THE LAST SHOOTING STAR

"Irene, we've talked about this."

Her father's voice was calm...too calm. The kind of calm that came before an argument he knew he was about to win.

Irene didn't bother looking up from her coffee. She knew exactly where this was going.

"Irene, darling," her mother tried instead, using that soft, pleading tone that usually made people bend to her will. "It's just one ball. You'll go, meet people, have fun"

"I don't do fun," Irene cut in, stirring her coffee lazily.

Her father pinched the bridge of his nose, already losing patience. "It's one night, Irene. A few hours at most. Just show your face, be polite, dance at least once."

"No."

Her mother gasped. "No?" as if the concept was foreign to her.

"You heard me," Irene said, bored.

Her father exhaled sharply. "Irene, you can't spend your life locked away in this house."

"Why not?" she asked, tilting her head. “I like it here. It's quiet. Peaceful. No one forcing me to waste time at ridiculous events where people pretend to like each other."

Her mother flinched. "It's not ridiculous. It's socializing. Something you should do more of."

Irene laughed under her breath. Socializing? What for?

Her mother straightened her shoulders, pressing on. "This is important, Irene. Not just for us, but for you. You're still young. You should be enjoying your life"

"Enjoying it how, Mother? By pretending I have all the time in the world?" Irene's voice was colder now. "By pretending I can afford to fall in love like everyone else, only to die and leave them in misery?"

Silence.

For a moment, just a moment, she thought she had finally shut them up.

And then

Her mother's voice cracked.

"I just... I just want to see you happy, Irene."

Irene froze.

Her mother reached for a napkin, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. Tears.

Of course.

Her father sighed, his tone suddenly softer. "Your mother is worried sick about you. We both are."

"Worried about what, exactly?" Irene's jaw tightened. "That I won't find love? That I'll die a virgin? That I don't enjoy overpriced champagne and meaningless small talk?"

Her mother's face crumbled. "Irene!"

But the damage was done. Her mother fully broke down, covering her face with shaky hands.

And that was it.

That was the final blow.

Because Irene could handle a lot of things. She could handle pain, she could handle loneliness, she could handle death staring her in the face.

But she could not handle seeing them cry because of her.

"Fine," she muttered.

Her mother's head snapped up. "What?"

"I'll go.

A wide smile broke through her mother's tears. "Really?"

"One night," Irene warned. "That's it."

Her father exhaled in relief. "That's all we ask."

No.

That's all they were forcing.

AT THE BALL

The golden chandeliers dripped with elegance, casting a warm glow over the sea of perfectly dressed elites. The hum of polite conversation mixed with the soft melody of a string quartet. Everything about the night screamed luxury, perfection, and romance three things Irene had no interest in.

She stood at the edge of the ballroom, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold like an outsider. The air was filled with laughter and forced pleasantries. The wealthy gathered in clusters, sipping champagne, flashing perfect smiles, whispering secrets behind jeweled hands.

"If you just opened up, you might find someone."

Her mother's voice echoed in her head.

What a joke.

Irene didn't need to find someone. She needed to make sure no one found her.

She had seen what love did. It latched onto people, made them feel alive, only to shatter them when it was ripped away. And she was going to be ripped away.

So she had built walls cold, unbreakable walls. She had pushed every suitor away, freezing them out until they left on their own.

And it had worked.

Until now.

"Irene?"

The voice was soft, familiar.

She turned, and for the first time that evening, her carefully built walls shifted.

It was her childhood friend, eyes wide with recognition. Standing beside her was a man Irene had never seen before.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sharp-jawed. Dark, knowing eyes that didn't flicker away like the others.

Unlike everyone else in the room he wasn't looking away.

He didn't look away.

His gaze was steady, unwavering not the fleeting glances of the men Irene was used to, not the subtle admiration that crumbled under the weight of her indifference. No, this was different. It wasn't admiration. It wasn't curiosity. It was something else entirely.

Something calculating.

Something persistent.

But Irene was unbothered.

