Jackson sipped his coffee, trying not to fidget under Isabella's intense gaze. She hadn't touched her mug, her eyes fixed on him like a hawk eyeing its prey. The morning sunlight filtering through the penthouse windows did nothing to soften the tension in the air. "So," Isabella drawled, her finger tracing the rim of her untouched coffee mug, "you're telling me you've been in a coma for nine years and just woke up?" "Uh, yeah... Nine years. Crazy, right?" "Nine years," she repeated, her tone flatter than week-old soda. "Yep," he nodded, sipping his coffee to avoid her piercing gaze. "Alright, Jackson. Cut the crap. Why didn't you mention this whole coma business earlier? That's not exactly small talk material, but come on." "I didn't want to freak you out?" he offered weakly. "I mean, how do you casually drop 'Hey, I've been unconscious for almost a decade' into the conversation?" "Right. Because that's totally normal. Just like waking up from a coma and suddenly owning a penth
After what felt like hours (and might have actually been), Isabella finally settled on a stunning midnight blue gown that made her look like she'd just stepped off a movie set. "This is the one," she declared, twirling in front of the mirror. He nodded, beyond relieved that the fashion show was ending. "Great! Let's go pay." As they approached the counter, she hesitated. "Jackson, are you sure about this? It's pretty expensive." He waved off her concern. "Don't worry about it. Consider it nine years' worth of birthday presents." The saleswoman rang up the dress, and Jackson had to force himself not to flinch at the price. He handed over his card, praying to whatever deity might be listening that it wouldn't be declined. To his immense relief, the transaction went through smoothly. As they left the store, shopping bag in hand, she linked her arm to his. "You know," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to impress me." "Wha
Jackson stood in front of his full-length mirror, fiddling with his bowtie. He'd never been great at tying the damn things, but tonight he was determined to look sharp. The party was in a few hours, and he wanted to make a good impression. After all, it wasn't every day that a guy got invited to a fancy shindig by a mysterious voice in his head. "Left over right, then... wait, was it under or over?" he muttered, his fingers tangling in the silk. The doorbell chimed just as he considered giving up and going with a clip-on. His heart skipped a beat. Could it be Isabella? He abandoned the bowtie, leaving it hanging loosely around his neck, and hurried to the door. As he reached for the handle, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his shirt was half-untucked. Taking a deep breath, he swung the door open with what he hoped was a charming smile. "Hey there, I was just..." His voice trailed off. The hallway was empty. He blin
Jackson eased his sleek car to a stop in front of the sprawling estate, the engine purring like a contented cat before falling silent. He glanced at Isabella in the passenger seat, her eyes wide as saucers as she took in the scene before them. "Holy crap," she breathed, her nose practically pressed against the window. "Are you sure we're at the right place? This looks like something out of a movie." Jackson chuckled, trying to mask his own nervousness. "Unless there's another ridiculously opulent mansion throwing a party tonight, we're in the right spot." He exited the car, adjusting his bowtie for the umpteenth time. The cool night air hit him like a refreshing slap to the face, carrying the faint strains of music and laughter from somewhere beyond the towering iron gates. Isabella emerged from the passenger side, smoothing down her midnight blue gown. She wobbled slightly on her heels, steadying herself against the car door. "Whoa, easy there," Jackson teased. "Don't want to fa
The valet handed the tickets back to Jackson with a slight bow. "Please, enjoy the party. And if I may say so, sir... you and your friends are in for quite an evening." As the group passed the gates, Matthew leaned in close to Jackson. "Okay, seriously. Did you sell a kidney to get us in here?" Jackson chuckled, distributing the tickets among his friends. "Let's just say I've had an... interesting week." As they stepped into the estate, the open area unfolded before them like a scene from a Hollywood blockbuster. The air buzzed with energy, filled with the chatter of glamorous guests and the soft clink of champagne flutes. Everywhere they looked, impossibly beautiful people milled about, their designer outfits probably worth more than Jackson's old apartment. "Holy smokes," Charles whispered, his eyes wide as saucers. "I feel like I just walked onto the set of 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.'" James gave a low whistle as a statuesque blonde sashayed past, her legs seemingly g
The bubbly liquid tickled Jackson's throat, doing little to calm his nerves. As he lifted the glass for another sip, Isabella's elbow caught him in the ribs, nearly causing him to spill the overpriced booze down his equally overpriced shirt. "Ow! What the—" Jackson started, but Isabella cut him off. "Holy shit, Jackson. You're not gonna believe this," she hissed, her eyes wide as saucers. She jerked her head towards something behind them. "Look who just walked in." Jackson turned, his curiosity piqued. His jaw nearly hit the floor. There was Veronica, strutting through the crowd like she owned the place. But not the Veronica he remembered from their shared apartment and arguments over knockoff dresses. No, this Veronica looked like she'd stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine. Her hair cascaded down her back in perfect waves, and she wore a dress that exuded luxury and elegance. The shimmering fabric hugged her curves, catching the light with every step. Diamonds glittered at
The group fell silent, processing this bombshell. Jackson's mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. "Maybe she changed her name?" Isabella offered weakly. "You know, new life, new identity?" Matthew snorted. "Or maybe she's been lying this whole time. For all we know, 'Veronica' was just some made-up persona she used to hook up with average Joes like Jackson here." "Hey!" Jackson protested, but his indignation was half-hearted at best. He couldn't shake the feeling that his entire relationship with Veronica, Scarlett, or whoever she was had been built on a foundation of lies. "Christ, Jackson," Charles muttered, shaking his head. "Your ex-girlfriend is either a mafia wife with a secret identity or an imposter who happens to look exactly like her. Either way, I think it's safe to say you dodged a bullet there, buddy." "More like dodged a whole damn firing squad," Matthew added, earning him another smack from Isabella. Jackson's head was spinning. He glanced back at Veronica –
Jackson weaved through the crowd, his eyes scanning for the pool. The party was in full swing now, the air thick with perfume, cologne, and the heady scent of wealth. He bumped into a waiter, nearly sending a tray of canapés flying. "Sorry, sorry," he muttered, snagging a tiny sandwich off the tray. He popped it into his mouth, barely tasting it as he continued his quest for the elusive pool. As he walked, his mind wandered to Quantum Quill's cryptic message. The third person... who could it be? Maybe some A-list actress he'd always fantasized about? Or a supermodel with legs for days and a penchant for average Joes? Maybe it was someone from his past? An old flame from high school, all grown up and ready to rekindle that spark? In this glitzy setting, he tried to picture his high school crush, Jenny Whatshername. The mental image of her in her ratty Nirvana t-shirt and ripped jeans, surrounded by these Gucci-clad socialites, made him chuckle. Or it was that cute barista from his