Chapter 1
The studio lights at Ohio State’s Design & Arts building never really turned off.
Even at night, the place breathed.
A low electrical hum settled into the walls, blending with the soft clicking of keyboards, the scratch of charcoal against paper, the distant whirr of a sewing machine someone forgot to switch off. The air smelled faintly of fabric dye, coffee gone stale, and something metallic from the equipment that never quite cooled down.
Arielle sat in the middle of it all like she belonged to the silence.
Barefoot, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out just enough to remind her she’d been in the same position too long. Her hair was tied up in a loose, careless knot that had given up trying to hold everything together hours ago. Strands fell around her face, catching in the smudge of graphite along her fingers.
Her sketch in front of her was almost perfect. Which meant it wasn’t done. She adjusted a line—again. Tilted her head. Erased. Redrew.
Still wrong.
Her eyes burned, but she ignored it. She’d ignored a lot of things lately. It had been three months since Marcus Prince.
The name didn’t hurt the way it used to—but it lingered. Like a bruise you only noticed when you pressed on it.
Four years.
Four years of shared plans, shared space, shared everything… reduced to a quiet ending that never gave her something solid to hate.
No fight.
No betrayal.
Just distance that stretched too far… until it snapped. And now there was nothing left to hold onto. So she worked. Because work didn’t leave. Because work didn’t change its mind. Because fabric, lines, structure—those things made sense.
“Absolutely not.”
The voice cut clean through the studio. Arielle didn’t look up. Not yet. She knew that voice.
Tiffany Garcia moved like she owned whatever room she walked into—and tonight was no different. Tall, sharp-featured, with long dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, she carried confidence like it was stitched into her skin. Her keys swung loosely around her finger, hitting against each other in a rhythm that matched her impatience.
Behind her— Melanie Browns, already grinning, her curls pulled into a high puff that somehow stayed perfect no matter the hour.
Abigail Raitali, effortlessly put together as always, glossy lips, layered jewelry catching the light, eyes already scanning everything with quiet precision. And Serai Hanson. Still. Composed. Arms crossed. Watching.
“You are not staying here tonight,” Tiffany said, reaching across the table and snapping Arielle’s sketchbook shut.
Arielle’s hand paused mid-air, fingers still curved like she hadn’t finished the line.
“I have work,” she replied, her voice calm—automatic.
Melanie leaned over her shoulder, eyes flicking over the closed sketchbook. “No,” she said lightly. “You have avoidance.”
That hit. Not hard—but accurate. Arielle didn’t respond right away. Her silence was the response.
Serai stepped forward, her tone quieter, but grounded in something that didn’t leave room for negotiation. “There’s a party. Off campus. Seniors. Real people doing real things… like celebrating.”
Arielle finally looked up. Her eyes were tired—but sharp.
“What party?”
Abigail smiled, slow and knowing. “The kind you don’t overthink. You just show up.”
Tiff leaned her hip against the table. “And you’re coming. Ari,” she added, softer this time, her voice losing its edge just slightly, “you’ve been in here since yesterday.”
“It’s six hours,” Arielle corrected.
Mel blinked. “That’s… not better.”
“It sounded better in your head, didn’t it?” Abi added.
Arielle leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly through her nose. Her body felt heavy—like even sitting up properly required negotiation.
“I’m almost done.”
Abi glanced around the table. Fabric swatches layered over each other like unfinished thoughts. Sketches taped over older sketches. Coffee cups in varying stages of abandonment.
“No,” she said gently. “You’re almost burnt out. There’s a difference.”
Serai shifted at the doorframe, her gaze steady on Arielle.
“We’re not asking twice,” she said. There was no tension in her voice. Which made it worse.
“You’re coming with us.”
Arielle huffed a quiet breath, something like a laugh slipping through. “That’s not a request.”
“No,” Tiff said instantly. “It’s an extraction.”
That pulled a small laugh from Abi. And something in Arielle’s chest loosened—just a little. She glanced back at her sketch. The lines that had consumed her an hour ago now felt… distant.
Flat.
Like they belonged to someone who had more energy than she did.
Mel’s voice softened. “You don’t have to be ‘on,’ Ari. You don’t have to talk, impress, flirt, anything. Just… leave this room.”
Because it wasn’t about the party. It never was. Three months ago, she stopped saying yes without thinking. Stopped showing up without calculating the emotional cost. Somewhere between Marcus walking away and her final year closing in, she had shrunk her world down to something manageable. Predictable. Safe.
Tiff gently closed her laptop this time—not abrupt, just intentional.
“Come on,” she said. “Let us remind you you’re still a person.”
Arielle looked at them.
Really looked.
Tiff—loud, impulsive, fiercely loyal.
Mel—lighthearted, but never shallow.
Abi—quietly observant, always three steps ahead emotionally.
Serai—steady, grounded, the one who didn’t speak unless it mattered.
They weren’t dragging her out. They were pulling her back.
Arielle exhaled. Then pushed her chair back.
“One hour.”
Tiff grinned immediately. “We only needed thirty seconds.”
“You definitely needed longer,” Arielle muttered, but she was already packing her things.
The apartment was a controlled disaster.
From the outside, it looked like every other off-campus senior house.
Inside—it told five different stories at once.
Shoes scattered near the door like they’d been kicked off mid-conversation.
Fabric rolls stacked in the corner—Arielle’s doing, though she’d stopped apologizing for it weeks ago.
Abi’s skincare lined the bathroom sink in perfect symmetry.
Mel’s hair tools claimed permanent residency near the outlet.
Tiff’s “just in case” pile existed in every room.
And Serai’s attempt at minimalism… existed in theory.
“Shoes off,” Serai called without looking up.
“Every time,” Mel groaned, already kicking hers off.
Tiff didn’t slow down. “Okay—outfit crisis. Now.”
“I don’t have a crisis,” Arielle said, trailing behind them.
“You do now,” Abi replied, already inside her closet like she paid rent in there.
Arielle paused in the doorway, arms crossing instinctively.
“This is unnecessary.”
Tiff held up a dress—sleek, fitted, not something Arielle remembered choosing.
“This,” she said, “is intervention.”
Serai tilted her head slightly. “You’ve been dressing like you want to disappear.”
“I like black.”
“We know,” Mel said. “But you’ve turned it into a personality trait.”
Arielle almost rolled her eyes. Key word: Almost.
Abi tossed the dress onto the bed. “Wear this.”
“That’s not mine.”
“It is tonight.”
Tiff pointed toward the mirror. “Shoes. Hair. Minimal makeup—don’t fight me on this.”
Then, softer— “We’re not burying you in your breakup.”
The room stilled. Just for a second.
Marcus.
His absence sat there, uninvited but familiar. Arielle walked toward the bed slowly, picking up the dress. The fabric felt different. Lighter than what she’d been wearing lately. Like it belonged to a version of her she hadn’t accessed in a while. Her fingers tightened slightly around it. Then she exhaled. “Fine.”
Tiff clapped once. “There she is.”
Serai pushed off the wall, her expression easing just a fraction. “Good.”
Arielle glanced at them again. Her people. Her interruption. Her safety net disguised as chaos. And this time— She didn’t resist it.
“Okay,” she said quietly. And started getting ready.
