The morning after the Great Ball had completely transformed the appearance of the temporary city.
What had seemed the night before like a setting created for dresses, jewels, music, and carefully calculated conversations had now taken on an almost domestic atmosphere.
Tables had been spread throughout the gardens. Some were covered with light-colored tablecloths, while others served simply as places to set drinks, fruit, and small dishes prepared for the guests. There were areas reserved for games, spaces where families could talk without completely abandoning the bustle of the tournament, and farther away, children ran between the adults while servants tried to prevent them from knocking over a tray.
The music was still present, but now it was simply part of the surroundings.
The tournament had begun to take the place of the ball.
And with it, the families had returned to their natural circles.
Damián walked a few steps behind Benjamin.
Not because Benjamin had asked him to.
In fact, quite the opposite.
Benjamin had tried several times to get him to walk beside him, but Damián preferred the distance.
It was easier to observe.
And, at that moment, observing was more comfortable than participating.
"Did you notice that half these people didn't come to watch the games?" Benjamin asked without even looking back.
Damián smiled.
"Half?"
Benjamin glanced at him.
"I'm being generous."
Damián looked at the groups scattered throughout the garden.
Some were talking enthusiastically. Others seemed more interested in discovering who was speaking to whom. There were men who approached other men simply to be seen standing beside them. Women smiled while studying dresses, rings, and expressions. Young people tried to appear indifferent in front of people they clearly wanted to impress.
"Then why did they come?"
Benjamin discreetly adjusted his shirt cuff.
"Some came for politics."
Damián waited.
"And the others?"
Benjamin smiled.
"To make the people who came for politics feel important."
Damián laughed.
"You really can't help yourself."
"Help myself with what?"
"Turning everything into politics."
"I could say that politics turns everything into politics."
"That was a political answer."
"Exactly."
Damián laughed again.
A few meters ahead, Benjamin was interrupted by a man from one of the traditional families. Then another approached. A third person joined the conversation without being invited.
Damián watched.
Benjamin did not need to seek anyone out.
People sought him.
There was an important difference between possessing influence and needing to demonstrate it.
Benjamin did not need to demonstrate his.
His presence did it for him.
Damián continued walking behind him.
That was when his eyes found Adam on the other side of the garden.
The sensation came before the thought.
That small tension in his body.
The same one he had been feeling for some time.
Damián could not explain it.
Adam had done nothing concrete.
There had been no threat.
No wrong words.
And yet, there was something in the way Adam sometimes looked at him, as though he expected something from him.
As though Damián owed him something he himself could not name.
And that bothered him.
That was why Benjamin.
That was why he kept that distance.
Perhaps it was irrational.
But Damián had learned long ago that some things could only be rationalized after they had been felt.
On the other side of the garden, Mason watched the activity with a very different kind of attention.
Ziggy was far too occupied with the food to notice half of what was happening.
"Are you going to eat all of that?" Mason asked.
Ziggy looked at his plate.
"I don't know."
"Then why did you take it?"
"Because it was available."
Mason sighed.
"That's your criterion for almost everything."
"It works."
Mason looked at him.
"Until the day it doesn't."
Ziggy flashed a grin.
"Then you save me."
Mason shook his head.
There was no arguing with that.
Farther away, Can-Bey crossed the garden, his gaze restless.
He was looking for someone.
Pippen noticed.
And, in that moment, something inside her settled into the wrong place.
She followed the direction of his eyes.
Once.
Then again.
And understood.
Mason.
Mason was the one Can-Bey was looking for.
Pippen felt a kind of silent disbelief.
She had been careful.
Always.
She knew what to wear.
When to speak.
When to remain silent.
When to smile.
When to step back.
She knew the rules of that world, and for a long time, she had believed that knowing the rules was enough to guarantee the outcome.
She had been the perfect companion.
Or, at least, that was what she thought.
She had done nothing outrageous.
She had caused no scandals.
She had not demanded too much.
Her path with Can-Bey had seemed simple.
Safe.
Almost predictable.
Then an omega had appeared who, for all intents and purposes, should have meant nothing.
A prostitute.
Someone who did not even belong to the same social circle.
