Harley takes a deep breath and backs the El Camino out of Mint Society's parking lot. "Do you want to talk--"

I hold my hand up. I do not.

The night sky is starless and a full moon glares down at me like it's judging my life choices. Harley falls silent and touches the dash of her El Camino. A sad 90s breakup song fills the car. Harley loves anything vintage, but I'm not loving this right now because the song is about nothing being right, everything feeling torn after losing faith in someone.

I stare at her.

"Sorry," she mumbles, reaching for the radio. "This enchantment plays songs that match the mood. You're obviously torn up. We all saw Mateo come back downstairs without you."

"Please just change it," I snap. "I don't have time for sadness. In fact, we have bigger things to worry about."

She makes a face, the streetlamp illuminating her perfect features. "Actually, we do. It's about Luxecaster. I didn't want to say anything earlier that would make you feel more stressed than you already are."

I groan. "And?" 

"They're giving you forty-eight hours to post content or they're terminating your contract. And Press..." She hesitates. "They're asking for their advance back." 

"All of it?" 

"All fifty thousand." 

The number hits me like a fist. That money's already gone. Dad used it to pay for Halcyon. I don't have fifty thousand dollars lying around.

"And it gets worse," Harley continues. "If Luxecaster drops you publicly, the other brands will follow. It's a domino effect." 

So I don't just lose one sponsor. I lose everything. 

"And how am I supposed to create content if I can't even touch an affinity?" 

She nibbles on her bottom lip. "Maybe we can do a joint collab? I can use my affinities, you style the looks?"

"That's not what they want. My whole thing was Elementalism. Showing off Luxecaster's clothes in any climate."

"Besides that," I continue, "someone's blackmailing me like I'm trapped in some bad B-movie."

"Blackmail?"

I tell her about the messages I received today and the five-day countdown. "If I don't figure out who's doing this, then it won't just be Luxecaster dropping me. It'll be everyone."

She gasps. "What do you want to do? What do you need from me?"

"Can you help me figure out who this is?" I ask, sitting up straighter.

"Fuck yes," she answers without missing a beat. "I wasn't at the party, but I can ask around. Maybe get some info from Bayer."

I try to stifle the sound of disgust, but she hears it anyway.

"He's not so bad when you get to know him," she says softly.

"I do know him," I tell her, but decide to drop it. My heart's too broken and my head is swimming.

Everything is changing much too fast.

When we pull back into the Santos estate, Harley squeezes my knee. "We're going to find out who's terrorizing you. I promise." She flashes that signature smile. "Stay cheeky, baby."

I give her a peck on the cheek and mumble, "I'll try. No promises."

✨✨✨

The next day, Dr. Santos's office feels like it wants to swallow me whole.

We're deep inside the estate, in a room I've never been allowed in before. The walls are a deep green that would read as classy in a magazine, but in person they're the color of a fresh bruise. Floor-to-ceiling windows take up one wall while books line the shelves in neat rows on another. Framed certificates hang from the walls boasting all of her magical accomplishments. A copper diffuser puffs out oil that smells like pine, and the wooden floors are shiny and spotless, charmed to muffle footsteps.

I keep shifting in my seat, sleepy but restless, which is a horrible combination. Besides worrying about my reputation, I couldn't sleep last night. A weird phrase kept repeating in my head like a song I didn't ask for and couldn't turn off:

"No one will find out."

I don't know where it came from. Or why it won't leave me alone.

Dr. Santos sits across from me behind her desk, chin tilted, studying me like she's deciding whether or not to ship me back to Halcyon. Today is the first official check-in. A "get to the root-of-all-my-problems" session. Lucky me. The questions have been borderline invasive.

I study her face, looking for the demon Mateo swore she was. I just don't see it. But like Mateo, her specialty is glamour magic, which bends reality in some way. Maybe she's only letting me see what she wants me to see.

"How are you navigating your feelings for Mateo?" she asks, her eyes not leaving the iPad on her desk.

My gaze slides to the charmed picture frame on her desk. It flips between Mateo and his younger brother Silas whenever she says their names. Right now it's Mateo in his high school baseball uniform, back when he was still gangly. He looks way too serious, like he's trying to intimidate the pitcher with his eyes alone.

"It sucks," I admit.

She nods like she just won something. "And you haven't been in touch with him?"

I lie, "No. I haven't seen him."

She watches me for a beat too long, her fingers folding under her chin like a steeple. "Now let's talk about your anger issues."

"I don't have anger issues," I snap.

"Tell that to my garden party," she says as one perfectly arched brow lifts.

I wince like she's hit me. "I had too much elixir. I didn't mean anything I said."

"Repressed memories can destabilize your magic further. It's important for your healing that we understand what triggered the episode." Her voice softens, sounding almost maternal. "I want to help you, Preston. That's why I'm here."

"I don't remember much. Mateo broke up with me at the party and then..."

I remember the video showing my mouth stopping like it hit a wall. The memory is a closed door I can't pry open. And maybe, just maybe, I don't want to pry it open with her sitting right there. Just because I don't see evil in her doesn't mean I trust her.

"Just blabbing crazy stuff," I finish. I'm definitely not telling her about the texts demanding I leave.

And for the second time, I find myself wondering: what if she's the one sending them?

