Even Roses Have Thorns

5. The Party Before The Ashes

Alina stood barefoot in front of the mirror, adjusting the sleeve of her pale blue dress for the third time.

The fabric was soft, simple — it didn’t shimmer or hug curves the way she knew most girls would be dressing tonight. But she didn’t want attention. She just wanted to look… comfortable. Presentable. Not like someone who had to try.

She brushed a hand through her hair and glanced at her reflection. Everything looked fine. But something in her chest wouldn’t settle.

From the living room, Elias called out, “You almost ready?”

“Almost,” she replied, her voice too steady to reflect the strange tension clinging to her ribs.

She slipped on her shoes and grabbed her clutch, then paused. For a second, she just looked at herself.

She couldn’t explain why this party made her nervous.

Sierra had insisted — said it would be “legendary,” that Max was pulling out all the stops and everyone who mattered would be there. Even Elias had agreed to go, despite his usual reluctance.

And yet…

Her stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with nerves. Something felt off. Misaligned.

She shook it off and stepped out of the bedroom.

Elias was waiting by the door, already dressed in black jeans and a collared shirt, his sleeves rolled. He looked good — he always did. Familiar. Steady.

But when he looked at her, something flickered across his expression — not quite admiration. Not quite warmth.

She tried not to notice.

“Wow,” she said softly. “You’re on time for once.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Miracles happen.”

They left the apartment in silence, walking side by side. When she reached for his hand, he laced their fingers together — but loosely. Like he was distracted.

The drive was quiet.

Not unkind. Just… empty.

Alina kept sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her eye. Elias was usually the one to fill silences. He always hummed along with the radio, made jokes about license plates, commented on how her perfume smelled like morning tea.

Tonight, he was quiet.

Too quiet.

“You okay?” she asked after a few minutes. “You’ve barely said a word.”

He blinked, then forced a small laugh. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

Another pause stretched between them.

“I know parties aren’t your thing,” she said gently. “We don’t have to stay long. I told Sierra I’d show up for a little while, but—”

“No, it’s fine,” Elias interrupted. “We’ll go. Have fun. Pretend to be normal.”

Something sharp curled inside her at the way he said it.

“Is something going on?” she asked quietly. “Did I do something?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he shook his head, gaze fixed on the road. “Forget it. I’m probably just overthinking.”

But the words felt like an echo.

Like something she should’ve said.

She turned her face toward the window, her own thoughts unraveling.

Maybe he’s just tired.

Maybe I’m imagining it.

Maybe it’s just stress.

But she couldn’t stop replaying the look in his eyes. That slight delay when she entered the room. The quiet.

The way his hand felt like it was already letting go.

⸻

The bass thudded before they even reached the elevator.

Alina stood beside Elias as they ascended to the rooftop of Max Rudd’s luxury building, watching the city lights stretch endlessly below. The golden evening had collapsed into a violet skyline, scattered with stars and the occasional flicker of drones capturing party footage from above.

“Max really went all out this time,” Elias muttered, loosening the collar of his shirt.

Alina offered a small smile. “Guess he needs the attention.”

The doors slid open and the sound hit them like a wave — music pumping, laughter bubbling, camera flashes cutting across the rooftop like strobes.

Fairy lights wrapped around glass railings. Neon signs spelled out phrases like “Golden Hour Only Happens Once” and “Rudd Knows Best.” A hired photographer roamed the crowd with a flash and a microphone, trailing after people dressed in outfits meant to be photographed — not worn.

The crowd was a swirling mass of glitter, heels, champagne, and curated spontaneity.

Elias stepped slightly in front of Alina as they exited the elevator, his posture unconsciously protective. She didn’t blame him. It felt like walking into a different universe — one where appearance ruled, and anything authentic was already slipping through the cracks.

They hadn’t taken more than five steps before Sierra appeared.

Hair in soft curls, dress hugging every angle just enough to look effortless. She looked radiant, confident, exactly the kind of girl who belonged in this scene.

“Finally!” she beamed, arms flinging around Alina with just enough force to knock her off balance. “You look amazing. Like, unfairly good. Where have you been hiding that dress?”

Alina laughed — a little awkwardly. “It’s just something simple.”

Sierra turned to Elias next, giving him a wink and a side-hug. “Looking sharp, Monroe.”

Elias smiled tightly. “Hey.”

Sierra’s eyes glittered as they scanned the crowd. “Everyone’s here. Even Kael Thorne might show up later. Can you imagine?”

Alina’s expression faltered slightly. She hadn’t thought about him since their hallway collision days ago — hadn’t wanted to. But now, the reminder lingered like a cold gust between ribs.

Sierra linked her arm through Alina’s. “You have to try the signature drink Max had made. It’s based on your favorite — remember that lavender lemonade thing from Ivy & Bloom? He made a grown-up version. Told him it’d be a hit with you.”

Alina blinked. “That’s sweet, but—”

“I already grabbed one for you,” Sierra interrupted, handing her a chilled glass from the bar beside them. “Max insisted. Said no one could match your palate.”