And suddenly, Can-Bey was looking somewhere else.
Pippen tightened her fingers around her glass.
It was absurd.
Almost insulting.
As though someone had drawn a straight road in front of her and, halfway along it, simply placed a door.
And the worst part was that she had no idea what was on the other side.
Perhaps that was what bothered her most.
Not losing.
Not exactly.
But not understanding why she was losing.
Pippen continued watching Can-Bey.
He turned again.
Searching.
She breathed slowly.
There were moments when a person had to accept that something had slipped out of their control.
And there were others when they simply had to wait.
As happens with fools, the perfect moment rarely announces itself.
It simply appears.
And when it does, it almost always looks like just another ordinary moment.
Callum was speaking with Henry near one of the tables while the two watched the activity in the gardens.
"My mother and Aster did a great job," Henry commented, looking around at the movement. "Everything seems to be working better than I expected."
Callum smiled.
"They really did. Aunt Sarah has always been good at organizing this kind of thing."
The affection came naturally into his voice when he mentioned his mother.
Henry smiled.
"She could practically organize a war if you gave her three tables and a guest list."
Callum laughed.
"I wouldn't doubt it."
Henry discreetly pointed toward the garden.
"And Aster learned quickly."
"Don't tell him that."
"Why?"
"Because he'll start believing he was born to organize events."
Henry laughed.
"Maybe he was."
"In that case, we're doomed."
The two of them watched the activity for a few seconds.
"At least they managed to make everything look easy," Henry commented.
Callum nodded.
"That's the dangerous part."
"What?"
"Making something difficult look easy."
Henry looked at him.
"Are you talking about the organization or the people?"
Callum smiled.
"The people."
Henry laughed.
"Good luck."
He gave his cousin a pat on the shoulder and walked away shortly afterward.
Callum remained alone.
Not for long.
"You don't have to pretend you don't know me."
Callum looked up.
Clarice stood before him.
Without hesitation.
Without that carefully defensive posture he had learned to expect.
She was simply there.
As she had been so many times before.
"I'm not pretending."
"Yes, you are."
She smiled.
"And you're terrible at it."
Callum raised an eyebrow.
"Terrible?"
"After all these years, acting as though I'm a stranger every time we meet is far more awkward than anything that happened between us."
Callum let out a small laugh.
"You've always been very direct."
"You always liked that."
"On some occasions."
Clarice narrowed her eyes.
"Some?"
"I'm trying to be careful."
She laughed.
"Then don't. I'm not going to break."
Her answer made him smile.
And for a few minutes, it was surprisingly easy.
They talked about the tournament.
About the games.
About how some families managed to turn a simple competition into a matter of honor.
"The Drakes do that every year," Clarice commented.
"The Drakes do that with everything."
"True."
"I once saw two of them argue for twenty minutes over who had chosen a chair first."
"And who won?"
"No one."
Clarice laughed.
"Then it was a family debate."
"Exactly."
She took a sip of her drink.
"I think tournaments are interesting for that reason."
"Because of the chairs?"
"No."
She gave him an amused look.
"Because people forget they're being watched."
Callum agreed.
"Competition does that."
"Competition, alcohol, pride..."
"Pheromones."
Clarice smiled.
"Especially pheromones."
Callum glanced around.
"Do you really think they change people's behavior that much?"
"They don't change who someone is."
She paused.
"They just shorten the distance between what someone feels and what they're willing to do."
Callum grew thoughtful.
"That was dangerously intelligent."
"I'm full of surprises."
"Some of them are dangerous."
"You survived."
"Barely."
She laughed.
"See? You still know how to joke."
"I never forgot."
Clarice tilted her head.
"That's the problem with people."
"What?"
"They think forgetting is the only way to move on."
Callum looked at her.
She continued:
"Sometimes you don't need to forget anything. You just need to put everything in the right place."
"And where do the things that went wrong belong?"
"In the past."
"Sounds simple."
"It isn't."
Clarice smiled.
"But putting something in the past doesn't mean pretending it never existed."
Callum rested one hand on the table.
"Are you philosophizing now?"
"I'm trying to impress you."
"It worked."
