The Rosenberg's wine cellar air hits Nate's face like a cool caress as he descends the spiral staircase, his footsteps echoing against centuries-old stone. The buzz from earlier drinks hums pleasantly through his system, making the world feel softer around the edges. His mind keeps drifting back to Amber's speech upstairs - the way she'd commanded the room like she was born for it, her voice steady and clear as she'd raised a toast to their shared future.

  God, she'd looked incredible tonight. That black dress hitting her curves in all the right places, those heels making her legs look endless. Even after everything - the darkness, the secrets, the weight of what they carry - she still takes his breath away.

  The cellar stretches before him like a cathedral dedicated to hundred-year vintages and carefully cultivated power. Crystal glasses catch the dim light, creating constellations on the exposed brick walls. Nate's fingers trail along the wine racks as he navigates the familiar path, memories flooding back unbidden.

  Christmas Eve. Richard's carefully orchestrated dinner party upstairs, while down here... His body remembers before his mind does - Amber pressed against these same racks, her dress hiked up around her waist, his name on her lips like a prayer. The taste of expensive champagne and forbidden passion. They'd been so careful to put every bottle back exactly where they'd found it, but he still wonders if Richard ever noticed the slightly crooked label on that '82 Bordeaux.

  "Focus, Brooks," he mutters to himself, scanning the Spanish section. His fingers close around two bottles of Ramón Bilbao Crianza - good enough for a senior send-off, not so precious that Richard will notice their absence. The familiar routine of selecting wine grounds him, even as his thoughts spiral between pride and guilt, love and darkness.

  Stanford acceptance letter in his drawer at home. Athletic scholarship secured. His girl by his side, ready to build their California dreams together. Everything exactly as they'd planned since freshman year.

  Except for the body count.

  The thought hits him like a punch to the gut, making him grip the wine bottles tighter. Hannah's empty desk in AP Lit. Alex's family's sudden move. Emily's "accident" at Hampton Beach. Victoria and Megan, conveniently transferred to schools. A trail of disappeared girls marking their path to success like bloody breadcrumbs.

  The mirror hanging near the cellar's entrance catches his eye as he turns to leave. Even in the dim light, he barely recognizes himself anymore. Same broad shoulders that bulldoze through defensive lines, same hands that cup Amber's face so gently - but the eyes... When did they start carrying shadows deeper than any eighteen-year-old's should?

  His feet carry him back up the stairs, mind already drifting to Amber waiting above. Maybe tonight they can pretend to be normal teenagers again. Just for a few hours, let the weight of secrets and sins slide off their shoulders like water.

  The sound of expensive heels clicking against marble stops him halfway up. Susan Lawrence perches on the main staircase like a bird of prey taking a break between hunts, her silver dress catching the light as she massages one ankle.

  "Playing sommelier tonight, Brooks?" Her smile carries that particular edge that always makes him wonder how much she really knows.

  "These designer death traps finally get the best of you?" He gestures at her discarded Louboutins with one of the wine bottles.

  "Fuck off," but there's no real heat in it. "You try dancing in six-inch spikes for three hours."

  "I'll pass." He shifts his weight, bottles clinking softly. "You coming? The natives are getting restless for their next round."

  Something flickers across Susan's features - too quick to catch, gone before he can name it. "Actually..." Her fingers play with the hem of her dress. "I was looking for you."

  The words settle in the air between them like smoke, heavy with implications neither of them is ready to voice.

  "You good?" Nate settles beside her on the stairs, the wine bottles cool against his palms. The marble step radiates a chill through his dress pants, grounding him in the moment.

  "Yeah, just..." Susan trails off, staring at the intricate crown molding above them like it might hold answers to questions she hasn't asked yet.

  "Talk to me." He bumps her shoulder gently with his, the way he has since they were kids.. "What's eating at you?"

  Susan draws a shaky breath, her perfectly manicured fingers twisting in her lap. "It's all changing so fast, you know? You and Amber off to Stanford, me at Yale, everyone scattering like dandelion seeds in the wind." Her laugh sounds brittle. "God, that was poetic. Must be the wine talking."

  "Hey," Nate catches her eye, channeling the steady confidence that's made him team captain three years running. "We've got holidays, spring breaks. I'll definitely crash Yale's homecoming - see what kind of pathetic excuse for a football team they're fielding these days."

