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The car glides to a stop, smooth and precise, and the driver steps out before opening the door.

I give her a nod before stepping out first, the noise already rising around us like a wave about to break. I pause to turn back and offer her my hand.

The moment she comes into view, the atmosphere shifts instantly—voices calling out, shutters snapping in rapid succession, flashes bursting like lightning too close for comfort.

It’s loud. Blinding. Relentless.

But none of it touches me.

“Let’s go,” I murmur, offering her my arm.

We pause for a few photos, slipping effortlessly into a version of ourselves we’ve both played before—the kind of perfectly aligned image that looks real only because it’s been rehearsed too many times to fail.

I don’t answer a single question.

I haven’t in years—not since the media frenzy around Nick and Sierra spun completely out of control. None of us have given them anything since. No interviews. No statements. No access.

And I intend to keep it that way.

Halfway up the red carpet, Antonia slows, turning toward a cluster of reporters as she responds to a few chosen questions, her voice composed.

I stay beside her, hands in my pockets, expression unreadable, letting her handle it.

When we start moving again, my gaze lifts toward the top of the stairs and lands instantly on them.

My brothers.

They must have just arrived, probably caught sight of me pulling up and decided to wait.

But they’re not what holds my attention.

It’s her.

Even now, despite everything being made public—that she and Theo aren’t a couple—she’s still standing at his side, exactly where she’s been for the past year.

But tonight… something feels different.

Because for the first time, I don’t feel even a trace of guilt when I look at her.

What I feel instead is something more familiar—that quiet, persistent edge of possessiveness that’s been there all along, buried beneath layers of restraint ever since they started pretending.

Her eyes meet mine.

For a brief second, she looks caught off guard, an emotion flickering across her expression—surprise, maybe.

Then it sharpens.

Hardens.

And just as quickly, she turns away.

I don’t know what I saw in her eyes a moment ago, but whatever it was, it affected her.

Is she jealous?

The thought almost makes me laugh. Because I’d bet anything that if I walked up to her right now, she’d shut me down without hesitation—play it cool, detached, like none of this touches her.

Even if it does.