Falling

CHAPTER TWO

|Aurelia Branson|

I should have never taken her hand.

I should have stayed in Carter's arms, should have smiled through the tightness in my chest, should have let the music wash over me and drowned out the part of me that still remembers what it feels like to be hers.

But I didn't.

And now, I'm here, pressed against Luna Moore under the golden light of the ballroom, with the entire world watching—especially Carter.

Especially my parents.

My pulse is a traitor, racing beneath her fingertips as she leads me across the floor with an effortless grace that hasn't changed in two years. She moves like she owns the space, like the universe bends around her, like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.

God, I hate her for that.

"Why are you doing this?" I whisper, my voice low, sharp.

Luna tilts her head slightly, her grip steady on my waist, her thumb barely brushing against my skin where my dress dips low. It's a featherlight touch, almost innocent—except it isn't.

Not when it's her.

Her lips quirk up, lazy and amused. "Because I can."

I grit my teeth, my fingers curling into the fabric of her suit. "You're a nightmare."

"And yet," she murmurs, her lips barely moving, "you're still in my arms, dancing with me instead of him."

I swallow, the words lodging in my throat like a confession I'll never say out loud. I hate that she's right. I hate that she's always been right when it comes to me.

I force myself to look away from her, scanning the room, trying to remember who I am—who I'm supposed to be. My gaze lands on Carter.

His jaw is tight, his hands fisted at his sides, his blue eyes dark with barely contained fury. He looks seconds away from marching over and ripping me out of Luna's arms.

And then there's my mother.

Standing by the champagne table, her posture perfectly poised, her face frozen in that unreadable expression she always wears in public. But I see the tension in the way she grips her clutch, the slight twitch of her lips, the silent message screaming across the ballroom.

What are you doing, Aurelia?

I snap my gaze back to Luna, panic rising like bile in my throat. "I—I need to stop."

She doesn't loosen her hold. If anything, she draws me in closer, her breath warm against my cheek. "You could've stopped the second I asked you to dance," she murmurs, her voice deceptively soft. "But you didn't. So tell me, sunshine, what is it that you really want?"

My breath hitches.

What I want?

I want to rewind time to before she showed up tonight.

I want to forget how good she feels, how effortlessly she unravels me with a single look, a single touch.

I want to stop wanting her.

But none of those things are possible, so instead, I do the only thing I can.

I let go.

I step out of her grasp, ignoring the flicker of something unreadable in her gaze, ignoring the way my body immediately misses her warmth.

"I can't do this," I whisper, barely audible over the music.

Luna watches me for a long moment, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly as if she's about to say something—something that might ruin me entirely.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she shoves her hands into her pockets, tilts her head, and smirks.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

And just like that, she walks away.

Luna walks away like none of this mattered.

Like I didn't just stand in her arms, pulse hammering, fingers trembling, stomach in knots.

Like she didn't just walk back into my life and completely unravel me in the span of a single song.

I stand frozen, my heart still racing, watching as she moves through the crowd with that same effortless confidence—shoulders squared, chin tilted slightly, hands shoved into the pockets of her suit pants. A few girls turn to look at her, some whispering behind their hands, others staring like they're trying to gather the courage to approach.

But Luna doesn't stop for any of them. She walks straight past, disappearing toward the balcony doors.

And just like that, she's gone.

I suck in a sharp breath, my chest tight, my fingers still tingling from where they had clutched onto her jacket.

"Aurelia."

Carter's voice snaps me back to reality.

I turn to him too quickly, and I know—just by the look on his face—that he saw everything.

His jaw is tight, his blue eyes dark with something I can't quite name. He doesn't look angry, not exactly. He looks... betrayed.

Like I just confirmed every suspicion he's ever had.

"I—" I start, but the words stick to my throat.

"What the hell was that?" His voice is low, controlled, but there's an edge underneath, sharp and cutting.

I try to swallow the lump forming in my throat. "It was just a dance."

He lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair. "Bullshit."

