The leather interior of her father's BMW cradles Amber like a second skin as they glide through the streets of Riverside Heights. She watches twilight paint the mansions in watercolor shades of purple and gold, her silk dress pooled around her legs, heels resting on the floor mat beside Nate's polished dress shoes. His large hand holds her bare foot in his lap, thumb tracing absent patterns that would tickle if she weren't so lost in thought.

  Her eyes catch her father's in the rearview mirror – those familiar ice-blue irises that she sees every morning in her own reflection. Now they carry new weight, new meaning. Every time she looks at him, the question burns in her throat: How many others? How many problems has Richard Rosenberg made disappear before Hannah?

  The memories crash over her without warning, dragging her under despite her desperate attempts to stay present. Suddenly she's back at Hampton Beach – the world tilting sideways from whatever was in that drink, rage burning through her veins like poison. She remembers following them down to the beach, her vision blurred but her anger crystal clear. Emily's voice tries to explain something about Jake, but the roaring in Amber's ears drowns out everything except betrayal.

  Her hands remember the feeling of the push, the sickening crack as Emily's head met the fence post. Those eyes – usually so sharp with judgment – going glassy and distant. Then Nate's arms around her, his voice steady in her ear: "I've got you, princess. Just breathe." Her own voice, broken and small: "They'll lock me up. Everything's ruined." Jake and Nate exchanging that look over her head, their silent agreement: "We'll handle it. No one will ever know."

  "You're in your head again," Nate whispers, squeezing her foot gently. "Come back to me."

  "I'm alright," Amber manages, though the lie feels heavy on her tongue. Her fingers find the moonstone at her throat, its cool surface anchoring her to reality.

  "Would you look at this display," her father's voice carries from the front seat as they turn onto the Lawrences' street. "They've practically turned their driveway into a car show."

  They pull into the circular drive, joining the parade of luxury vehicles. Nate lifts her feet into his lap with practiced care, sliding on her heels with gentle precision. His lips brush against her ankle – their silent promise that everything will be okay, that he's got her, that they'll weather whatever storms come their way.

  Her father shifts the car into park, and Nate slips out to circle around to her door. Through the window, Amber watches her father intercept him on the driver's side, their heads bent close in conversation she can't quite hear over the purring engine.

  "Men," her mother's voice drifts back from the passenger seat, precise as cut crystal. "They think they can fix anything with enough force or careful planning." She catches Amber's eye in the visor mirror. "The trick is letting them believe they can. It gives them purpose."

  Amber studies her mother's perfect profile, wondering how much she knows, how many secrets she's carried through her own years as a Rosenberg woman. "Do you ever..." she starts, then catches herself. Some questions are better left unspoken, especially when you might not want to hear the answers.

  "Your father loves you," Victoria says simply, adjusting her bracelet with deliberate care. "So does Nate. Sometimes love means letting them carry certain burdens so we don't have to. Remember that."

  The door opens beside her, revealing Nate in his perfectly fitted tux, one hand extended like they're at a grand ball instead of Susan's mom’s birthday party. But his eyes – those warm brown eyes that see straight through her careful facades – carry a question:

  Amber takes his hand, letting him help her emerge into the cool evening air. Ready or not, the show must go on. After all, she's Amber Rosenberg, queen of Riverside Heights. And queens don't let little things like guilt or ghosts or murder keep them from a social obligation.

  Even if those ghosts now wear her father's ice-blue eyes.

  Nate's arm slides through hers with practiced ease as they follow her parents up the limestone steps. The Lawrences' grand entrance glows with warmth, Agnes and George standing sentinel like perfectly posed portraits come to life. How strange, Amber thinks, that they can all play these roles so effortlessly – murderers and socialites, killers and kings, all wrapped in evening wear and social graces.

  "Richard, Victoria!" Agnes Lawrence's voice carries that particular tone reserved for old money greeting old money. "So wonderful you could join us." Her eyes sparkle with genuine warmth as she embraces Victoria, while George and Richard exchange the firm handshakes of men who've known each other since prep school.