Alina stared at the drink. It looked innocent enough — pale gold, with crushed ice and a sprig of mint. But something in her gut curled.

Still, she took it.

She didn’t want to seem paranoid.

“Thanks,” she said, voice quiet.

Sierra leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tonight’s going to be amazing. Trust me.”

And somehow, that made her trust it less.

⸻

The music was louder now. Not in volume — in weight.

It pulsed through Alina’s body like a second heartbeat, dulling the edges of her thoughts. She wasn’t drunk — at least, she didn’t think she was. But her hands felt oddly light. Her legs, too. And the rooftop lights — so pretty when they first arrived — now seemed too bright, too sharp.

People swirled around her like moving wallpaper, all gold dresses and cologne and high-pitched laughter. Conversations blurred into one another, indistinct and repetitive.

She blinked.

Where was Elias?

She turned slowly, glass still in her hand, scanning the crowd.

He’d been right beside her a moment ago. They were listening to Max talk about rooftop expansions — or maybe that was earlier. Maybe she’d just imagined it.

She caught a glimpse of him across the crowd, half-shielded by a cluster of guys — Knox Reyes among them — all mid-conversation. Elias’s expression was pinched, like he didn’t want to be there.

She took a step toward him.

And then a voice slid into her ear, gentle and bright:

“Alina? You okay?”

Sierra. Right there, hand on her arm, a touch too firm to be casual.

Alina nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just… the lights are weird.”

Sierra tilted her head. “Too much stimulation. You always get sensitive with lights and noise when you haven’t eaten.”

Alina blinked again. Had she eaten?

“I think maybe I need some air,” she murmured. “Or a bathroom. Just—somewhere quiet.”

Sierra’s grip on her arm loosened. “Come on. There’s a guest room upstairs. Max lets me use it when I need to escape. It’s quiet, I promise.”

Alina hesitated.

But her head was spinning now, just enough to make her nod.

Sierra’s touch turned gentle again. She guided her away from the crowd, arm around her shoulder like a comforting shadow.

As they stepped into the stairwell, the noise dimmed. The cool air should have helped. It didn’t.

Each step felt longer than the last.

The hallway upstairs was hushed, dimly lit. A few closed doors lined the walls. Sierra led her toward the second-to-last one on the right.

“Just lie down,” Sierra whispered. “It’s nothing. You’re just tired.”

Alina tried to answer, but the words didn’t come out right.

Sierra opened the door and guided her inside. The room was cozy, almost too warm. A low bed, soft lamp, faint vanilla scent in the air.

Alina sank onto the mattress, the drink still in her hand.

“Close your eyes for a bit,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from Alina’s forehead. “I’ll keep people out.”

Alina blinked slowly. Her vision was starting to double.

“Sierra…?”

But Sierra was already gone.

⸻

Kael Thorne wasn’t supposed to be here.

He told himself that as he stepped out of the black car, as he climbed the stairs two at a time, as the distant thrum of music pulsed up from the rooftop. This wasn’t his scene. This wasn’t his war.

And yet — here he was.

Because the anonymous message hadn’t felt like noise. It felt like a warning.

Alina Everhart has something on you. She’s waiting upstairs. Ask her about the article she didn’t publish.

Most would have laughed. Deleted it.

Kael did neither.

Instead, he called Thatcher.

The tech prodigy had traced the message’s metadata back to a campus IP — untraceable through conventional routes, but just traceable enough to confirm it wasn’t random.

That made it intentional.

That made it personal.

Now Kael’s boots hit the rooftop floor with the rhythm of a hunt.

He passed students he didn’t care to acknowledge — drunk girls posing for pictures, social climbers clinging to Max like perfume, Knox in the far corner talking too loudly to someone’s girlfriend.

Kael ignored them all.

He cut through the chaos, down the back hallway, past the velvet rope Max had installed to “discourage” uninvited upstairs guests.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask.

Kael didn’t knock.

He moved like he owned the floor.

Because power didn’t announce itself — it entered quietly and took up space.

The hallway was cooler, silent except for the muffled beat of music through walls.

He stopped outside the second-to-last door on the right.

It was cracked. Just enough to say someone forgot to close it.

Or didn’t.

His fingers hovered over the handle.

His mind sharpened — replaying the brief collision he’d had with Alina days ago in the hall. Her quiet confidence. Her exit. The way she hadn’t looked back.

He hadn’t liked that. He hadn’t liked how her words stuck like burrs under his skin.

“I already have the love of my life.”

Empty. Rehearsed. Scripted for effect — like all the others.

And now she was involved in this? A whisper of blackmail? A trap dressed in lace?

He braced himself.

Then pushed the door open.

⸻

Everything Sierra Langford had orchestrated — from the drink in Alina’s hand, to the message that pulled Kael like a stringed marionette — had gone exactly according to plan.

Tonight, the dream girl gets her nightmare. And no one will question it — because perfect girls don’t break. They shatter.