*Novel Opening – Olivia

New York City had never looked so blue.

Olivia stood by the window of a penthouse she had no business being in, watching the skyline blur into a watercolor smear of neon and night. Behind her, her friends were passing a blunt in the bathroom, their laughter muffled by the hum of bad decisions and cheap champagne. Someone had told her once that honest love was a cage that made you feel free—she'd laughed at the time, but now the words clung to her like smoke.

All the girls at this party moved with an effortless cool that Olivia had spent her whole life trying to fake. She watched them—glossy-haired, sharp-tongued, comfortable in their own skin—and felt like a fraud in heels that were already killing her. But she couldn't stop imagining him. What he'd say if he were here. How his voice would cut through the noise and make everything else disappear.

He was a spark in the dark, and she was already burning.

Her clothes felt too tight, her skin too warm. Every time someone said his name—even in passing, even in her own head—her chest caved in like a house of cards. She was a car speeding down a boulevard with no brakes, and she didn't care where she crashed. She wanted him more than any stupid love song could ever say—and she'd heard enough of those tonight to know.

She was a heart made of wax, melting under a sun she couldn't escape. A thread on his shirt, coming undone stitch by stitch. She felt right, she felt wrong, she felt totally insane.

And still, she wanted him.

Walking through the park the next morning—head high, past college girls and drunk guys stumbling home—she thought about god. Not the one in churches, but the one that lived in the invisible tether between her and him. If there was a god, that was it. That bond. That pull.

Seven nights alone. One skipped meal. She'd slept in her dress and heels again, too tired to undress, too restless to dream of anything but his face. And she was too shy to say it out loud—what she saw when she closed her eyes.

Every night was the same. She'd dream of him from 1:00 to 4:00, wide awake and aching. Nobody had ever wanted somebody more. She was positively, absolutely sure of that. It was the thing she couldn't ignore—the truth that sat in her ribs like a second heartbeat.

Tell your friends you're mine, I'm yours.

She'd swear it with her hand on her heart.

Because he was the spark. And she was already on fire.*