  "Fifty looks absolutely radiant on you, Agnes," Victoria gushes, her smile never wavering. Amber watches her parents perform their practiced dance of social niceties, marveling at how steady their hands are, how genuine their laughter sounds. As if they haven't orchestrated the disappearance of a teenage girl just weeks ago. As if blood doesn't stain their manicured world.

  "And here's our Stanford-bound power couple!" Agnes turns to Amber and Nate, her arms opening wide. Her perfume envelops Amber in a cloud of gardenias as they embrace. "The whole Heights is buzzing about your acceptances."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Lawrence," Nate's charm flows effortlessly, his smile reaching his eyes despite everything they're carrying. "We couldn't be more excited."

  "George was just telling me about the football program," Agnes confides, squeezing Amber's hands. "He's already planning weekend trips to watch you play, Nate."

  George Lawrence claps Nate on the shoulder, his eyes bright with almost paternal pride. "That offensive lineup they're building? With your speed? They're looking at championship potential within two years."

  Amber watches Nate engage with George, discussing plays and prospects with genuine enthusiasm. Sometimes she forgets that parts of their life are still real, still untouched by the darkness they carry. Football games and college dreams – these pieces of normalcy that somehow survive alongside their secrets.

  "Susan's been beside herself planning the perfect entrance," Agnes confides, drawing Amber's attention back. "You know how she gets about these things." Her eyes sparkle with fond exasperation.

  Movement catches Amber's eye – the Wilsons approaching, their youngest daughter Emma practically vibrating with excitement in her first formal gown. George graciously directs them toward the entrance, expertly transitioning between guests like the seasoned host he is.

  "You'll find Susan in the main hall," he adds warmly to Amber and Nate. "Though I'm sure you could follow the sound of her holding court."

  They slip past the growing crowd of arrivals, Nate's hand finding the small of her back as they navigate the familiar halls. Her parents have already vanished into the sea of evening wear and social connections, leaving no trace except the faint echo of her mother's laugh from somewhere near the conservatory.

  "Bitch, finally!" Susan's voice cuts through the elegant murmur of party conversation. She descends on them like a force of nature, dragging Justin in her wake. Her silver dress catches the light like mercury, matching the gleam in her eyes as she pulls Amber into a fierce hug. "I've been dying in here with all these stuffy old-money types. Save me."

  "Happy birthday to the most iconic mother in Riverside," Amber squeezes Susan tight, breathing in the familiar scent of her best friend's signature perfume. Their friendship might be built on secrets and power plays, but the affection is real – or as real as anything gets in their world.

  "Oh my god, stop," Susan rolls her eyes, but her smile betrays her pleasure. "If I have to hear one more person gush about 'Agnes Lawrence's milestone celebration,' I'm going to scream. Like, we get it – she's fifty and fabulous."

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Behind them, Nate and Justin perform their ritual greeting – that particular mix of handshake and hug that boys perfect somewhere between football practice and beer pong tournaments. The normalcy of it all makes Amber's chest ache.

  "Speaking of fabulous," Susan's eyes dance with barely contained excitement, "guess which bitch just got her Yale acceptance?"

  Genuine joy floods Amber's system, momentarily washing away the darkness. "Sue! That's amazing!" She pulls her friend close again. "When did you find out?"

  "Like it was ever in question," Susan preens, tossing her hair back. "Daddy's third-generation legacy. Pretty sure they had my acceptance ready before I was born."

  Something shifts in Susan's expression as she glances around, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Actually... speaking of Yale. Daddy asked about Lisa Chen today. And I wanted to run something by you first, Am. You know, as our resident queen bee."

  "Lisa?" Nate's voice cuts through the conversation like a blade, carrying an edge Amber's never heard before.

  Susan's perfectly shaped eyebrows lift slightly at his tone. "Yeah, she applied. And Daddy could make it happen, but..." Her eyes dart between them, clearly registering the sudden tension. "I wanted to get your thoughts first, Am."

