A man is in my room.

Somewhere between sleep and consciousness, I hear the click of my door, the quiet padding of feet across marble. I draw closer to sentience when he peels my covers back, puts one of his knees down on the mattress.

In sly movements, he shifts closer, closer until his chest presses against my back, until I can feel the vibrations of his breath against my skin. Beneath the covers, his arm loops over my body, hand settling against the mattress on the other side of me. He gets closer still, until I feel his hips press up against my ass.

The feeling sends butterflies to the bottom of my stomach. With my eyes half-open, I peer wearily at my bedroom's shadows. Another crisp, clear morning pierces the curtains that have appeared from thin air. It's too early. My head still swims in its delirious state, forehead pulsing even as I enjoy the feeling of Cal's body against mine.

"Hey," I murmur, not quite awake.

I smile against the pillow, pushing my own body closer yet. The man in my bed chuckles, now searching for my hand with his. When he finds it, his skin feels cool.

"Hey."

My eyes fly all the way open, lurching me into total, indignant consciousness.

I'm twisting around while simultaneously putting some distance between me and the boy in my bed. Maven.

My boyfriend.

"Hey!" I say again, this time shrieking. I force a smile to my face, even as I feel it heat up. "You—you surprised me, Maven."

With a clever, fox-like grin, Maven props himself up onto his elbow, resting his jaw in his hand. He peers at me through the darkness, across the two feet of air that I've cleaved between us. "Did I? Maybe I deserve another slap for it."

He inches closer again, and I find myself fighting with a tangle of sheets in attempt to extricate myself from the bed. The bedding falls away from my shoulders, revealing Cal's clothing. Everything about the warm, soft, ridiculously-big sweatshirt makes it feel wrong to be in bed with Maven.

A cool hand closes around my wrist, pushing the sweatshirt cuff away. I force myself to look at Maven again, feeling like a deer in the headlights. I feel like I'm drowning as I try to gather my bearings, eyes stinging as they adjust to the room's dim light.

Even through the curtains, I can tell that it's well into the morning, though my head still pulses with the ache of last night. The bruise on my back pulses with every twist in the sheets. The pit in my stomach returns with full force, though the warmth of steak lingers.

My boyfriend regards the clothes on my body with a dirty, annoyed look. Cal's clothes seem to remind him of something and grate on his nerves. He forgets about whatever he wanted to do with me, but when his eyes return to mine, they soften. His grip shifts to my hand, clasping my fingers between his.

"Why didn't you just come to my room?"

I blink. I assume he heard the story from Cal.

I shouldn't feel guilty. I didn't do anything wrong. Still, I drop my gaze and focus on the linen as the sheets finally give way. I remain frozen in place. "I was on my way, but—"

A look of anger crosses Maven's face so fast that I'd miss it if I blinked.

"But I'm your boyfriend." His voice is gentle and sweet and nothing like that look. It's enough to bring an actual smile to my face. "You know I would've wanted you to come to me. And a lot sooner than letting yourself suffer in bed for an hour."

"I know. But Cal was already up, and he didn't want me to—"

"To wake me up?" Maven asks.

He keeps interrupting me.

"Maven, I—I just needed to eat."

My boyfriend's face changes again, as if realizing that he's scaring me. It breaks like shattering ice, as if he's just now remembering everything that happened last night.

My bedroom dances in shadows, the curtains a threshold between light and dark. My dress and heels lie discarded on my floor, the jewelry thrown haphazardly upon my bedside stand. Last night, Elara returned my purse, which waits on a chair. My normal clothes have made an appearance, now pristinely folded beside the purse. Elara must have ordered a maid to wash them.

Maven makes the air feel cold again.

"Hey." Maven pushes tendrils of curly hair back from his forehead, crystalline eyes flickering as he shifts in the sea of bedsheets. "Sorry. I'm forgetting myself. I don't know that half of what happened last night, but I just—"

"It was wild." I interrupt him this time.

He matches the little smirk that I wear. "You have to tell me all about it now, you know."

I give my boyfriend a kiss on the cheek, grabbing onto his shoulder and leaning close to his ear. "I will," I tell him, sighing. "But definitely not here."

I remind myself of what I have. Maven is my partner in crime, my confidant, my best friend. He may not have met me when I was at my lowest on a humid night in the ghetto, but he knows things about me that Cal can never—will not ever—know. Maven's the only person that I can whisper my secrets to, the only person that can understand. I can never have Cal.

Even if I wanted him.

"Now come here," I whisper as I push my fingers into Maven's hair. "And kiss me."

I expect him to smirk, wrap an arm around my waist. Instead, Maven leans away, looks away for a moment. Away from my eyes and to the fabric of Cal's sweatshirt.

