Only when we burn

Chapter 4: Spark and smoke

The backyard of Ivory Estate was straight out of a lifestyle magazine, vine-wrapped trellises casting lacy shadows over stone pavers, string lights twinkling in the trees, suspended like lazy fireflies between trimmed hedges and weathered stone pillars, and sleek outdoor lounges arranged around fire pits that crackled softly beneath the late afternoon sky. The air smelled of grilled peaches, warm rosemary, and dry summer earth, all softened by the undercurrent of lavender from the garden beds. In the distance, the vineyard rolled into golden hills, kissed by the last of the sun.

Jazz music filtered through the speakers under a white canopy strung with Edison bulbs, their smooth notes threading between clusters of guests. Crystal flutes clinked gently, laughter flared and faded in waves, and silver trays glided by with miniature toasts topped with fig and prosciutto, oysters nestled in rock salt, and tiny glasses of gazpacho balanced like delicate jewels.

We’d barely made it three steps in before a server swept past, and Jackson snagged two glasses of chilled rosé without missing a beat. He handed one to me, our fingers brushing. The wine was crisp, slightly floral, with the faintest hint of strawberry on the finish. I closed my eyes after that first sip—more to slow my nerves than to savour the vintage, though it was good enough to do both.

Behind us, Nate whistled low. “Remind me why we don’t live like this?”

“Because we don’t own a vineyard,” Aarti quipped, accepting a glass from another passing tray.

Guests mingled around wine barrels-turned-tables and a linen-covered buffet. Grace, Jackson’s mother, greeted us near the main patio with a wide smile and open arms, immediately enveloping Jackson and me in warm hugs before turning to charm Nate and Aarti. She looked relaxed, radiant even, dressed in white and barefoot on the stone. There was no formal announcement, no staged toast, just the unmistakable sense that this was a celebration. It was casual luxury done effortlessly.

Jackson was immediately drawn into a flurry of conversations, hugs from old friends, neighbours patting him on the back, women kissing both his cheeks. Each time someone new approached, he'd pull me closer with that proprietary hand on the small of my back and say, "This is Bella, my girlfriend."

My girlfriend.

I still couldn't quite believe those words coming from his lips. I still felt a flutter of disbelief mixed with shy pleasure every time he said them. The way he'd emphasise it slightly, like he was savouring the word, made my cheeks warm and my smile turn bashful despite myself.

We were standing around a high-top table near the outdoor bar when she appeared.

“Jack…”

A tall blonde glided toward us with the sort of grace that made you immediately want to adjust your posture. She was striking in a way that demanded attention—legs for days beneath a silk wrap skirt, a sheer top that hinted more than it concealed, and eyes that locked on Jackson like he was the only person at the party. Her lips parted in a slow, sultry smile.

Happy birthday, darling." The blonde leaned in and kissed both his cheeks, then pulled a tiny black box from her clutch and placed it in his hand like she was handing over a secret.

Jackson froze. I felt him tense beside me before I saw it—the way his back straightened, the careful way he set his wine glass on the table. "Excuse me," he muttered tightly, reaching out to grip her elbow. With barely a glance at the rest of us, he led her away from the group, his jaw clenched.

My stomach dropped.

"Wait, it's his birthday?" Aarti asked, frowning. "You didn't tell us, B."

I stared after Jackson, then blinked back toward her. "I didn't know."

A beat of silence passed between us.

Nate's brows lifted. "You didn't know?"

"No," I snapped, heat rising in my chest. "He didn't tell me."

Another tray of chilled rosé floated past, and I reached for a glass with more force than necessary. Aarti nudged me with her hip.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," I lied. "Totally fine."

"You always get snappy when you're not fine," she said, but dropped it.

Nate crossed his arms, watching Jackson and the blonde. "So who's Barbie?"

The woman looked familiar, nagging at the edge of my memory. Blonde, polished, the kind of effortless beauty that came with good genes and better stylists. Then it clicked. "Sarah," I said, my voice flat. "I met her at a charity ball."

I turned just in time to catch her slipping the tiny black box into Jackson's jacket pocket, her fingers lingering against his chest. My grip on the glass tightened.

"God," came a voice from behind us. "She's got her claws back in, hasn't she?"

Kristina, Jackson's sister, materialised beside us in a breezy floral dress, champagne flute in hand, and a knowing smirk already playing on her lips. She looked cool, effortless, like the party was her stage and we were merely the opening act.

"Don't you remember, Sarah?" she continued, studying my face with obvious amusement.

"I remember," I said flatly.

Kristina clinked her glass against mine with deliberate casualness. "She's like a bloody boomerang, that one." She turned to Nate with a warmer smile. "Hey, stranger."

"Kristina," Nate said politely, though his eyes flicked warily toward Jackson and Sarah.

"Lovely to see you again," she said to Aarti, then followed our collective gaze across the garden. "Let me guess—you're all wondering about the history?"

Aarti jerked her chin toward Sarah and Jackson. "They used to be a thing?"

Kristina scoffed. "More like she thought they were." She took a lazy sip of her drink, clearly enjoying having an audience. "Honestly, Jackson never promised her anything. My brother's never really been one for commitment—"

She stopped abruptly, realizing too late what she'd said. Her eyes met mine, wide and momentarily contrite.

"It's fine," I said lightly, even though the words landed like stones in my stomach.

We watched as Sarah leaned closer to Jackson, her fingers brushing his arm with casual familiarity. He didn't flinch, but his eyes were cold, his mouth a thin line. Still, he wasn't pulling away.

"Jesus, the drama," Aarti muttered under her breath.

"Oh, sweetheart," Kristina said, raising her glass with dark amusement. "You have no idea."

A moment later, Kristina downed her glass and stormed back into the house, muttering something about blondes and drama. We all turned to watch her go, just as she disappeared into the house with another tall blonde who looked suspiciously like a Vogue cover twin.

“I feel like we just walked onto the set of a soap opera,” Aarti muttered.

I stepped away from them, heading toward the bar and a mist fan humming in the corner. The cooling spray clung to my skin, but it did little to thaw the sudden chill inside me. I sank onto a stool, rubbing at my eyes.

“Rough night?” a male voice asked beside me.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically, not even bothering to look up. But I wasn’t. And I had a feeling things were just getting started.

“You don’t sound convinced,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice.

I finally lifted my eyes.

He was tall, broad, tanned, with the kind of easy confidence that came from never being told no. His crooked smile suggested he found something amusing about my solitary stance by the garden's edge.

"You look like you're either plotting someone's demise or contemplating making a run for it," he said, raising his glass toward me. "Either way, you seem like you could use some company."

I took another sip of my wine and studied him. "That depends," I said, feeling just bold enough to match his energy. "Are you going to try to fix whatever you think is wrong with me, or are you just here to provide entertaining conversation?"

His laugh was genuine. "Option two. Though I do have excellent taste in wine, if that helps."