  Amber watches something dark flash across Nate's features – that same shadow she'd seen the day Hannah died. Susan must catch it too, because she shifts strategies faster than a quarterback calling an audible.

  "Justin, baby," she coos, all sugar and steel, "be a doll and grab some drinks for everyone? We'll wait in Daddy's study."

  Justin nods eagerly, already turning toward the bar. Sometimes Amber wonders if he realizes he's being managed, or if he's just happy playing his assigned role.

  "This way," Susan gestures, already moving deeper into the house. But instead of turning toward her father's study, she leads them past the library, past the formal dining room, toward the old game room where they'd spent countless childhood afternoons.

  "What's happening?" Amber whispers to Nate, but his eyes are fixed ahead, his jaw set in that way that usually means trouble. The silence that follows carries more weight than any answer could.

  The game room stands frozen in time – the same antique pool table, the same leather chairs that have witnessed a decade of secrets and schemes. Susan closes the heavy door behind them with a soft click that sounds like fate sealing shut.

  The room smells of old wood and older money, of childhood memories and fresh dangers. As Susan turns to face them, her expression carries none of her usual sparkle. This is Susan in strategy mode – the girl who once orchestrated a rival's complete social destruction over a homecoming vote.

  "Okay," Susan's voice cuts through the tension, "what the fuck is going on with Lisa Chen?"

  Amber watches the familiar mask slide over Nate's features – that careful blankness he wears when he's carrying something too heavy to share. But they'd made promises on that ridge, hadn't they?

  "No more secrets," she whispers, the words barely disturbing the air between them. "Remember?"

  Nate's shoulders slump slightly as he runs a hand through his carefully styled hair. "I saw Lisa the other night," he admits, his eyes tracking the room's perimeter like he's looking for escape routes. "Downtown. She was... asking questions, about Hannah."

  "So what?" Susan perches on the pool table's edge, all calculated grace and sharp edges. "Hannah was her friend. Of course she had questions."

  "She went to Brookswood," Nate's voice carries an edge that makes Amber's skin prickle. "Her and Hannah – they talked to Victoria and Megan about Hampton Beach."

  The name hits Amber like a physical blow, but Susan just laughs – that particular sound that usually precedes someone's social execution. "Please. We handled that ages ago. Megan came running to us the second they left, spilled everything." She examines her perfect manicure with studied indifference. "Then Amber and I had our little chat with Lisa. Amazing what people will do to keep certain photos private."

  Amber nods, remembering that cold evening. The way Lisa's face had crumpled when they'd showed her the picture – naked, vulnerable. The choice they'd offered: friendship or destruction.

  But something in Nate's expression remains unchanged, like he's carrying a weight they haven't yet felt.

  "Alex Winters," he says softly, the name falling between them like a stone in still water.

  "What about that freak?" Amber's voice comes out sharper than intended, memories of Alex's suspicious glances and pointed questions flooding back.

  Nate's eyes meet Susan's, some silent understanding passing between them that makes Amber's chest tight. "Don't worry," Susan waves her hand dismissively, "I'm fully briefed on that situation."

  The pieces click into place in Amber's mind – old money protecting old money, just like that night at Hampton Beach. She remembers her father and George Lawrence in hushed conversation while she sat shivering in the bathroom, Emily's blood still under her fingernails. The way problems just... disappeared when enough zeroes were involved.

  "They bought her silence," Nate confirms, his voice hollow. "Alex's father's construction empire suddenly faced some regulatory hurdles."

  "But what?" Amber presses, watching shadows dance across his features.

  "Lisa's been asking about Alex at administration," Nate says quietly. "Trying to access her records."

  The implications settle over them like fog – thick, heavy, obscuring. Because Lisa Chen isn't just some scholarship kid anymore. She's a loose thread. And loose threads, in their world, tend to get cut.

  "Well, fuck," Susan exhales, the curse sounding almost elegant in her finishing-school accent.

  "Are you absolutely sure?" Amber searches Nate's face, looking for any hint of doubt, any chance this might be another false alarm.

