KARA

The fake date was going too well.

Eli had a sense of humor that was dry without being dull, charming without being slippery. And he wasn’t trying too hard—which was refreshing, considering I’d practically orchestrated our run-in.

He didn’t recognize me from the bar, not with the blonde wig in place. That was half the plan. The other half? Get close enough to Cass’s inner circle that he wouldn’t question my sudden appearance in his life.

So when Eli asked if I wanted to grab dinner—“Nothing weird, I promise. I’m an excellent fake date”—I said yes. Of course I said yes.

Now, over dim lighting and overpriced fusion food, I leaned back in my chair and laughed at one of his stories.

“You know,” Eli said, pointing a finger at me like he’d just solved a riddle, “you look just like her.”

My smile faltered. “Like who?”

He pulled out his phone, brows furrowed with the kind of concentration that meant he had to dig for the right post. After a moment, he turned the screen over to me. A filtered Instagram photo—two girls, side by side at some rooftop brunch. Matching grins, glossy lips, sunglasses perched like tiaras.

“That’s Ali,” he said, pointing to the brunette standing next to the blonde on the left. “Cass’s ex. The only real one, if we’re keeping count.”

I blinked. “Wow. We could be sisters.”

It was unsettling.

Then my finger slid across the screen before I could stop myself. More photos. A brunch. A Halloween party. A beach trip. All on the blonde’s page.

Until—

“Oh. This isn’t her profile, is it?”

Eli reached quickly for the phone. “It’s—uh—my ex’s, Ali’s college roommate”

Kara smirked. “Still stalking your ex? Bold move for a first date.”

“We’re friends,” Eli said too fast. “Like actual friends”

“Sure,” Kara said, amused.

He rubbed the back of his neck like a boy who got caught copying homework. I could’ve pressed harder, but I didn’t need to. Not when the real subject of interest had just walked in.

Eli’s eyes flicked to the door, then lit up like he’d manifested something.

“Oh look,” he said a little too brightly. “There he is.”

I didn’t need to turn around. I felt it. The shift in the room, the quiet ripple that always seems to follow a person like Cass Westcott.

When I finally looked, it was like watching a storm walk toward you in slow motion.

He walked in like he owned the place, sunglasses still perched on his head, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His eyes scanned the room with lazy interest—until they landed on our table.

On me.

That trademark Cass smirk curled his lips as he made his way over.

He slid into the booth beside Eli and directly across from me like he was claiming a seat in a game he already intended to win.

 No hesitation. No “hey man, what’s up?” Just—

“Hey.” His eyes locked on mine. “I’m Cass.”

I matched his stare with practiced ease. “Kara.”

Nothing else. The word hung there, the air thick between us. That same heat she felt from the bar flickered again—undeniable, electric. He wasn’t bothering to be subtle. And I wasn’t looking away.

He didn’t recognize me. That much was clear.

But he felt something.

And so did I.

“Well,” Eli said, trying to bridge the charge in the air, “glad you two could finally meet.”

Cass didn’t even blink. His focus was all mine. That cocky, amused expression like I was an unexpected plot twist he was already enjoying.

“Have we met?” he asked.

I tilted my head. “Maybe. You seem like the kind of guy who assumes everyone wants to meet you.”

Eli nearly spit his drink. Cass grinned wider.

“I like her,” he said.

I was supposed to keep it cool. Stick to the plan. But the way he was looking at me, the way my skin felt a little too tight under his gaze…

I needed a reset.

“Excuse me,” I said, sliding out of the booth. “Bathroom.”

I made it to the single-stall restroom and leaned against the door behind me.

Then I exhaled—long, slow, shaky.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “You’re fine. He’s just a guy.”

A ridiculously hot, maddeningly smug guy whose stare made her feel… seen. Not undressed. Not assessed. Seen.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.

I rested my palms on the sink, staring at my reflection.

“You’re in control,” I whispered. “This is your game. You wrote the rules.”

Cass Westcott was the target. I was just playing a part.

So why did it feel like the part was playing me?

I pressed my lips together and drew one last deep breath. Then I stood up straighter, reapplied my lipstick, when the door handle twisted open.