  "Right." She manages a weak smile. "And I'll come visit you guys, third-wheel it up in California."

  But something in her voice sounds off, like a piano key struck slightly out of tune. The silence stretches between them, heavy with words unspoken.

  "Sue," he softens his voice the way he does when Amber's anxiety spikes, when the darkness threatens to pull her under. "Talk to me, little sis. What's really going on?"

  She turns to face him fully then, and the raw vulnerability in her eyes makes his chest tight. "Do you ever wonder..." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "If things had been different... could we have worked?"

  The question hits him like a blindside tackle, knocking the air from his lungs. Memories flood back unbidden - that night summer of sophomore year, the forest air thick with possibility and teenage rebellion. Susan's skin glowing in the starlight, her back pressed against rough bark, his hands tangled in her hair. One moment of weakness that they'd sworn to bury, to forget, to never speak of again.

  "Sue..." His voice comes out rougher than intended. "That was two years ago."

  "I know." She won't meet his eyes now. "I know it was just one drunk night. I know you love Amber - god, anyone with eyes can see that. But sometimes..." Her fingers ghost over his forearm, light as butterfly wings. "Sometimes I wonder what if."

  Nate's heart pounds against his ribs as he stares at her hand on his arm. The same hand that had mapped constellations on his skin that night, that had pulled him closer even as his conscience screamed at him to stop. His princess's best friend. His little sister in all but blood.

  "After all this time?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

  She nods, and in that simple gesture Nate sees every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every moment of wondering that she's carried in silence these past two years.

  "What about Justin?" The words feel clumsy in Nate's mouth, but he forces them out anyway. "You two seem solid lately."

  Susan's laugh carries an edge sharp enough to cut. "Justin's... sweet. Safe. The kind of guy who texts good morning every day." Her fingers trace patterns on the marble step. "But he's not..."

  "Not what?"

  "He's not you." The words fall between them like broken glass. "He doesn't challenge me, doesn't see through my bullshit. Doesn't make me..."

  Nate's throat feels impossibly tight. "Sue... what are you saying? You want to tell Amber about that night?"

  "Jesus, no." Her eyes go wide with something close to panic. "Are you insane? She'd destroy me in ways that would make Richard Rosenberg's corporate takedowns look like child's play." She studies his face intently. "Have you ever..."

  "No." The answer comes quickly, firmly. "Never."

  Silence stretches between them, thick with memories neither of them should still be carrying.

  "Why tonight?" Nate finally asks, his voice barely disturbing the air. "After all this time, why bring this up now?"

  "I don't know." Susan runs her hands through her perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that makes her look younger, more vulnerable. "Maybe it's the champagne, or seeing you and Amber so perfect tonight, or knowing everything's about to change..." She trails off, staring at her discarded heels like they might hold answers.

  Nate sets the wine bottles aside, kneeling to help her with the complicated straps of her Louboutins. His fingers work the delicate buckles with surprising gentleness for someone who can bench press 285.

  "Listen to me, Sue." He keeps his eyes on the task, finding it easier to say these things without meeting her gaze. "You're probably the most spectacular pain in the ass I've ever met. Brilliant, fierce, absolutely terrifying when you want to be." His lips curve into a slight smile as he secures the last strap. "Any guy would be lucky to even exist in your orbit."

  She makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "You're just saying that because you have to."

  "Please." Now he does look up, catching her eyes. "When have I ever said anything I didn't mean? And besides," he adds with deliberate lightness, "whoever ends up worthy of the great Susan Lawrence will need my personal seal of approval first. Can't have some random Yale trust fund baby thinking he's good enough for my honorary little sister."

  That finally draws a real smile from her – the kind that reaches her eyes and reminds him of the girl who used to push him into the Hampton Club pool every summer.

  "I'm sorry," she whispers, and somehow he knows she means for more than just tonight's confession. For every lingering look, every moment of wondering, every secret they've both carried far too long.

  "Don't be." He stands, offering his hand to help her up. "Some things just... aren't meant to be. Doesn't make them any less real when they happened."

  Susan takes his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. For a moment they stand there on the Rosenberg's spiral staircase, the weight of past and present and future hanging between them like smoke.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "We should get back," Nate finally says, retrieving the wine bottles. "Before they send a search party."

