Chapter 50

**G R A C E**

I stumble out of the party, practically rolling out with how full I am. My stomach feels like a balloon stuffed with mozzarella and prosciutto and—God, how much did I even eat? I feel like every single thing I ate is just sitting there, judging me. The buttons on my dress are begging for mercy. Alex, with his stupid rules and... superiority, wouldn’t let me drink any more wine. Like I’d drink myself into a coma or something. So instead, I ate. Ate my weight in snacks, and now I’m paying for it.

I burp. Charming.

The beach house is so far away. Who thought putting it this far was a good idea? It’s like a hundred miles away. The sea’s right there, waves crashing and all that, but... do I care? No. No ocean tonight. I can’t even feel my feet anymore. I’d probably drown before I made it past the shoreline.

Everyone’s still at the party. Alex included. Ugh. I can’t even think about him without wanting to scream or cry or... something. Too many people were talking to me, like actually talking, and I wasn’t gonna stand there and... I don’t know, pretend I’m fine? No. So, I just left. Quiet exit. Very dignified. Except for Matt, who kept hanging around like a damn shadow. He disappeared at some point, probably to bother someone else. I hope.

Alex... he’s a whole other mess. I don’t want to think about him. But I am thinking about him. Of course, I am. And it’s making me mad. He’s a walking headache, and I’m tired, and I can’t deal with any of this anymore. Tonight is about me. Me. Sophia’s birthday. My friend, not him. Not... whatever this is.

By the time I make it to the house, I’m ready to collapse. It’s so dark. So... dark. And the door has like... a thousand keyholes. No. That’s wrong. Just the one. But it feels like a thousand. I fumble, keys slipping out of my hand. Focus, Grace, focus.

Finally, the door clicks open, and I stagger inside, not bothering with the lights. Who needs lights? Not me. I can feel my way around. Except, ow—stupid coffee table. It’s like the house is attacking me now. Everything’s blurry. I just want my bed. Just need to... get upstairs.

I’m pretty sure the railing is holding me up as I climb the stairs. It's the only thing keeping me upright. My legs are jelly, my brain... fuzz. When I finally reach my room, it feels like I’ve run a marathon. I push the door shut behind me, slam it maybe, and flick on the lights—

And there he is.

I blink. I blink again. My brain is too slow to catch up with my eyes, and it’s not... it's not processing. Alex? No. No, no, no. This is wrong. He’s not supposed to be here. I’m tired. Drunk. Stuffed. Hallucinating. Yeah, that's it. A food coma dream or something. Alex Moretti can’t actually be standing in my room. It’s impossible. Not after making sure I know I don’t exist for him for the past one and a half day.

I stare. He’s real. Too real. My pulse is doing weird things, thumping in my ears, and the wine haze? Gone. I’m wide awake now, sober awake.

Before I can even think, my hand’s on the doorknob, yanking it open, ready to bolt. But then—three steps. That’s all it takes. He’s there, his hand slamming the door shut, trapping me. His body presses against mine, and I feel everything. The heat, the weight. He’s so close. Too close. I can’t breathe. My heart is going nuts. He’s pinning me, and I... I can’t think straight.

This is happening. He’s here.

I push away from him, scrambling across the room, feeling like a cornered animal. I rub my eyes, willing this whole thing to disappear, but when I look again, he’s still there. Just... watching me. Like he’s got all the time in the world. Like this is totally normal.

He leans against the door, all casual, like we’re not in the middle of a nightmare or something. His jacket’s gone, and his black shirt clings to him. I shouldn’t be looking, but I can’t help it. The way it fits him, especially around his arms... why am I even noticing this right now?

Stop looking. Stop.

I drag my gaze to his face. His stupid face. It’s dark and unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes. Something that makes my skin crawl. And I don’t know if it’s fear or... something worse.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” My voice sounds off. Shaky. Weak. I try to sound angry, strong, but I don’t think it’s working. My legs are shaking, and I feel... small. Cornered.

But he doesn’t say a word. He just keeps looking at me like I’m some kind of puzzle he’s figuring out, and it makes me want to run.