The hospital room suddenly feels like a walk-in freezer.
Star stares at the nurse. The nurse stares back. The fluorescent lights hum a tune that sounds suspiciously like "you're screwed, you're screwed, you're screwed."
"I'm sorry," Star says slowly, "can you repeat that? Because I think the coma damaged my hearing."
"You're pregnant." The nurse offers a small, sympathetic smile—the kind that makes Star want to throw a pillow at her face. "Approximately a week and a half. You asked me to test for everything using your blood, and I did. Congratulations."
Congratulations. Like someone just told her she'd won a lifetime supply of anxiety.
Star's brain short-circuits. A week and a half. That means... Alex lied. He said she was saved before the hooligans could rape her. So how in the hell is she pregnant?
And then reality hits her like a truck made of legal paperwork.
In Crestfall, aborting a pregnancy isn't an option—unless you want to spend the rest of your miserable life in prison without parole. Crestfall may be a city drowning in crime and uncertainty, but it's also a city of rules. And one rule they take very seriously: no abortion. Ever. You get knocked up? You stay pregnant. Then you give the baby to the government. Nine months is a much shorter waste of life than a lifetime behind bars.
Star processes all of this in one sitting. Her eyes are wide open, but she's gone—lost somewhere deep in the dark basement of her own thoughts.
"Are you okay?" The nurse's smile wavers with anxiety. "This is good news, right?"
Star nods. Because speaking would open the dam, and the tears circling her eyes are already threatening to break through.
She is not fine. She is the opposite of fine. She is a human forest fire of not-fineness.
The nurse hands her a bottle of prenatal vitamins. Star takes them without a word and storms out before she can be asked any more questions she doesn't have answers to.
She yanks open the door of her Ferrari, slides in, and slams it shut.
Then the dam breaks.
She screams. Not a little whimper—a full-throated, guttural, let-the-entire-parking-lot-hear-it scream. Every ounce of anger that has built up over her entire life comes pouring out in one raw, ugly burst.
Ever since she was a child, life has been one blow after another. Watching her mother get beaten daily by an abusive, manipulative husband. Watching her mother get betrayed by her own best friend. Then Frieda kidnapping her and siccing men on her to—
And now she's carrying one of those hooligans' children in her womb.
Star clutches her flat belly. Tight. Hard. Like she could squeeze the truth away. She's let down her mother. She's let down Lucian. The only two people who actually matter in her life.
Her chest heaves. Her breath comes in ragged gasps.
"What's wrong? Your blood is shooting stars."
Her very sad, very private moment is interrupted by the car's AI speaking in that eerily calm voice of hers.
"I'm fine." Star lies again—she's getting very good at it—and turns the key. The engine sputters. Doesn't start. She frowns, her wet brows knitting together. She's not wearing makeup, thank God, or her face would be a mascara disaster right now.
But why isn't the Ferrari starting? It's new.
"What's happened?" Her voice comes out hoarse. Wrecked.
"You need to calm down." Ice AI's tone is factual. Unbothered. The kind of calm that makes you want to punch a computer. "I can't let you drive while agitated."
Star stares at the dashboard. Then she slams her fist against the steering wheel.
The horn blares into the night—loud, angry, and exactly how she feels.
***
A knock on the car window makes Star jump. She turns her head—and there he is. Lucian. Standing in a black hoodie, hands buried in the pockets, looking like a very tall, very concerned shadow.
Star frowns. What is he doing here? How did he even find her?
She wipes her face with her hoodie sleeve—quick, messy, not nearly effective enough—and spends a few seconds practicing a smile. Under no circumstances can Lucian see through the shattered remains of my soul. She opens the door, steps out, and immediately fails.
Because when she looks at him—tall, broad, warm—a lump of sadness lodges itself in her throat. She hugs him. Tight. And the tears she'd been holding back? They stage a full-scale rebellion.
Epic failure.
"Are you okay?" Lucian's frown is deep enough to mine coal.
"Are you hurt? What's wrong? Why are you crying?" The questions come like rapid fire—each one a bullet she doesn't know how to dodge.
Star composes herself. Wipes the tears with the back of her hand. Sniffs. Summons every acting class she never took.
"I'm fine." She even manages a small chuckle. "I'm just glad you're here."