He smiles weakly.

"Hey. We have the morning off. Why don't we get out of here and have breakfast together? Alone?"

The penthouse air suffocates me.

I find myself smiling and nodding. "Okay."

My heart skips a beat as Maven and I emerge from the stairwell, landing upon the Calores' living room. I almost lurch away from the glaring light that radiates from the great windows. It sends sparks up my spine and into my skull.

Maven's presence at my side keeps my fear at bay. His hand tightens in mine as we advance across the long room.

Mister Calore sits at the head of the dining table, elbows braced against the glass. He wears a black quarter-zip sweater, a pair of grey sweatpants, and his bold-framed reading glasses. His hair has become disheveled by restlessness, though a cup of quite-literally steaming coffee waits beside him.

Dane Davidson and Mayor Jon sit on either side of Mister Calore. My stomach twists at the sight. Jon has changed into a sweater of the darkest red, but the police commissioner still wears a tux. He nods his head like an obedient dog at Mister Calore, who speaks too quietly to hear.

There are a number of police officers, detectives, and other friends of Mister Calore on the floors below us.

At the table's other end sits Elara, donning sapphire blue night silks. She smiles fondly at The New York Times she has between her hands. It blocks her view of Anabel and Cal, who sit opposite one another. Anabel wears a blazer—she must have things to do today—while Cal wears, well, a black sweatshirt. Anabel seems to be talking to Cal, but Cal doesn't seem to be doing anything in particular. He has his back to me, but it doesn't feel as though he's listening to his grandmother.

I offer a little wave at nobody in particular as Maven and I near the table. We didn't have to come up here. It was out of our way. But I suppose that I have to thank Elara for letting me stay over, and Maven supposes he has to tell his mom that we're leaving.

Our feet travel across the floor in silence. I hold my breath as my feet slip in Cal's socks.

I'm wearing Cal's socks. They don't fit me very well.

"Good morning, Mare."

From across the table, Anabel offers me a warm, grandmotherly smile. She motions to the empty chair positioned between her and Elara. "Come sit."

Elara tries her best to mimic the smile. "Yes, Mare. Come sit. What do you want for breakfast? Isn't it lovely that you have the morning off?"

Still holding hands, Maven and I stop a comfortable distance from the table.

If we have the morning, I don't really understand why Maven had to wake me up. I brush away my twinge of annoyance with a smile. He probably just figured that I wanted to get out of this penthouse, considering that Mayor Jon and Dane Davidson have made appearances.

"Oh, that's okay," I tell Elara. I don't bother explaining to her how I can still feel the steak in my stomach.

Anabel practically huffs. "Nonsense. Now come sit and eat." She has a motherly tone about her.

Maven shifts his hand to the small of my back. "Actually, Grandma, Mare and I are going out."

My boyfriend's grandmother raises a suspicious eyebrow, as though there's something wrong with Maven and I spending time together. "Like on a date? It's too early for a date."

I feel blood rushing to my face. "Just for breakfast."

Maven's arm reaches a little farther so that his hand settles on my hip. "A date of sorts."

I giggle a little, though it doesn't come from anywhere inside of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice how Maven turns his chin towards Cal. Of the two of us, I'm closer to my contemporary teacher, but I get little more from Cal than the sharp slope of his nose and glazed-over, tired eyes that stare out towards Central Park. As though it pains him, he slowly raises his coffee cup to his lips, cringes as he sips at it.

A moment of awkward silence passes. It even absorbs Mister Calore. I force myself to break it.

"Well." I give both Elara and Mister Calore a nod of my head. "Thank you both for letting me stay over. I really appreciate it."

Elara offers a gracious nod in return. "Of course, Mare. I already told you that you are part of the family. Don't be shy to come again. Our residence is big enough that I would hardly notice if you stayed the night again."

Across the table, Mister Calore lets out a deep chuckle. "Let's not take too much liberty as the cool parents, Elara. And besides, it does seem that my son has figured out how to get a hotel room. I think that Mare and Maven are doing just fine on their own."

My stomach swoops as Maven almost loses his grip on my hip.

Mister Calore loses his sullen look and puts on a grin. "What? Maven, you do realize that I have access to your credit card account, correct?" He braces his elbow on the table, leaning forward as he cups his chin in his hand.

Ah. Here I was, thinking that I wasn't going to have to use my alibi at all. So Mister Calore knows that Maven booked a room at the Plaza Hotel last night.

Mister Calore knows that his son had a reservation for a room with a king-sized bed and a panoramic view of Central Park. I suddenly feel hot in Cal's clothes and feel the desperate need to throw myself down the glassen stairwell.

Maven scratches his head with his free hand. "I, um, didn't realize you checked that, Dad."

