Chapter 2: Eden

“Walk away, Eden.”

The voice cuts through everything.

I turn, and he’s already there. Salvatore.

Closer than I thought.

He sounded so far away. Like a whisper in a locked room. But he’s inches from me. I can smell him. He smells like heat. Like firewood and spice. Like Christmas in a colder life.

It’s always been like that with him.

He speaks, and the rest of the world quiets.

I look up into his hazel eyes—blank, guarded. But underneath… something.

They ask me to stop without saying it.

They beg me not to make a scene.

Most of the rage drains out of me, slow and reluctant. But some stays. Some always stays. Especially for Salvatore. Everything lingers with him. Everything hurts a little more when he’s the one watching. I never know what those empty eyes mean.

Is he worried? Is he ashamed of me?

Is he just tired of saving me?

It doesn’t matter, though, does it? It’s my fucking birthday. And I’m not letting some politician puppet show or two-bit mafia pig ruin it.

We agree on one thing—it’s not worth getting angry. Because if I let myself feel it all the way, I’ll kill Sergio. It’s that simple. Time to enjoy my party.

The backyard is glowing with money. Fairy lights strung between trees. Caterers dressed in black and white, moving like shadows. Jazz playing faintly over the speaker system, classy and boring. Men in custom suits and women with frozen smiles. My mother’s scene. My father’s domain.

I smile at everyone I pass. Sharp. Sweet. Fake.

My cheeks start to ache.

“There she is!” a senator’s wife gushes, kissing the air by my cheeks. “The birthday girl!”

I laugh. My voice sounds normal. That’s the secret—always sound normal.

I feel the chocolate dancing through my bloodstream now. A little warm pulse in my chest. Like I’m in on some inside joke. My skin tingles. My fingers flutter. The world is louder, brighter, better.

Lio finds me near the champagne tower.

He slips a glass into my hand and clinks his against it. “Happy twenty-two, my favorite Capricorn.”

I giggle. “You only say that because I’m the only one you know.”

“True,” he says, smirking. “Let’s play a game.”

“What kind of game?”

He raises a brow. “Guess their signs.”

I nearly choke on my drink. “Oh, yes. I’m so good at this when I’m high.”

We link arms and drift from person to person, murmuring guesses and whispering justifications.

“That one’s a Virgo,” Lio says, gesturing at a tense man in a navy suit. “He’s already judged us six times.”

“He’s an Aquarius,” I correct. “Emotionally unavailable and dressed like he owns the moon.”

We burst out laughing.

“That girl?” I point at a bored heiress with perfect bone structure.

“Scorpio,” he says.

“Wrong. That’s Taurus energy. Beautiful, stubborn, deeply in love with herself.”

“You sound like you’re describing Salvatore,” Lio mutters.

I grin. “That’s because he is a Taurus.”

“Explains everything,” Lio says, sipping his drink dramatically. “You, me, him? We’re a walking disaster.”

“I like disasters,” I say, stretching my arms up toward the sky. “They’re honest.”

Lio studies me for a second. “You’re in a good mood.”

I shrug. “I’m me. On my birthday. With my favorite person.”

He smiles. “I’m glad. You deserve to have fun.”

I nod. “I do.”

But then the shrooms hit deeper—like a slow, warm wave crashing over my chest. I feel it behind my eyes. A kind of beauty in everything. The sky is a painting. People’s laughter is music. Even the ice in my drink sparkles like diamonds. I feel… infinite. Whole. I close my eyes and float for a second.

I tell Lio I need the bathroom and disappear inside the house.

The powder room is gold and gaudy. I lean on the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. My pupils are blown. My skin glows. I look beautiful. Like a saint and a sinner at once.

Then the door opens.

Salvatore steps inside and shuts it behind him.

My stomach flips.

He looks furious. Quietly. Intensely.

“Are you high?” he asks. No hello. No warmth.

I don’t respond.

He steps closer, jaw clenched. “Are you fucking using again?”

“I microdosed.”

“Jesus, Eden,” he growls, dragging a hand down his face. “You couldn’t just be sober for one night?”

I laugh. “You sound like a dad right now. Is that your new role?”

He slams his hand against the wall next to my head. I flinch—just a little.

“Why?” he hisses. “Why can’t you be sober?”

My smile fades. The music is still thudding from the backyard, muffled and distant. It sounds like it’s underwater.

I look up at him.

“I can’t feel anything when I’m sober.”

It slips out. Too easy. Too real. I hate that.

His expression cracks. Just for a second.

And in that second I see it all—understanding. Pain. Then something worse: rage. But not at me. At the world. At everything that made me this way.

Then his face softens. His hand moves. Slowly. To my throat.

He doesn’t squeeze. Just rests it there, fingers splayed. Possessive. Gentle.

My breath hitches.

I should be scared. I’m not. I feel… hypnotized.

His eyes search mine, and he leans in close—so close I can feel his breath against my lips.

Then he whispers, voice like velvet and ash:

“Don’t make me care about you.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And I just stand there. Dazed. Burning. Alive.