My stomach twists. "Carter—"

"Are you in love with her?"

The words hit me like a punch to the chest.

I open my mouth, then close it.

Because what do I even say to that?

Carter is staring at me, waiting—begging—for an answer that I can't give.

Because I don't know.

Because I've spent two years pretending this thing between Luna and me never existed, pretending that I didn't once fall headfirst into her, into us, into a love that terrified me.

And for two years, it worked.

Until tonight.

Until she walked back in, smirk in place, voice smooth, eyes dark and knowing.

Until she touched me like she still had a right to.

I force a breath, shake my head. "Carter, it's not like that. She just—"

"She just what?" His voice rises slightly, his fists clenching. "She just walked up to you, danced with you like she owned you, and you let her? You looked at her like—" He cuts himself off, jaw locking.

Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating.

I don't know how to fix this.

I don't know if I even want to fix this.

But before I can say anything else, someone else's voice cuts through the tension.

"Aurelia."

My stomach plummets.

I turn slowly, my pulse rocketing.

My mother stands at the edge of the dance floor, her expression carefully composed, but I can see it.

The disappointment.

The warning.

The quiet, simmering rage underneath.

"Carter," she says smoothly, nodding at him in greeting before her eyes shift back to me. "Come with me."

I don't move. I can't.

"Aurelia."

This time, it's not a request.

I cast one last look at Carter, who is now watching me with something shattered in his expression, before forcing my legs to move, following my mother through the crowd.

Each step feels heavier than the last.

Like I already know what's coming.

And like it's too late to stop it.

I follow my mother out of the ballroom, the clicking of her heels against the marble floor the only sound between us. My pulse is erratic, my breathing shallow, but I keep my posture straight, my chin lifted, even as my insides twist violently.

She leads me down the hall, past the grandeur of the chandeliers and the towering oil paintings of people long dead, stopping in front of an empty sitting room. Without a word, she pushes open the heavy wooden door and steps inside.

I hesitate.

Because I know.

I know this isn't going to be a simple scolding about my posture or a reminder to smile more.

This is something worse.

"Aurelia," she says again, her voice calm, level—too level.

I step inside, my hands clasping in front of me as she closes the door with an ominous click.

The silence stretches, unbearable.

Then, finally, she turns to me.

"What was that?"

My fingers tighten against my palm. "It was just a dance."

Her lips press together, a flicker of something—disgust? disappointment?—crossing her sharp features. "With her."

A chill slithers down my spine.

With her.

Like Luna isn't a person. Like she's something tainted, something wrong.

Like I am something wrong.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Mother, it's not—"

"You humiliated yourself," she cuts in smoothly, taking a slow step forward. "You humiliated Carter. And you embarrassed this family."

My throat burns.

I should have expected this. I did expect this.

And yet, it still feels like a slap across the face.

"I didn't—"

"You did." Her voice hardens, eyes glinting with something sharp. "Do you have any idea what people are saying right now? What they will continue to say? Do you think this is acceptable behavior for a Branson?"

My stomach clenches.

It's always about the Branson name. The image. The perfection.

Never about me.

"People will forget about it," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "It was just one dance."

Her lips curl slightly, and I know that was the wrong thing to say.

"One dance," she repeats, voice soft, deceptive. She lifts her chin. "That girl—Luna Moore—is a disgrace. A stain on this school, on this community. And you—"my daughter"—were dancing with her like it meant something."

My heart stops.

Like it meant something.

I force myself to breathe evenly, to keep my expression neutral even as panic claws at my insides.

"I don't want to hear another word about this," she continues, her voice cold and final. "You will stay by Carter's side for the rest of the night. You will smile, and you will be the perfect young woman you were raised to be. And if I ever—*"ever"—*see you in that girl's presence again, Aurelia..."

She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to.

The threat lingers in the air, heavy, suffocating.

I lower my gaze, hating the sting in my eyes, hating the way I feel small in front of her, like I'm sixteen again and being told to erase parts of myself to fit into the perfect mold she created.