Like he's explaining something to a small child, Mister Calore nods his head up and down slowly. "That's why I like to check it, son."

Even as she wears a smile, Elara pretends not to listen, returning to her paper. Jon and Davidson seem unsure of what to do and slurp at their coffees. I feel guilty for no reason at all, but I still don't risk a look at my contemporary teacher. Anabel just raises a brow.

"So." He glances between me and Maven. "I saw that you two rented three pay-per-views. Did you not like the first two? I thought that the movies sounded pretty good. But maybe you got distracted."

Shit. Maven rented pay-per-view while he was waiting for me. Just like I told him to.

I suddenly remember what I forgot to do, and it makes a glaringly obvious, horrible hole in my alibi.

I don't know what movies Maven bought on pay-per-view.

"None of them were very good, I guess," Maven tells his father.

Mister Calore turns his full, undivided attention on me.

"I, um, felt indifferent about the pay-per-view," I say stiffly.

Mister Calore returns his fiery, good-humored eyes to Maven. "But son, if you had to pick, which was your favorite?"

I don't allow myself to look at Maven. It's just harmless, good-natured fun. Mister Calore seems to be going after Maven, not me.

Maven scratches his head.

My boyfriend could tell his dad which movie was his favorite, though I doubt he was paying attention to the TV while he waited for me last night. Mister Calore might ask me about which movie was my favorite. He might ask me about my favorite scene.

Or Maven can admit to exactly what Mister Calore expects.

I can't tell if Maven's playing the part or is genuinely nervous. The whole table regards us blushing teenagers with disapproval, amusement, or in Cal's case, nothing at all.

I lean into Maven the slightest bit, trying to tell him that it's fine.

"We weren't really paying attention to the pay-per-view," he says at last.

As if recoiling from a non-existent punch, my gut contracts. At least Evangeline isn't here.

"I see." Mister Calore keeps nodding. Up and down and up and down. His smirk turns into a beam that displays a pristine set of white teeth. "So you wasted twenty dollars on pay-per-view."

Mister Calore seems overly concerned about the pay-per-view.

My giddy, terrified smile makes it look like I find this situation funny.

My boss continues.

"I understand that you're teenagers." Mister Calore cringes. At his side, Davidson is attempting to dissolve into the chair. He keeps his hands neatly folded in his lap and stares down at his coffee. "I know better than to try and put a stop to, um, whatever you two are doing. But I would at least prefer that you don't waste perfectly fine pay-per-view over it."

Speechless, Maven and I stare at Mister Calore.

"And, um, do . . ." Mister Calore gestures at his younger son, who tilts his head to the side. "Do, um, use . . ."

This conversation has passed the limits of even Mister Calore's desire to embarrass his son.

"You know. I assume you have."

Agreeing emphatically, Maven nods his head repeatedly. A hair of a second later, realizing what he's suggesting, Maven starts shaking his head.

The man at my side—not the boy standing next to me with his hand on my hip, but his brother seated at the table—continues his solemn, sleep-deprived contemplation of Central Park. He hasn't said a word. If I didn't know better, I would think that everything that happened last night—the lingerie, the steak, the bridal-style hike to my bedroom—was a dream. If I didn't know better, I would think that Cal wasn't listening to the humiliating conversation happening right in front of him.

I remember whose shirt I'm wearing.

"Maven and I don't . . ." I trail off with a blush, wishing for some of Evangeline's shamelessness. "Do that. We just kiss."

I sound unbelievably stupid. But I can't bring myself to care when it feels so wrong for Cal to think anything different as long as I wear his sweatshirt.

"Okay." Maven's voice is a little shrill. He looks at me with a manic smile. "Let's go to breakfast."

Maven pushes me gently with the arm he has across my back, and I'm all too eager to leave. I circle around him so that my back faces the table, so that Maven stands between me and Cal.

A cold encircles my wrist before I can get away. I almost flinch before I turn around to find Elara smiling at me.

"Take this before you go." Elara frees my arm so that she can take her copy of the paper in both hands. She pushes it towards me.

The paper is turned to an inside page, but the article isn't hidden terribly deep. It's perhaps on the fourth or fifth page of The New York Times, taking up the top half of the wafer-thin, grey paper.

My eyes flit over the story detailing high society's Plaza Hotel party. I don't know how it was possibly published in Thursday's edition, considering how the festivities started in the evening and didn't finish until late in the night.

"We usually prefer that the papers keep our family out of the news," Elara tells me, brushing boney fingers through her long and silky hair. "But I saw that photographer take your picture while you were out waltzing, and the scene was just too perfect. I told the man that it had to go in tomorrow's paper."

She didn't ask me if I wanted that.

I stare at the printed photograph. I remember the exact moment it was taken.