  His jaw tightens as he nods. "Positive."

  The weight of it all crashes over Amber like a wave. She sinks into one of the leather chairs, fingers tangling in her carefully styled hair. "Will it ever end?" The question comes out small, broken, a far cry from her usual queen bee confidence.

  "Princess..." Nate moves behind her, his strong hands finding her shoulders. His touch is gentle, familiar – the same hands that hold her through panic attacks, that cleaned Emily's blood from under her fingernails.

  Tears threaten to ruin her perfect makeup as the reality of their situation settles in. "Why can't it just stop?" Her voice cracks slightly. "One secret leads to another, and another, and..."

  Susan drops to her knees in front of Amber, grabbing her hands with fierce intensity. "Listen to me. Everything is going to be fine. You and lover boy are going to ride off into the California sunset, and no one – I mean no one – is going to find out anything they shouldn't."

  "I'll handle it," Nate's voice carries that dangerous edge again, the one that usually precedes someone's disappearance.

  "No." Amber turns to face him, suddenly steel beneath silk. "You've already done too much. Carried too much. I won't let you-"

  "Let me deal with it," Susan interrupts, her lips curving into that particular smile that's ended more than one social career. "After all, Lisa's a smart girl. Ambitious. When faced with a choice between Yale and playing detective..." She shrugs elegantly. "Well, let's just say I know which one my money's on."

  "Sue, you don't have to-"

  "Of course I do." Susan squeezes her hands. "That's what best friends are for. Making problems disappear."

  But Nate's voice cuts through their moment, dark as storm clouds gathering. "Whatever you do, she needs to understand that silence isn't optional. And by silence," his eyes meet Susan's with chilling intensity, "I mean absolute silence."

  The implication hangs in the air between them, heavy with the weight of past solutions and unmarked graves. Three teenagers in evening wear, casually discussing how to ensure another classmate's silence. How did they get here? When did threats and disappearances become as normal as AP tests and prom committees?

  Susan's eyes flash dangerously as she meets Nate's gaze. "Are you questioning my methods, Brooks?"

  "Never." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just making sure we're reading from the same playbook."

  "Please," Susan tosses her hair back with practiced confidence. "When have I ever fumbled a play?"

  The door suddenly crashes open with enough force to make them all jump, Justin stumbling in with four champagne flutes precariously balanced. "Sorry it took so long – I went to the study first and-"

  "The study?" Susan's voice shifts seamlessly into exasperated girlfriend mode, the transition so smooth it gives Amber chills. "God, Justin, I clearly said the game room. Sometimes I wonder if you even listen when I talk."

  "But I could've sworn-" Justin's face scrunches in confusion.

  "Baby, just... give me the champagne before you hurt yourself thinking too hard." Susan's tone carries that perfect mix of affection and condescension that she's perfected over years of managing him.

  Amber feels her public smile slide back into place as she watches her best friend work. This is Susan in her element – controlling narratives, reshaping reality with nothing but words and well-timed eye rolls. The same skill set that will apparently be used to ensure Lisa Chen's silence.

  "You okay, Am?" Justin asks as he hands her a glass, genuine concern in his eyes. "You look a little pale."

  "Just tired," Amber lies smoothly, accepting the champagne with a graceful tilt of her head. "All this college excitement, you know?"

  Nate's arm slides around her waist, steady and grounding, as he raises his glass. "To friendship," he declares, his voice carrying that particular warmth that makes everyone feel special, included, safe. As if they hadn't just been discussing threats and silence mere moments ago.

  The crystal clinks together, the sound echoing off old wood paneling and older secrets. Amber watches the bubbles rise in her glass, each one carrying a different version of truth – the one they'll tell at Stanford, the one they buried with Hannah, the one Lisa might expose if Susan's plan fails.

  But for now, in this moment suspended between revelation and consequence, they are just four teenagers at a birthday party, toasting to friendship and future and forever. The perfect picture of privilege and promise.

  Even if some of them have blood on their hands.