"Do I make myself clear?" she demands.

I nod.

"Say it."

My throat tightens. "Yes, Mother."

Satisfied, she straightens, smoothing an invisible crease from her gown. "Good. Now go. Carter is waiting for you."

I turn toward the door, my entire body stiff, my nails digging into my palms.

But before I step out, I make the mistake of looking up.

I catch my reflection in the gilded mirror across the room.

And I barely recognize the girl staring back at me.

I push open the door and step back into the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs as I force deep, steady breaths. The air feels heavier, like my mother's words have wrapped around my throat, squeezing, suffocating.

I want to scream.

I want to run.

I want to turn around and tell her she doesn't get to decide who I dance with, who I love, who I am.

But I don't.

Instead, I square my shoulders, smoothing my expression into something poised and untouchable—something Branson-worthy—as I walk back toward the ballroom.

The moment I step inside, eyes flick toward me, subtle but sharp, curiosity simmering beneath the polished facades of society's elite.

I know what they're thinking.

They saw.

They all saw.

My throat tightens, but I keep walking, past clusters of girls whispering behind their champagne flutes, past older women watching me with polite judgment, past Carter, who is waiting near the dance floor, his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression unreadable.

I stop in front of him, offering a small, carefully crafted smile. "Sorry about that."

He doesn't say anything at first. Just watches me, studying, like he's trying to figure out if I mean it. If I feel it.

Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Your mom?"

I nod.

He exhales, shaking his head slightly, before his fingers brush over my wrist, a silent gesture—one that says let's not talk about it here.

And for once, I'm grateful.

Because if we did talk about it, I might say something I can't take back.

I slip my arm through his, letting him lead me back toward the dance floor, back toward the spotlight, back toward the role I was born to play.

And yet, no matter how hard I try, I can still feel Luna.

I can feel her lingering on my skin, in my pulse, in the way my body is still attuned to her presence—like even though she's gone, she's still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

And I don't know whether that terrifies me or thrills me.

Carter leads me to the edge of the dance floor, where the orchestra has started another waltz, the melody soft and delicate, wrapping around the ballroom like silk.

I let him place a hand at my waist, his touch warm but impersonal, like he's going through the motions rather than feeling them. Just like I am.

We start moving, our steps perfectly timed, perfectly rehearsed, perfectly Branson and Carter.

The perfect couple.

But even as I twirl under his arm, even as I let him pull me closer, my mind isn't here.

It's outside.

Where I know Luna is.

Where I want to be.

"You're thinking about her."

Carter's voice is quiet, just for me, but it might as well be a gunshot to my chest.

My body tenses slightly, but I don't break rhythm. I don't look at him.

"You are," he says again, his fingers pressing just a little firmer against my waist, like he's grounding me. "I can see it."

I swallow hard, forcing a polite smile as we spin past a group of onlookers. "That's ridiculous."

He scoffs, low and humorless. "Is it?"

I hate this.

I hate that he knows.

That even after two years of pretending, two years of hiding, Carter still sees right through me.

His jaw tightens. "She's going to ruin you, Aurelia."

Something sharp pierces through my chest.

I snap my gaze up to him, my stomach twisting at the look on his face—because it's not anger.

It's pity.

Like he already knows how this ends.

Like I'm predictable.

Like my mother was right.

"I think I can handle myself," I bite out, voice a little too sharp, a little too defensive.

His eyes darken. "No, you can't. Not with her."

The words settle between us like a heavy weight, suffocating, undeniable.

I don't respond.

Because I don't know how to.

I let him lead me through the rest of the dance in silence, my mind a mess of tangled thoughts and emotions I don't know how to name.

And the moment the song ends, the moment Carter releases me and steps back, I do something reckless.

I walk away.

Out of the ballroom.

Out of the suffocating expectations.

And straight toward the balcony doors.

Straight toward her.

|Luna Moore|

The night air is cool against my skin, a welcome contrast to the heat simmering beneath my surface. I lean against the stone railing, my fingers curling around the cold marble as I try to breathe.