She stands and crosses to one of the large windows, her heels silent on the warded wood floor. I swear the magic hums louder wherever she steps. She gazes out at the yard, her back to me.

Finally, she asks, "Do you know why I advocated to the Magical Consortium on your behalf?"

"I figured it's because you already knew me personally."

"That's part of it. But it's also because I see something in you." She turns to face me. "You have a bright future, Press."

"You're literally the only person who thinks that," I say with a snort. 

"Aren't you an artist?" she asks. "Mateo's shown me some of your sigils. There's real potential there."

I blink. Mateo showed her my art? When? Why?

"I didn't know he liked my stuff like that..."

She crosses toward me, close enough that her perfume drifts into my nose. It smells expensive. Then she tips my chin up with her hand, not rough, but firm. Like a mother checking her child for a fever.

"Oh, Preston," she says, her voice gentle. "You have to get over him."

My eyes sting and stupid tears slide out before I can stop them. I hate it when my body betrays me like this.

"Why, though?" My voice cracks. "What did I do wrong? He won't tell me."

"Mr. Santos and I have plans for Mateo's future," she says, letting my chin go. "We want to keep him on track."

And I believe her. These are almost the exact words he said to me when he was breaking us up.

Maybe I should let him go. He's Old Magic and I'm the kid with a drunk mom and a dad who's too busy with his new wife to care about me. Where did I ever get the idea that I was good enough for someone like him? Mateo's practically a god and I'm a walking time bomb. Why do I even stay in Caldera Heights? Wouldn't it just be better if I disappeared?

She studies me until I drop my head and stare into my lap.

"Shall we finish up?" she asks suddenly, her tone shifting back to business.

I nod, grateful for the escape.

"Let me walk you out."

I put some distance between us as we head into the hall. The Santos hallways are like museums, filled with magical art and gold-trimmed portraits of dead relatives. The faint whisper of protection wards hums from the walls.

The housekeeper, Katya, stands near a console table, dusting a vase with slow, deliberate movements. She glances up as we approach. Her eyes lock on mine. There's something the way her eyes linger a beat too long that I can't read.

"Katya," Dr. Santos greets without breaking stride. 

"Dr. Santos," Katya replies, her accent soft. She drops her gaze back to the vase. But as we pass, I feel her eyes on my back, watching. 

We're almost at the foyer when I hear it. A voice. Mateo's.

Every nerve in my body fires up and I think about Dr. Santos saying he showed her my art. Like he still cares. Last night at Mint Society, I could feel the energy between us. I know I'm not supposed to talk to him. But what if I just pass by? Catch his eye for a second? Give him a quick nod that says, "I still think about you."

"You're a mind reader," he's saying from somewhere ahead. "I've needed this. Can't wait to let it clean my cleats while I'm in class or sleeping."

Another voice answers, and it sounds familiar. "You said you hated cleaning those stinky things, so I thought I'd help out."

"Hey, they stink because no one can steal bases like me. I'm basically a ghost on the diamond." There's a pause, then a laugh. "But keep talking shit. See what happens. I'll take back every nice thing I've ever said about you."

"You wouldn't dare. You like me too much."

I stop walking. The tone in Mateo's voice is intimate. And makes me think of us. It was a tone he used to save just for me, back when we were something special.

Dr. Santos keeps walking toward the kitchen, leading me forward even though my brain is screaming at me to turn around.

"Why don't I just go out the front?" I ask, panic gripping my throat.

"Nonsense," she says without looking back. "It's faster through the patio door in the kitchen. Why walk all the way around?"

"But I think I hear Mateo--"

"You'll have to get used to being around him eventually." She glances over her shoulder at me, her smile sharp as knives. "Consider this practice."

My feet drag like they're caught in mud. We turn the corner into the kitchen and my brain refuses to process what I'm seeing. Mateo's arms are wrapped around a blond boy.

It's Xander Nicholas.

Of course it is. Xander represents everything I'm not: Old Magic, generational wealth, effortlessly confident. With that floppy blond hair and smug grin, he's president of the Pride Alliance at Vale. He changed his name from Alexander to Xander sophomore year because he thought it sounded edgier. But the real reason I hate him? He's wanted Mateo since freshman year. Everyone knew it and saw the way he'd find excuses to touch Mateo's arm during Pride Alliance meetings. The way he'd laugh just a little too hard at Mateo's jokes. How he'd show up at Mateo's baseball games even though he hated sports. He was at the garden party, too. Probably staking his claim to the boy I love. I used to think it was pathetic. Now he's the one with his tongue in Mateo's mouth.

And they're kissing. Full on. My knees buckle and threaten to quit. The sound in my ears goes muffled like I've been plunged underwater. This is my worst nightmare brought to life.

"Oh, hi, you two!" Dr. Santos says brightly, like this is some wholesome rom-com moment.

They break apart, smiling at each other before turning to look at me. They actually look like they're in love, the way they take each other in.

Mateo's smile dies when he turns and sees me standing there.

We lock eyes. One second. Two. Three.

Xander notices and shifts, clearing his throat.

"Oh, Press, where are my manners?" Dr. Santos says, her voice dripping with false warmth. "You know Xander, right? Xander, this is Press."

She gives Xander a pat on the arm, then turns that dangerous smile on me.

"Xander and Mateo are dating now."