  "Or worse – before Amber decides to organize one of her infamous party games." Susan adjusts her dress with practiced precision, armor sliding back into place. Just like that, she's Susan Lawrence again – queen bee, Yale-bound, perfectly composed.

  Following Susan back toward the kitchen, Nate's mind wanders down forbidden paths. What if he'd chosen differently that night? What if he and Amber had imploded, and he'd found himself building a life with Susan instead? Yale power couple instead of Stanford dreams. Different kind of fire, different kind of future.

  But then they round the corner into the kitchen, and all those what-ifs evaporate like morning mist. Because there's Amber at the head of the table, commanding the room like she was born for it. The way her dress falls across her shoulders, the curve of her smile as she spots him – it hits him like a linebacker every single time.

  "Well, if it isn't my favorite wine thief," Amber's eyes dance with mischief. "Did you get lost down there, Brooks? Start sampling the merchandise?"

  "Just making sure I picked something worthy of the queen," Nate moves behind her chair, letting his fingers trail across her bare shoulders as he begins opening the first bottle. The familiar ritual grounds him – the pop of the cork, the gentle splash of crimson liquid, the way Amber leans back slightly into his touch.

  "You spoil me," she murmurs, tilting her head to meet his eyes.

  "That's the plan, princess." He bends to whisper in her ear, low enough that only she can hear. "Though I've got better ways to spoil you later tonight."

  Her sharp intake of breath makes his blood run hot, but Jeff's voice breaks the moment: "Yo Brooks, some of us are dying of thirst over here!"

  The table erupts in laughter as Nate makes his rounds – Susan settling back beside Justin, who immediately drapes an arm around her shoulders. Morris and Sarah sharing some private joke while Charlotte scrolls through her phone. Even Lisa seems more relaxed than usual, though something in her eyes still carries that haunted look they've all learned to ignore.

  Only one empty chair breaks the perfect tableau – Jake's usual spot beside Jeff, conspicuously vacant. His best friend's absence feels wrong, like a dropped note in a familiar song. Jake's been off lately, distant in a way Nate's never seen before. The Harvard situation weighs on him – his parents' Ivy League dreams colliding with his own desires for a real college experience. But missing tonight? That's new territory, even for Jake's recent mood swings.

  "Earth to Brooks!" Jeff waves his empty glass dramatically. "Some service would be nice!"

  Nate shakes off his concern, focusing on pouring Jeff's wine. "Patience, young padawan. You'd think FIU's future star quarterback could handle a few minutes of waiting."

  Jeff's face lights up at the mention of his scholarship – that pure joy that comes from finally stepping out of Jake Woodland's shadow after four years as backup. "Speaking of which," he grins, "Coach Martinez called today. Says I might actually see playing time as a QB since freshman year."

  "Told you," Nate claps him on the shoulder, genuine pride warming his chest. Because Jeff deserves this – all those early morning practices, all those games spent as a tackle, never complaining, always ready. "They'd be idiots not to use that arm of yours."

  "Well, maybe if Woodland could stay sober long enough to pick up a phone, Coach wouldn't be scrambling," Justin's words slice through the warm atmosphere like ice. "Guy's basically living at O'Malley's these days."

  "Watch it." Nate's voice carries that dangerous edge that usually only emerges on the field. "You don't know what you're talking about."

  "Come on, Brooks." Justin leans forward, wine sloshing dangerously in his glass. "He's letting the whole team down. Harvard's golden boy too good to return Coach's calls now?"

  "He's going through some stuff." Nate measures his words carefully, remembering Jake's breakdown in his truck last week. The weight of family expectations crushing his best friend's dreams into dust. "Just needs time to figure things out."

  Amber's hand finds his under the table, anchoring him before the conversation can escalate. He settles back beside her, letting her warmth calm the protective rage building in his chest.

  Susan rises suddenly, her glass catching the light like a signal flare. "Actually, I'd like to propose a toast." Her voice carries that particular tone that makes student council meetings fall silent. "To friendship. To the people in this room who've seen us at our best and worst, who've kept our secrets and shared our dreams."

  Nate watches her command the room with practiced ease, remembering their conversation on the stairs. She really could run the country someday, if America's ready for a president who can destroy lives with a perfectly timed Instagram story.

