, fast—like I'm base and she's dodging a threat.

If Kai thinks he can be within five feet of Fie without a restraining order—or holy water—he's wrong. I'll greenlight their romance when I'm dead. And haunting their wedding photos.

"I'm sorry, Fie," he mutters, hands raised. "I was making peace toast."

"Peace toast?" I eye the plate. "Unless that bread can erase the trauma of you turning me into a human barf bag, I'm not interested."

"Okay, fair. I deserve that." He winces.

"And a dry-cleaning bill."

"That too. I'll pay. Promise." He nods. Then, softer, like he's talking to the toast, not us:

"Some of us weren't born with 'welcome home' banners. I make breakfast. It's what I've got."

I blink. It sounds like a throwaway line. But it sticks.

A guy brushes past me. His hair looks like a charcoal mop mid-rebellion—less anime-boy-cute, more Final Fantasy villain who's too tired to monologue.

Fie stiffens. Tracks him with her eyes like she's trying to remember a dream.

Her hand clamps onto my wrist. Tight.

"Claire," she says, tone light, knuckles white, "we should go see Sally."

Oh. So that is Charlie.

I glance back. He's not just looking at Fie—he's watching her. Like he knows something.

The room doesn't notice. But my gut does.

I don't like it.

We walk fast. Not just because Fie's freaked. Because I'm not ready for Toast Boy and Broody McNightmare to coexist in one kitchen.

...

The ballroom looks like a prom and a Pinterest board had a bedazzled baby.

Candelabras drip gold wax beside mountains of sugared fruit. Masks flash like fallen stars. The whole place smells like cinnamon and champagne.

Tables sparkle. The buffet stretches like a runway. A piano waits onstage.

And there's my violin. Still cased. Still judging me.

"Glad you're up, scaredy-cat." Sally appears behind us like summoned karma.