She smiled.
"Liar."
"A little."
They both laughed.
For a few seconds, they looked exactly as they had for years.
Two people who knew each other's flaws well enough that they didn't need to pretend.
"You still do that," Clarice commented.
"Do what?"
"Analyze people."
Callum looked at her.
"So do you."
"I do it better."
"That's debatable."
"It isn't."
"You just proved my point."
Clarice laughed.
"See? That's why it's dangerous to talk to you."
"Why?"
"Because you can still make me laugh."
Callum fell silent for a moment.
She noticed.
"You don't have to get serious."
"I didn't get serious."
"You did."
"You know me too well."
"That's exactly the problem."
She smiled.
Then sighed.
"You know... I'm not sure I was very smart."
Callum waited.
"Maybe I shouldn't have let you go."
His expression changed slightly.
Clarice continued:
"Not that there was much I could have done. Some things simply happen, and you realize too late that there is no way to go back to the moment before."
She let out a small laugh.
"It's like in the movies."
Callum smiled.
"You're comparing our lives to a romantic comedy?"
"Not exactly."
She thought for a moment.
"But I realized this part is just like the movies."
Callum waited.
"When everything is over, you can't remember only the bad things."
Her gaze drifted toward the garden for a moment.
"The other things start coming back too."
She smiled, almost to herself.
"The things that made you fall in love."
Callum remained silent.
"They run through your mind like a romantic-comedy montage," Clarice continued. "The little things. The stupid jokes. The moments when you didn't even realize you were happy."
She raised her eyes.
"And there's something cruel about that."
"What?"
"You start missing precisely the things that made you love someone."
Callum did not answer.
Clarice breathed in.
"It's like the sweetest poison."
"You still use that perfume," she said suddenly, without warning.
Callum looked momentarily confused.
"What?"
"The perfume. It's the same one from before."
He hadn't noticed. Or perhaps he had, and had simply stopped noticing, as though not noticing were a way of forgetting.
"I never changed it," he admitted.
Clarice smiled, but it was a different smile from the ones before. Smaller. Rawer.
"I used to say you smelled like the right decisions."
"You made that up."
"I made up a lot of things about you."
"And you were right about most of them."
"Most."
She turned the glass in her hand, looking at the liquid instead of at him.
"Do you know what I miss most?"
"What?"
"Being the person who knew what you were going to say before you said it."
Callum didn't answer right away.
"I still know," she went on. "That's the worst part. I can still tell exactly how you're going to answer."
"And what am I going to answer now?"
Clarice looked at him.
"That it doesn't mean anything."
A silence.
"See?" she said, almost laughing, though without any real joy in it. "I told you."
Callum let the silence sit for a moment before answering.
"I still have the ring, you know."
Clarice went still.
"Callum."
"I'm not saying it to start anything." He turned his glass slowly, watching the light move across it rather than looking at her. "I just never got rid of it. I told myself it was practical. That rings like that don't come along twice, that it would be wasteful. But that was never why."
"Why, then?"
"Because throwing it away would have meant admitting it was over."
Clarice's eyes softened.
"And keeping it doesn't?"
"Keeping it just meant I hadn't decided yet."
"And now?"
He looked at her for a long moment.
"Now I think I kept it because some part of me wanted to remember what it felt like to be that certain about something. Not you, necessarily. Just... that certainty."
Clarice's laugh, when it came, was quiet and unsteady.
"That's a terrible thing to say to the woman you almost married."
"I know."
"You could have lied."
"I could have."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because you'd have known."
She looked away first this time.
"I still have the dress," she admitted.
Callum blinked.
"You never told me that."
"There was never a right moment." She shrugged, though the gesture didn't quite land as lightly as she meant it to. "It's in a box. I don't open it. I just know it's there."
"Why keep it, then?"
"Same reason as your ring, I imagine."
For several seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then she smiled.
"But I discovered something else."
"What?"
"Friendship can survive things that a relationship can't."
Callum looked at her.
"You think so?"
"I do."
She shrugged.
"Maybe some people are better as friends."
"Are you saying that about us?"
"I am."
Callum thought for a few seconds.
