Age is Just a Number

Chapter 1: Sparks in the Rose Garden The champagne flute in my hand feels like a prop, something to grip while I navigate the glittering chaos of my father’s wedding. The ballroom of his sprawling East Coast estate is a sea of crystal chandeliers and fake smiles, the kind of place that screams money but whispers control. I’m thirty, too old to be dragged to these family circuses, yet here I am, in a tailored jacket that’s too tight and a mood that’s too sour. Dad’s marrying Elena, a widow with a smile too perfect for this dysfunctional clan. I scan the crowd, itching to bolt, when my eyes lock onto her. She’s leaning against a marble pillar, auburn hair catching the light like a flame. Her hazel eyes spark with something—defiance, maybe?—and her lips curve into a smirk as she sips her wine. She’s not like the rest of these polished drones. Her dress, a deep emerald that hugs her frame, looks like it was chosen to provoke, not blend. I don’t know who she is, but I want to. Badly. “Mark, stop brooding,” Lily whispers, nudging my elbow. My little sister, all curls and law-school optimism, looks up at me with those big brown eyes. “It’s Dad’s day. Smile for once.” “Smiling’s overrated,” I mutter, taking a swig of champagne. It’s too sweet, like this whole damn event. “Who’s the redhead by the pillar?” Lily follows my gaze, then frowns. “That’s Sophia. Elena’s sister. Your new step-aunty, so don’t get any ideas.” I choke on my drink, coughing as Lily pats my back, laughing. “Step-aunty? She’s younger than me!” “By two years,” Lily says, smirking. “Dad’s already warned everyone to keep it civil. You know how he is.” Yeah, I know. Richard Sullivan, real estate king, rules this family like a dictator. His word is law, and I’ve spent my life dodging his shadow. But Sophia? She’s no one’s pawn. I can tell by the way she’s scanning the room, like she’s planning her escape too. The music shifts to a slow waltz, and Dad’s voice booms over the mic, calling for a family dance. I groan, but Lily drags me onto the floor. “Come on, don’t make me dance with Uncle Ted’s sweaty hands.” We weave through the crowd, and somehow, I end up face-to-face with Sophia. Up close, she’s even more striking—her eyes flecked with gold, her scent like jasmine and paint thinner. Weirdly intoxicating. “Mark, right?” Her voice is low, teasing, like she’s already caught me staring. “The prodigal son?” “Something like that,” I say, offering my hand. “Care to dance, Aunty?” She laughs, a sharp, genuine sound that cuts through the room’s pretense. “Only if you promise not to call me that again.” Her hand slips into mine, warm and sure, and we move to the music. The crowd fades, and it’s just us, her steps light but deliberate, like she’s testing me. My heart’s pounding, and I’m not sure if it’s the champagne or the way her fingers brush my palm. “So, what’s your deal?” she asks, tilting her head. “You don’t seem thrilled to be here.” “Perceptive,” I say, spinning her gently. “Let’s just say family gatherings aren’t my thing. You?” “Same.” Her smile falters, just for a second. “Elena’s my only family, but this?” She nods at the glittering chaos. “It’s a cage with better lighting.” I grin, liking her more with every word. “You’re not what I expected from Elena’s sister.” “And you’re not what I expected from Richard’s son,” she fires back. “Thought you’d be… stuffier.” “Give me time,” I say, and she laughs again, her eyes locking on mine. There’s a spark there, dangerous and alive, and I know she feels it too. The song ends, but neither of us lets go right away. Then Dad’s voice cuts through, calling for a toast. Sophia steps back, her fingers lingering on mine. “See you around, Mark,” she says, her voice a promise. I watch her slip into the crowd, my pulse still racing. Lily’s at my side again, whispering, “Told you, no ideas. Dad’ll have a stroke.” “Let him,” I mutter, but my eyes are still on Sophia, her emerald dress vanishing into the sea of suits. --- The reception drags on, all toasts and clinking glasses, but I’m barely listening. My mind’s on Sophia, on that laugh, that spark. I’m sketching a blueprint in my head—not of buildings, but of what it’d be like to know her. Stupid, maybe, but I can’t shake it. I slip out to the rose garden for air, the night cool against my skin. The estate’s grounds are a maze of blooms and shadows, the kind of place that feels like it’s hiding secrets. I’m leaning against a stone bench when I hear footsteps. Sophia steps into the moonlight, her dress shimmering like it’s part of the night. “Escaping too?” she asks, her voice playful but edged with something heavier. “Caught me,” I say, straightening. “You stalking me now?” “Maybe.” She steps closer, her eyes searching mine. “Or maybe I just needed a break from all the… expectations.” I nod, understanding more than I want to admit. “Dad’s good at those. Expectations, rules, control.” “Sounds familiar,” she says, her voice softening. “Elena’s always been the good one. Me? I’m the mess.” “You don’t look like a mess,” I say, and it’s not just a line. She’s magnetic, every inch of her alive with defiance and something raw, something real. She smirks, but her eyes are guarded. “Looks can lie, Mark. You should know that.” I step closer, close enough to catch that jasmine-and-paint scent again. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She hesitates, like she’s weighing how much to say. “Just… people have secrets. Even the pretty ones.” My gut twists. There’s a story behind her words, one she’s not telling. But before I can push, she changes the subject. “So, architect, huh? What do you build?” “Dreams, mostly,” I say, half-joking. “Houses, offices. Things that last longer than people.” “Deep,” she teases, but her eyes soften. “I paint. Things that don’t last at all.” “I’d like to see that,” I say, and I mean it. I want to see her world, her art, her. “Maybe you will,” she says, her voice a whisper now. We’re close, too close, the air between us charged. I can see the pulse at her throat, quick and alive, matching mine. “Sophia,” I start, but she cuts me off, stepping even closer. “Don’t,” she says, her voice low. “Don’t say something we’ll both regret.” But her eyes say the opposite, and I’m done fighting it. I lean in, and she meets me halfway, her lips crashing into mine. It’s fire, it’s chaos, it’s everything I didn’t know I needed. Her hands grip my jacket, and I pull her closer, the roses around us fading into nothing. We break apart, breathless, and she laughs, a shaky sound. “This is a bad idea,” she says, but she’s smiling, her eyes alight. “The best kind,” I say, and I’m about to kiss her again when a shadow moves at the edge of the garden. My heart stutters. It’s Dad, his silhouette unmistakable, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Mark,” he says, his voice cold as steel. “Sophia. Step away from each other. Now.” My stomach drops. Sophia’s hand tightens on mine, but she lets go, stepping back. Dad’s face is a mask of rage, but there’s something else there—something calculating, like he’s been waiting for this. “Inside,” he says, his voice a command. “Both of you. We need to talk.” Sophia’s eyes meet mine, a flicker of fear in them, but also defiance. I want to ask her what she’s hiding, what Dad knows, but there’s no time. He turns, expecting us to follow, and I know this is just the beginning of whatever storm we’ve unleashed. As we step toward the house, Sophia’s hand brushes mine, a silent promise. But then I see it—a figure in the shadows beyond Dad, watching us. Not a guest, not family. Someone else, someone who doesn’t belong. My blood runs cold, and Sophia’s sharp intake of breath tells me she saw it too. Who the hell is out there, and why are they watching us?