She didn't flinch. Didn't avert her gaze like a flustered debutante. Instead, she shifted her attention back to the only person here that mattered Rachael.

"You're staring," Irene pointed out, her tone flat.

Rachael blinked, then laughed. "And you're as blunt as ever." She gestured to the man beside her. "Irene, meet Ryan my brother."

Irene's eyes flickered with something unreadable.

"Brother?"

She had never heard Rachael mention a brother before.

As if reading the question in her expression, Rachael smirked. "Oh, don't look so surprised. You never cared to hear about men, remember? You hated when I brought them up, so I figured what was the point?"

Irene had no response to that.

She supposed Rachael wasn't wrong.

Back then, love, relationships, men none of it mattered to her. She had dismissed it all, pushed it away before it could become something significant.

She couldn't afford attachments.

And now?

Now, she had even more reasons to stay away.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her champagne glass.

"So, you finally decided to return to civilization," Rachael continued, voice light, but there was something careful in the way she said it. "I tried reaching out after we got into college, but you disappeared."

Irene exhaled softly. "I didn't disappear."

"You might as well have," Rachael countered. "No calls, no texts nothing. I thought you were avoiding me."

Irene glanced away.

Avoiding? No.

But keeping distance? Yes.

She hadn't told Rachael about the diagnosis. Hadn't told anyone.

The symptoms had started in her first year, and before she knew it, the world outside became distant noise. She had withdrawn, left campus, and taken her courses from home.

It was easier that way.

Easier to keep people from seeing her fall apart.

"Things...changed," Irene finally said, her voice quieter than before.

Rachael studied her, as if searching for the truth in her words.

Ryan, still silent, still watching, tilted his head slightly like he, too, was piecing something together.

Irene ignored it.

"So," she said, steering the conversation away. "You and your brother here for business or pleasure?"

Rachael raised a brow. "Neither. Family obligations."

"And you?" Ryan finally spoke, his voice deep, measured. Amused.

Irene's gaze flicked to him.

"Blackmail," she answered simply.

Rachael snorted. "Her parents forced her."

Ryan's lips curled slightly. "Ah."

He didn't press further.

Good.

Irene had no interest in small talk.

But even as she shifted the conversation back to Rachael, she could still feel Ryan's eyes on her.

Unmoving. Unshaken.

And for the first time in a long while she had the oddest feeling that someone wasn't going to leave.

Irene was used to men backing off.

The moment they sensed her indifference, the moment they realized she wasn't soft, charming, or inviting, they took a step back.

They always did.

Yet, Ryan didn't.

Even now, as the conversation drifted, as the night carried on with the clinking of glasses and the murmur of aristocratic gossip, he didn't leave.

He didn't stop watching her.

Not in an overbearing way. Not in a way that demanded attention.

But in a way that said I see you.

And that?

That was dangerous.

"Well," Irene finally exhaled, handing her empty glass to a passing waiter. "As much fun as this has been, I think I've played the obedient daughter enough for one night."

Rachael huffed. "You're leaving already?"

"Yes."

"It's barely been an hour!"

Irene shot her a pointed look. "And?"

Rachael rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

Ryan chuckled. A low, rich sound.

Irene ignored it.

She turned on her heel, already heading toward the exit. She had played her role. She had done what her parents wanted. That was enough.

But just as she reached the grand entrance, a hand caught her wrist.

Firm. Warm. Unhesitating.

She stilled.

Slowly, she turned her gaze clashing with his.

Ryan.

The audacity.

She arched a brow. "Excuse me?"

His grip loosened but didn't fall away completely.

"One dance."

Irene blinked. Did he just?

"No." The refusal came instantly.

Ryan didn't look the least bit surprised. If anything, he looked... expectant.

"Afraid you'll enjoy it?" he murmured.

Her jaw tightened. "I just don't like wasting time."

"Neither do I."

Then let go.

The words were on the tip of her tongue, ready to be laced with ice. But before she could say them, Rachael's voice cut in.

"Oh, come on, Irene!" Rachael groaned dramatically. "It's just one dance. It won't kill you."