Lucian isn't buying it. He looks at her—really looks—and cups her face in his large hands. He knows Star better than she knows herself. And right now, he can see it: she's damaged. Saddened. The kind of sadness he hasn't seen since the day he got the news about his mother's late-stage brain cancer. He was damaged back then, just like Star now, even though she's trying to hide it from him.
"Star." His voice drops to that low register he only uses with her. Intimate. Undeniable. He tilts her chin up and makes her meet his eyes. His blue ones drowning in her hazel ones.
Security guards walk past. Nurses. Patients. They all probably think this is a couple in love. Star wishes it were that simple.
"What's wrong?" His voice is deep, almost a whisper. "You know you can't hide anything from me."
Star's mind races into an emergency meeting. There is no way she's telling her best friend she's pregnant as a result of rape. It's shameful enough. But more heartbreaking? He didn't get to break her virginity like they'd pacted. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
First-time pregnancies take at least three months for the bump to fully show. Three months. That's her window. She'll spend it with the people she loves most—and then she'll run. Far. Somewhere Crestfall's laws can't touch her.
"How did you know I was here?" Star asks, neatly sidestepping his concern.
Lucian is caught off guard. The truth? He was in his mansion basement, torturing a police officer for information, when one of his men brought him his phone. A signal from the Ferrari—her heart rate and blood pressure were having a fierce race. He'd washed the blood off his hands, changed into sweatpants, and broken every speed limit to get here.
But Star doesn't need to know that.
"I came to your house to bring you your phone." The lie slides out smooth as butter. "Your mom told me you went to the hospital. I tracked it down when I couldn't find you two weeks ago—found it at some cell care shop." Half-truth. Good enough. He hands her the phone.
Star's face lights up—genuinely, for the first time tonight. "Oh, I missed this." She totally forgot she ever had a phone. A lot has happened in just one night. Understatement of the century.
"Star." Lucian cups her face again, gentle but firm. "I know you're a strong girl. You didn't come this far just to break apart. Whatever it is, you'll overcome it with ease."
He means it. Alex assured him she was perfectly healthy—strong immune system, nothing wrong—so why is she crying? He doesn't know. But he'll find out.
Star doesn't answer right away. She stares into his blue eyes. His long eyelashes. Why do men always get the good eyelashes? For what exactly?
"You look like Adrian," she says.
And just like that, Lucian's patience evaporates.
Adrian. The billionaire best friend that Star has feelings for. It's almost poetic—she has two male best friends. Lucian has feelings for her. She has feelings for Adrian. The universe is a cruel comedian.
"No." Louder than intended. There's no way he looks like his love rival. He leans against the Ferrari, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"You do, actually." Star is clearly enjoying this now. "You both have blue eyes. Same hair. Only Adrian's are unique—a mix of gray and brown." She smiles. For some reason, a picture of Adrian flashes through her mind.
Lucian's eye twitches. "The guy is just getting old."
"He's twenty-five. He has poliosis hair... and it makes him—" Star stops. Is it wise to tell Lucian she thinks Adrian is hot? Probably not. Definitely not.
"Don't tell me you want to marry him." Lucian's voice drips with contempt. "He already kissed you. Without your consent. Guy's a pervert."
Star laughs instead. Lightly. Genuinely. "He really intimidates you, doesn't he?" She shakes her head. "I'm not getting married, remember? Or even falling in love. I may catch feelings... you know, maybe for him. But feelings fade with time. They always do."
That warms Lucian's heart. Just a little.
"Your birthday is in three months," he says.
Star's heart hitches. She masks it quickly—a thick layer of nothing-is-wrong.
"Yeah. I can't wait. I promised, remember?"
Lucian frowns. "I promised to take you to Oasis."
Star releases a long, embarrassed sigh of relief. "The oasis. Of course."
Lucian studies her. He knows exactly what she thought he was talking about. He was just testing—seeing if she'd forgotten their pact. She hasn't. And he's already planning to make her twentieth birthday very memorable.
They hang out for a while. Talk about nothing and everything. And by the time Star slides back into the driver's seat, she's in a good enough mood to drive home.
The Ferrari's engine purrs to life. Ice AI approves.
***
Frieda hasn't moved from the spot where Ramon's body fell.
