August 2010 hung heavy over New York City, the air thick enough to choke on. No breeze dared stir the suffocating haze as Vivian Vaughn emerged from JFK's terminal doors, dragging a worn leather suitcase behind her. Her knuckles whitened around the handle while she scanned the curbside chaos—honking cabs, frazzled travelers, the relentless glare of afternoon sun. With a sharp exhale, she veered toward the Sky Lounge Terrace, shoving her luggage against ivy-clad brick walls.
Sleep deprivation clung to her like static. Twelve hours from Ibiza, yet her body still thrummed with the phantom pulse of beach clubs. She fished a cigarette from her back pocket—American Spirit—rolling it between thumb and forefinger before lifting it to her nose. The earthy scent jolted her senses. A fleeting reprieve.
Her phone buzzed. Brooke Lewis flashed on-screen.
"Where've you landed?" Brooke's voice crackled through the speaker, all rapid-fire energy.
"Terminal 4." Vivian's gaze drifted toward floor-to-ceiling windows, catching a distorted reflection: messy pixie-cut hair, charcoal smudges beneath feline eyes. Then—movement.
Two figures glided past the glass.
A young man in a crisp white shirt walked beside a woman in a coral sundress. His posture was a ruler-straight line, shoulders broad beneath tailored cotton, profile carved from marble. Even in periphery, he radiated icy elegance. The woman tilted her head, laughing at something he murmured, fingertips brushing his sleeve.
Vivian's cigarette slipped.
Adrian Stone.
Her lungs seized. Four years evaporated in a heartbeat. She fumbled for her lighter—empty. Swiveling, she locked eyes with a middle-aged man puffing a cigar nearby. "Got a light?"
He hesitated, taking in her bloodshot eyes and torn band tee before passing a silver Zippo. "Rough flight?"
"Something like that." The flame trembled in her grip.
As smoke curled toward the awning, Adrian's head turned. His eyes—frost over granite—skimmed her face. No recognition. No ripple in that calm surface. Beside him, Lydia Grant's smile tightened into a porcelain mask.
"Know her?" Lydia's whisper sliced the air.
Adrian's reply was glacial. "No." He steered Lydia away, leather soles clicking against polished tile.
Vivian crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. Embers died with a hiss.
Brooke's convertible screeched to the curb minutes later. She leaned across passenger seats, shades sliding down her nose. "Jesus, Viv! You look like roadkill dragged through hell."
Vivian slumped into leather upholstery, tossing her bag behind them. "Just jetlag." She cranked the AC vent toward her face. "And this goddamn heatwave."
"Tell me 'bout it!" Brooke hit the gas, merging into traffic. "Mom's already nagging me to hydrate. Like I'm five." She rolled her eyes, tapping the steering wheel to a pop beat. "So? Ibiza highlights?"
"Dancing till dawn. Swimming at sunrise." A pause. "Avoiding existential dread."
Brooke snorted. "Drama queen." Her expression softened. "Columbia's gonna eat you alive. Heard the lingo department's brutal."
Vivian stared at blurring highway lines. "Worse than freshman bootcamp?"
"Ugh! Don't remind me!" Brooke fake-gagged. "Three days of trust-falls and tug-of-war? Kill me now."
Cold air whipped through the cab. Vivian closed her eyes.
Summer 2006.
Eldenwood Academy's oak-lined quad. Cheerleaders giggling by lockers. And him—Adrian Stone—walking past like a winter storm in spring.
She'd yelled across the courtyard then: "HEY! STONE!"
He never looked back.