  "To the memories we've made, the bonds we've forged, and the future we're building." Susan's voice catches slightly on the word 'future', but only Nate seems to notice. "May we always find our way back to each other, no matter where life takes us."

  "To friendship," the group echoes, glasses raised in perfect synchronization. The crystal clinks like wind chimes, a sound that should be peaceful but somehow carries an edge of warning.

  The back door crashes open with enough force to make Charlotte jump, her wine splashing across the tablecloth. Jake Woodland stumbles through the doorway like something out of a gothic novel – his designer suit wrinkled and stained, his usually perfect hair wild around his face. He looks like he's been wearing the same clothes for days, sleeping in alleys instead of his thousand-thread-count sheets.

  "Well, well." Susan's voice drips with calculated concern. "Look what the trust fund dragged in. Interesting interpretation of black tie, Woodland."

  "Fuck off, Lawrence." Jake's words slur together as he sways in the doorway. "Not all of us can be daddy's perfect... whatever."

  Nate's eyes meet Jeff's across the table, years of synchronization kicking in. They move in tandem, rising from their seats with practiced efficiency.

  "Don't." Jake holds up one shaking hand as they approach. "Don't fucking touch me. I don't need your help. Don't need anyone's fucking help."

  But his legs seem to disagree, buckling slightly as he tries to take a step. Nate and Jeff catch him before he can hit the ground, the familiar motion of supporting a teammate taking over.

  "Easy, brother." Nate's voice carries none of the alarm he feels as they guide Jake into an empty chair. Because this isn't just drunk Jake – this is something else entirely. Something darker than too many shots at O'Malley's. "We've got you."

  "Get him some water," Amber's whisper carries that particular mix of concern and command that Nate can never resist. He heads for the kitchen, grateful for a moment to collect his thoughts.

  "Jake," Amber's voice drifts over his shoulder, gentle in a way she reserves for wounded things. "What's going on? Talk to us."

  "What's going on?" Jake's laugh sounds wrong – hollow, like something scraped raw. "Oh, I'm absolutely perfect, princess. Never better. Living the Riverside Heights dream."

  Nate watches from the sink as he fills a glass, studying his best friend's deteriorating state. Jake's hands shake as he runs them through his disheveled hair, his designer suit hanging off him like he's lost weight. Dark circles beneath his eyes speak of sleepless nights and darker thoughts.

  "Actually," Jake struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as he raises an empty wine glass. "Since we're all sharing tonight, I'd like to make a toast of my own."

  "Maybe we should—" Jeff starts, but Jake cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

  "To Riverside Heights." Jake's voice starts steady, almost normal. "To perfect lawns and perfect lives and perfect fucking lies." His laugh carries an edge sharp enough to draw blood. "To parents who plan your whole life before you're born, to coaches who treat teenagers like commodities, to a system that lets rich boys do whatever they want."

  The room goes still, every breath held like the moment before lightning strikes.

  "Jake," Nate warns, setting down the water glass. But his friend's eyes have taken on a manic gleam that makes his blood run cold.

  "You all want to know what really happened at Hampton Beach?" Jake's voice rises, hysteria creeping in at the edges. "Want to know the truth about Emily Thorne? About Rachel Martinez at New Year's?"

  "That's enough." Nate moves toward him, but Jake backs away, using the table for support.

  "I took them upstairs." The words fall like bombs in the silent room. "Emily at Hampton Beach. Rachel at the party. They said no, but..." His laugh sounds like breaking glass. "That's what we do, right? Rich boys from Riverside Heights – we take what we want and daddy's lawyers make it all go away."

  Horror spreads across the table like spilled wine. Morris tightens his grip on Charlotte's hand as she stares in shock. Sarah's face goes pale while Susan sits frozen, her perfect composure finally cracking.

  "And you know the best part?" Jake's voice drops to a whisper that somehow feels louder than his previous shouts. "Everyone just... let it happen. Coach Martinez transfers his daughter to 'live with her mom.' And Emily..." His eyes drift to Amber for a fraction of a second. "Well, we all know what happened to Emily."

  "Stop." Nate reaches him in three long strides, gripping his shoulders hard enough to bruise. "That's enough, brother."

  But the damage is already done. The words hang in the air like smoke, impossible to take back, impossible to ignore. Years of carefully maintained secrets shattered by one drunken confession.