The stall has mostly cleared out. Someone called the police—she heard the muffled conversation, the panicked "there's a body, I think he's dead"—but Frieda doesn't care. Let them come. Let them ask questions. She'll lie. She's very good at lying.
What she's not good at is watching her brother's blood soak into the dirt while the man who killed him walks free.
"I will find you. I will put a bullet in your head."
She meant every word.
Tomas finally stumbles over, his face pale, his hands shaking. He's holding both their wraps—still half-eaten, because apparently even murder can't kill his appetite completely. Some instincts just don't shut off.
"Frieda... what happened? I heard screaming, and then—" He stops. Sees Ramon. The color drains from his face so fast you'd think someone pulled a plug. "Oh. Oh, no."
Frieda stands up slowly. Her knees are wet with blood. She doesn't wipe them. Doesn't even look down.
"What happened?" Tomas asks. The police sirens are getting closer. The kind of close that means seconds, not minutes.
"Come on. Let's go." Her voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before an explosion.
Lucian Thorne may be a feared king in the underworld, but even kings have weaknesses. And Frieda knows just how she's going to make him feel the terror she felt. This isn't about killing him anymore. This is about something worse than death itself.
"Go where, Frieda? Your brother is dead and you're just leaving him here?" Tomas's voice cracks. He knew Ramon. Their struggles. Their survival. Frieda had told him she left that life behind, but Ramon never did. The underworld had its claws in him deep.
"Lucian Thorne did this, Tommy." Frieda's teeth are gnashed together. Her voice comes out like broken glass. "And I'm going to kill him too."
Tomas freezes. The name hits him like a freight train.
Lucian Thorne.
He's heard the stories. Everyone has. A mafia boss so ruthless that just hearing his name makes your hair stand on end. No one knows who he is. No one has seen his face—because the people who do either end up dead, missing, or part of his trusted inner circle.
But how did he get involved with Ramon? And why?
What Tomas doesn't know—what he can't know—is that the infamous mafia boss is the same man Star calls her best friend. The same man who broke Tomas's arm. The same man who is the reason his arm is now held together by metal and regret.
"You don't know who he is?" Frieda asks, frowning at his expression.
"I do." Tomas's voice is flat. Dead. "Which is more reason why we should run the other direction, Frieda. That man is crazy."
His voice trembles on the last word. He's not ashamed to admit it. Fear is the only sane response to Lucian Thorne.
"I don't care." Frieda's eyes are hollow. "With his reputation, I can still kill him. And I know how." She tilts her head, waiting. "So. Are you coming?"
Tomas swallows hard. His throat feels like sandpaper. He's not a brave man. He's a man who dreams about Ferraris he don't own. He's a man who runs from trouble, not toward it.
But he loves Frieda.
And right now, love is the only thing keeping his legs from running in the opposite direction.
"Damn it," he mutters. Then, louder: "Yeah. I'm coming."
He drops the wraps. They land face-down in the dirt. For once, he doesn't care.
***
The next morning, Star wakes up and discovers she's been drooling on her pillow like a teething bulldog. A small puddle of shame greets her cheek. She blinks at it. New low.
Surprisingly, she slept like a baby. A very stressed, very pregnant baby, but still.
Her eyes land on the bottle of vitamins the doctor gave her. She hisses—actually hisses, like a cat—and drops it into the trash can by her door. She doesn't even want to look at it.
She goes into the bathroom. Freshens up. Brushes teeth and avoid own reflection.
Outside her room, she hears sounds of someone cooking. The clatter of pans. The sizzle of something delicious. She steps out into the hallway. The house feels quiet. Peaceful. When she got home last night, Tomas and Frieda were nowhere to be found. She didn't ask. She didn't care.
Now, in an oversized T-shirt and baggy jeans, she shuffles into the living room like a sleep-deprived ghost.
"Morning, honey." Loise is carrying plates to the dining table. She looks... lighter. Happier. Star files that away for later.
"Hmm, I smell fried eggs." Star's mouth actually waters. Actually waters. She's drooling again. "Did you make an omelet?"
Loise notices the drool. Wipes it off with her bare fingers like it's nothing. "You're drooling."
"I use to drool when I was just a few weeks pregnant with you," Loise adds casually, and makes Star sit down.
Star's heart flips aggressively. Uh oh.
"I'm so starved," Star says, pivoting so hard she almost spins.