"Maybe."
"Well, look at that."
She smiled.
"We agree on something."
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late."
He laughed.
Clarice looked at him with an almost peaceful familiarity.
"We were good together."
Callum did not look away.
"We were."
"But that doesn't mean we should keep trying to be something that has already ended."
"No."
"And it also doesn't mean we have to pretend we never were."
Callum nodded.
"I agree."
She took a deep breath.
"I think I can live with that."
"Friends?"
Clarice raised her glass.
"Friends."
Callum touched his glass to hers.
"Friends."
"That's dangerous."
"Why?"
"Because we're too good at talking."
Callum laughed.
"And that's bad?"
"For two people with our history?"
She made a serious expression.
"Extremely."
He laughed again.
Clarice pointed at him.
"See?"
"See what?"
"You still laugh at my jokes."
"Some of them are still funny."
"Some?"
"I'm trying to be careful."
She shook her head, laughing.
"You haven't changed at all."
"That's not necessarily a compliment."
"It is."
For a few moments, they remained silent.
The garden continued bustling around them.
People passed.
Talked.
Laughed.
Watched.
And, from a distance, it was easy to imagine that those two still belonged to each other.
Perhaps that was precisely what made the scene so dangerous.
Because some relationships do not disappear when they end.
They simply change shape.
And sometimes, the new shape is even harder to ignore.
Clarice lowered her eyes to her glass.
"I know I'm a mess."
Callum smiled.
"I can confirm that."
She pointed at him.
"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about."
She took a deep breath.
"But you know the sweet, acceptable version of me. The one who looks like she knows exactly what she's doing."
She paused.
"And you also know the other one."
"The one who turns everything into chaos?"
"That one."
Callum smiled.
Clarice held his gaze.
"I know it's insane to say this after everything. Maybe I still don't know how to explain it all. But I'm not holding a grudge against you."
Callum became serious.
"It's all right."
"Because if something needs to be fixed, I'm the one who needs to do it."
She breathed in.
"And I am."
There was a brief silence.
"So you can count on me."
Callum nodded.
"I can."
Clarice took a step back.
"And don't push me away."
Callum watched her for a few seconds.
This time, there was no irritation.
Nor that automatic caution.
There was only recognition.
Perhaps he had built too many walls.
Perhaps he had spent so much time trying to protect Aster, himself, and everyone around him that he had begun seeing Clarice only through the things that had gone wrong between them.
But the woman standing before him did not look like she was at war.
She simply looked... whole.
"All right," he finally said.
Clarice smiled.
"Good."
She walked away.
Callum remained where he was.
Across the garden, Aster appeared.
He was returning from another task beside Sarah, speaking with one of the people responsible for the organization.
His eyes found Callum.
Then they found Clarice.
Their conversation had already ended, but something about the image remained.
Aster felt a small pressure in his chest.
Jealousy.
Instant.
Almost irritating.
He did not like the feeling.
Not because he believed Callum was doing anything wrong.
There was nothing wrong.
They were simply talking.
And yet...
There was something about that closeness that Aster did not know.
An intimacy built before him.
A language of their own.
Jokes he did not know.
Memories that did not belong to him.
Aster looked away.
He kept walking.
Then, against his own will, he looked again.
Callum noticed.
Their eyes met.
For a second.
Aster said nothing.
Neither did Callum.
But a small smile appeared on Callum's face.
Almost amused.
Almost teasing.
Aster narrowed his eyes.
Then kept walking.
The tournament continued.
The families continued talking.
People were still laughing.
And amid all of it, Callum remained where he was for a few more seconds, watching the movement in the garden.
Clarice had already walked away.
Aster continued toward him.
And, for some reason he still did not want to admit even to himself, Aster looked at Clarice one last time.
There was nothing there.
Only a woman who had known Callum for many years.
An old story.
A friendship that had survived the end of a relationship.
Nothing more.
It was simple.
At least it should have been.
Aster took a deep breath and kept walking.
Around them, the garden remained exactly as it had before.
Music.
Laughter.
Conversations.
Glasses being refilled.
Children running between the tables.
The sun slowly moving across the gardens.
The morning continued.