  Jake's eyes finally meet his, and for a moment Nate sees past the alcohol and hysteria to something broken beneath. "I can't carry it anymore," he whispers, so quiet only Nate can hear. "I just can't."

  Nate's eyes find Susan first, desperate for her usual quick thinking, but she sits frozen like a statue in designer clothes. When he turns to Amber, his heart nearly stops – her face carries that particular pallor he remembers from Hampton Beach, from the moment Emily's body hit the ground. The truth hovers dangerous and unspoken between them all.

  He catches Jeff's eye across the chaos, years of signals condensed into a single glance. Jeff nods, already moving.

  They take Jake by the arms, steering him toward the back door while he thrashes and curses. "Get your fucking hands off me!" But the alcohol has made him clumsy, his usual athletic grace dissolved into useless rage. "Everyone needs to know! Everyone needs to—"

  Through the door, across the perfectly manicured lawn, to the outdoor lounge set that's hosted a hundred summer parties and a thousand secrets. Jake's resistance fades with each step, like a storm burning itself out.

  "Did you know?" Nate doesn't need to finish the question. The weight in Jeff's eyes says everything.

  "Found out last season," Jeff admits quietly as they lower Jake onto a cushioned chair. "Caught him having a breakdown in the locker room after Rachel left."

  Through the open French doors, Amber's voice carries with practiced authority: "...just had a bit too much to drink. Now, who's ready for dessert?" Her ability to maintain control, to reshape reality with nothing but words and will, would be impressive if it didn't terrify him sometimes.

  "What the fuck were you thinking?" Nate rounds on Jake, keeping his voice low but intense. "Do you have any idea what you just did in there?"

  "Told the truth." Jake's laugh sounds unhinged. "Isn't that what we're supposed to do? Isn't that what good people do?"

  "In front of Lisa Chen?" Nate's hands clench into fists. "The girl who's been digging into every secret in Riverside? In front of Justin and Sarah, who'd sell their own mothers for enough social media clout?"

  "Nate," Jeff's warning tone cuts through the night air. "This isn't helping."

  "I'm done." Jake's voice suddenly carries a clarity that makes Nate's blood run cold. "Done lying, done pretending, done playing the golden boy while everything rots underneath." His eyes focus somewhere in the distance, suddenly sharp despite the alcohol. "Besides, it won't matter soon anyway."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Jake's laugh carries no humor. "You really think Hannah's case is closed? That Emily's 'accident' is ancient history?" He fumbles in his pocket, producing his phone. "Got this today from a buddy at the station. New detective transferred in from Boston. Rodriguez. She's reopening everything."

  Nate's heart stops as Jake shows them the text chain. Words jump out at him: "suspicious pattern of deaths," "reconstructing timelines," "interviewing witnesses."

  "She doesn't play by Riverside rules," Jake's voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Doesn't care about country club memberships or whose daddy sits on what board. And she's got twenty years of cold cases she's connecting dots between."

  The garden lights cast strange shadows across Jake's face as he delivers the final blow: "Hampton Beach was just the beginning. Every secret, every cover-up, every convenient accident – she's pulling threads until it all unravels." His eyes meet Nate's with devastating clarity. "And you know what they say about houses built on sand..."

  Nate stares at the phone in Jake's trembling hand, but his mind is already racing back to the kitchen, to Amber. His fierce, complicated princess, who pushed one girl to protect their future and watched another die to keep her secrets. Who gives perfect speeches and plans perfect parties while carrying the weight of two deaths in her perfect designer handbag.

  He remembers her face the night Emily died – that moment of realization as she stared at her own hands like they belonged to someone else. The way she'd shaken for hours afterward, whispering "I didn't mean to" over and over until the words lost meaning. He'd held her through it all, promising everything would be okay, that he'd protect her, that nothing could touch them as long as they stayed together.

  But this... A Boston detective with something to prove, pulling threads that lead straight to Hampton Beach. To Rachel's convenient transfer. To Hannah's perfectly staged suicide. How do you protect someone from truth itself?

  Nate's throat feels tight as he remembers his promise to her on Ridgeline Hills: "We're in this together, princess. Always have been, always will be." But as Jake's words echo in his mind – "pulling threads until it all unravels" – he wonders if love really is enough to weather what's coming.

  Because some houses, no matter how perfect their facades, can't stand once the foundation starts to crack.