The Plaza ballroom shimmers with dull light, music, and money. The dresses and tuxedos of high society waltz in the background. Maven and I are paused in the foreground. As though the scene was painted over in oil, my sangria cocktail dress glistens. The slit exposes my lower thigh, the neckline droops dangerously low, the better half of my back is bare. The regal diamonds and gold plastered across my body, the too-high stilettos, the elaborate up-do of hair are all caught in the camera's flash.

All of the things that I didn't buy for myself.

Pressed up against me, Maven looks like a dapper gentleman. Our hands join in the photo. My closed eyes wear decadent amounts of mascara.

But my bloody red lips are hidden by Maven's mouth.

It's romantic enough. A little edgy for The New York Times, but romantic enough.

Principal Dancers Maven Calore and Mare Barrow share a waltz.

The photo makes it look like we're sharing a little more than a waltz.

"What time is it?"

I saw the time somewhere. It was on a clock in a hallway. But I don't remember the time.

Elara looks at the bejeweled timepiece on her wrist. "Eight-forty-two. Why?"

I try not to forget myself. I keep my face neutral, remembering my stage face. I look away from the damned paper and peer out the glass wall.

From far, far away, East Harlem mocks me. Laughs at me.

The Barrow family may splurge on few things, but Dad's been a daily subscriber to The New York Times for thirty years.

I was supposed to go home today. Right after rehearsals, until my lesson with Cal.

Mom told me that I had to tell Dad today.

He might not have read it yet. He usually takes his time with breakfast.

"I have to go," I mutter, again backing away from the table.

Anabel chimes in this time. "Is something wrong?"

I give her a hard-to-believe shake of my head. "Oh, no. I just—just forgot something." My voice is breathless, panicked. My eyes flit about the penthouse like a madwoman, as though for the first time realizing where I am.

Cal shifts in his chair. He looks up at me over his shoulder, bronze eyes glimmering.

The rest of the table stares at me peculiarly.

I back away. Maven tries to follow me. I throw up a hand, brush him off. I force my eyes away from the traitorous paper as my boyfriend follows me anyway.

"Is there something wrong with the article?" Elara questions from the table, growing ever-distant by the second.

Everything in the penthouse glitters. With nothing to obstruct the view of the sky, it feels like the Calore penthouse air is made of translucent diamonds.

"No." I give Elara a small smile over my shoulder. Then, I offer a half-lie. "It just reminded me of something."

"Well, at least let me fetch your clothes from yesterday before you leave." Although the chair doesn't make a sound, I feel Elara standing up behind me. "For goodness sake, you don't have your shoes."

The others, not even Anabel, object to my panicked fit.

My boyfriend's palm brushes against the small of my back.

"Mare," he whispers. "What's wrong?"

Another twinge of irritation starts at the small of my back and reverberates through my body. He forgot. He knew that I was supposed to go home today and tell Dad.

To be fair, I mentioned it once at the brunch table before pushing it under the rug, but Maven forgot. The thoughtful part of me knows that he's just assuming that my fit is Scarlet Street Fighter-related. That's what his mind jumps to, as it should.

But he forgot.

The gilded elevator is chiming, alerting the penthouse of somebody's long ascent to the crowning floor of the building on Billionaires' Row. My hands shake as I fold up the newspaper, fold it in half. I don't bother wondering who's in the elevator as I stare at the sealed golden doors.

I yank my hands away when Maven reaches out. I take a step away.

My boyfriend's eyebrows knit in confusion. "Mare—"

"Don't worry about it," I hiss.

I look away before my boyfriend's face falls, but I still see it out of the corner of my eye. I swallow my misplaced anger, my guilt when the elevator doors glide open at last, revealing Lucas Samos of all people. He looks as exhausted as I feel.

"You don't have any money," Maven murmurs.

Like that's ever stopped me before.

The penthouse is hollow enough for everybody to hear.

Lucas, keenly discerning the tension crackling off my body, sidesteps me and Maven without a word. I slink past both of them into the elevator.

The too-big metal box wears a facade of luxury. I stare at the columns and columns of buttons that look like golden coins. My thumb crashes into the "L" coin.

Separated by the elevator threshold, Maven stares at me. He usually knows what to say.

I don't make eye contact. I let my gaze flicker away from Maven.

Across the grand room, Cal has turned halfway around in his chair. His sweatshirt-clad forearm is braced against his chair back. His lips are parted. Even from so far away, his pretty eyes have no trouble at all bridging with mine.

My vision must be exceptionally clear today. I watch as Cal's throat bobs, as his lips turn down, as a spark of realization dawns across his features.

Cal remembers.

Just as the elevator doors drift to a close, my heart skips a beat and falls off its rhythm.