It doesn't work.

Because all I can think about is her.

Aurelia Branson, in that pale blue dress, in Carter's arms, twirling and smiling and playing the part of the perfect high-society daughter.

Like our dance never happened.

Like I never touched her.

Like she didn't just look at me like I was something forbidden and sacred all at once.

I grit my teeth, shaking my head at my own foolishness. I shouldn't be out here, standing in the shadows like some pathetic lovesick i***t, waiting for something that isn't going to happen.

I should leave.

I will leave.

But then, the soft creak of the balcony door opening makes me go rigid.

And then I hear her voice.

"Luna."

I close my eyes for half a second, steadying myself before I turn around.

And there she is.

Aurelia Branson, framed by the golden light spilling from the ballroom, looking hesitant, conflicted—breathtaking.

I force a smirk, crossing my arms over my chest, even as my pulse hammers against my ribs. "Shouldn't you be inside, princess? Back in your perfect little world?"

Her lips press together. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

She steps forward, just a little, the door clicking shut behind her. "Don't act like that dance meant nothing to you."

I go still.

Because, f**k.

I wasn't expecting that.

I arch a brow, forcing myself to keep my tone light, detached. "You sure it meant something to you? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were having a great time playing Carter's little doll again."

Her eyes darken, her nostrils flaring slightly. "That's not fair."

I let out a low laugh, shaking my head. "Right. Because everything about this—about us—is so fair, isn't it?"

She exhales sharply, running a hand through her golden waves. "Luna—"

"Go back inside, Aurelia," I say, my voice quieter now, almost tired. "Go back to your perfect life. To your perfect boyfriend. To the person your parents expect you to be."

She doesn't move.

She should.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she takes another step forward, closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume—sweet, floral, distracting.

"Luna," she whispers. "I don't want to go back in there."

My throat tightens.

And for the first time tonight, I feel something close to fear.

Because Aurelia Branson is looking at me like I'm the only thing keeping her from drowning.

And I don't know if I can save her.

I don't know if I want to.

Because if I pull her out, if I let her cling to me, I might just drown right along with her.

Aurelia shifts under my gaze, and for the first time since she stepped onto this balcony, I really look at her.

That's when I see it.

The faint swelling just below her cheekbone, subtle in the dim light but unmistakable. A flush of pink blooming on her otherwise flawless skin.

My stomach twists.

I reach for her before I can think twice, my fingers ghosting over the mark, careful, tentative.

She flinches—barely—but enough that a sharp, ice-cold rage slices through me.

"Who did this to you?" My voice is low, steady, but there's a storm beneath it.

She freezes.

"Aurelia," I say again, firmer this time. "Who the f**k did this to you?"

She doesn't answer right away. Just shifts her gaze away, her chest rising and falling a little too quickly, like she's debating whether to lie.

I move my hand to her chin, forcing her to look at me. My fingers are gentle, but my pulse is pounding. "Tell me."

She exhales shakily, her eyes glistening with something raw. "It doesn't matter."

I let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Try again."

She swallows hard, her throat working. And then, barely above a whisper—"My mother."

A sharp, violent snap goes through me.

I release her as if I've been burned, but the anger inside me is instant, all-consuming, a wildfire spreading through my veins.

Her mother.

Her own f*****g mother.

I turn away from her, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "That—" My voice comes out tight, strangled. "That b***h—"

"Luna—"

"No," I snap, spinning back toward her. "She hit you, Aurelia. And you're just—what? Supposed to accept it? Pretend it didn't happen? f**k that. f**k her—"

"Luna, stop."

I don't. I can't. My whole body is thrumming with fury, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.

But then she's stepping closer, pressing against me, her small hands gripping my face.

And before I can protest, before I can keep spiraling—

She kisses me.

Soft, desperate, urgent.

Like I'm the only thing keeping her together now.

Like she's trying to pour every unspoken thing between us into this moment.

And for all my anger, for all the fire burning inside me—

I let her.

I kiss her back.