"Oh, you didn't have anything since you came home yesterday." Loise frowns. "Did you eat at all since you woke up from the coma?"
And then it hits Star. She hasn't eaten a thing. Not one bite. For an entire day.
"No wonder you're drooling." Loise's voice takes on an edge. "There's only saliva in your mouth. Let me get you more." She rushes to the kitchen like a woman on a mission.
She returns with four sandwiches and an omelet—Star's absolute favorite. Star devours them in one sitting. No chewing. No breathing. Just pure demolition.
Loise watches. Really watches.
"What's wrong?" Star asks, mouth full. Classy.
"I just wish I was strong like you." Loise's voice is soft. "I don't know where you get it from, really."
Star swallows. Finally. "I get it from you." She takes a long gulp of water. "You spent twenty years in a marriage with no peace."
"And you watched." Loise pulls out a stack of papers—wrinkled, folded, their edges soft from being handled too many times. But their value is still there. "Here. I signed them." She smiles.
Star's face lights up like Christmas morning. "Mom. Finally. Some good news." She looks at the signed divorce papers like they're a winning lottery ticket.
And then the front door opens.
Frieda and Tomas enter.
There's something wrong about them. Something eerily off. Especially Frieda—she shoots daggers at Star the moment she steps into the living room. Actual daggers. If looks could kill, Star would be a crime scene.
"Aren't you going to welcome us home?" Tomas says as he reaches the dining table. "You know this is my house. I can send you away."
Star scoffs. Whoever sold audacity to this man needs to kiss the palm of my soft hand. What kind of father acts like this?
"Mom really made a nice breakfast." Star's voice is dangerously calm. "Don't make me throw up."
But really—she suddenly feels nauseous. Already? Is this pregnancy hormones already? She's only a week and a half along. This has to be an overreaction. Or maybe it's Frieda's death glare. Hard to tell.
If Frieda got her pregnant to break her, Star is never giving her that satisfaction. She drinks more water to sink the nausea crawling up her esophagus. Stands up. Straightens her spine.
Tomas's frown deepens when he sees the papers on the table. Divorce papers. His heart drops somewhere below his feet.
"Hey, Frieda." Star smiles—so perfect it actually reaches her eyes. "How are you doing this morning?"
Frieda hasn't said a word since she walked in. She's been busy. Thinking of a thousand ways to kill Lucian. The man who killed her little brother.
She and Tomas slept in a Room-for-Hire—one of those guestroom businesses down the street. Paid cash. Talked all night about how to handle Star and her mother. They agreed to chase them out of the house. But Frieda has a dangerous plan of her own for once Tomas does the chasing.
Tomas already told her he can't force a divorce. The house is in Loise's name—a gift from her family before they disowned her. And there's a condition: if they divorce, Loise keeps the house. It's the only property she has.
"Are you thinking of a way to kill me?" Star asks, almost a whisper, snapping Frieda out of her thoughts.
Frieda's eyes lock onto hers. "Actually, yes. And I will make it painful." Her voice drips with contempt. "So tell me. How are the results? HIV positive? STI? Pregnant? Which one?"
Rage fuels her. Blows up her system. It's taking everything in her not to lunge.
Star doesn't waver. If anything, her confidence peaks. She scoffs, amused.
"Let me let you in on a little story." Star tilts her head. "Before your hooligans could do their evil, Lucian saved me. Literally. Your plan backfired, and I returned." She lets that sink in. "So tell me. How does it feel to pull off the most epic failure?"
In reality Star doesn't know who saved her, but mentioning Lucian made sense to her.
Frieda's hand twitches. She's about to wipe that smirk off Star's pretty face—
A sound stops her. Interrupts her.
Paper tearing.
They all turn in unison.
"You want a divorce?" Tomas roars. He's torn the divorce papers into shreds. Crumples them. Pulls out a lighter. Sets them on fire.
Loise flinches.
Star watches the flames. Then looks at Tomas. Then at Frieda. She's more amused than ever. These people just have to be funny this morning.
"Is your ego bruised, dad?" Star crosses her arms. "Does divorcing Mom mean you'll be homeless?" She gestures toward the burning paper. "You know there's a lot more where that came from, right?"
Tomas's rage is through the roof now. His face is red. His fists are shaking. And Star? Star just stands there, calm as a frozen lake, watching him burn.