The Kensington was everything the frat house wasn't. The lobby was filled with the scent of expensive candles and the hushed tones of a professional concierge. The floor was polished marble that reflected the glow of a massive crystal chandelier.
"Welcome, Mr. Hampton," the doorman said, handing him a sleek gold-and-black key card. "Your roommate moved in earlier this afternoon. They seemed quite settled."
Brendon paused, his hand hovering over the card. "Roommate? I thought I requested a private unit."
The doorman checked his tablet. "Ah, it looks like there was a glitch in the university-affiliated portal, sir. All three-bedroom units were converted to shared occupancy for the fall semester due to the dorm renovations. The third bedroom in your unit is currently unoccupied, waiting for a mid-semester transfer. Your broker should have notified you."
Brendon cursed under his breath. He didn't have the energy to fight it tonight. "Whatever. Is this person a party animal?"
"They seemed very quiet, sir," the doorman replied. "Carried in a rather elegant-looking instrument case. Couldn't quite tell what it was, but they handled it with care."
Brendon felt a strange prickle at the back of his neck. An instrument.
"Great," he muttered. "I'm living with a band geek."
He took the elevator to the fourth floor. The hallway was silent, the carpet so thick it swallowed the sound of his suitcases. He reached Unit 4B and pressed his key card against the sensor.
Beep. The light turned green.
He pushed the door open. The apartment was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. The lights were low, only a single floor lamp in the corner casting a warm, amber glow over the living room.
Then, he smelled it.
Vanilla. Not the fake, sugary scent of a candle, but the soft, earthy smell of actual vanilla bean and old wood.
Brendon froze. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard it felt like it might bruise. He knew that smell. He had spent two years buried in it.
He looked toward the window. A figure was standing there, silhouetted against the city lights. They were wearing an oversized grey hoodie, the hood down, revealing a mess of dark, wavy hair.
Beside the sofa stood a black, hardshell violin case.
Brendon's suitcases slipped from his grip. They hit the floor with a deafening thud.
The figure spun around, a small gasp escaping their lips.
The amber light hit her face. The high cheekbones. The wide, amber eyes that always looked like they were holding a secret. The tiny mole just below her left eye that he used to kiss every morning.
"Kiera?" Brendon's voice was a broken rasp.
Kiera Richards looked like she had seen a ghost. Her face went deathly pale, her hand flying to her throat. She stumbled back a step, her heel catching on the edge of the rug.
"Brendon?" she whispered.
For a long minute, neither of them moved. The air in the room felt thick, like they were standing at the bottom of the ocean.
Brendon couldn't breathe. This wasn't possible. Kiera had vanished a year ago. She had blocked him. She had moved away. She had left him in the wreckage of his father's scandal and never looked back.
"What are you doing here?" Kiera asked, her voice regaining some of its sharpness. She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture he remembered all too well.
"I live here," Brendon said, his brain finally beginning to function. "This is my apartment. Unit 4B."
Kiera shook her head, her eyes darting to the door as if looking for an exit. "No. No, this is my apartment. I signed the lease three days ago. The office said my roommate was 'B. Hampton.' For a split second, my heart stopped. But I told myself it was impossible. The Hamptons of Hampton Holdings don't live in university-affiliated housing, even luxury ones. It had to be a coincidence. I thought... I thought it was a girl. Bethany. Or Brianna."
"It's Brendon," he said.
He took a step toward her, and she immediately took a step back. The movement stung worse than any of Gloria's insults.
"Don't," she said, her voice trembling. "Don't come near me."
"Kiera, I didn't know," Brendon said, holding his hands up. "I swear to God, if I had known it was you, I wouldn't have..."
"You wouldn't have what?" she snapped, her eyes flashing with a sudden, familiar fire. "You wouldn't have come? Or you would have made sure I was evicted first?"
"I'm not trying to evict you," he said.
They stood there, two people who used to know the rhythm of each other's heartbeats, now looking at each other like strangers across a battlefield.
Brendon looked at the violin case. "You're still playing."
Kiera followed his gaze. She looked back at him, her expression hardening into a mask of cold indifference.
"I'm a freshman now," she said. "I took a Gap Year. Not that you'd know. You were too busy being the campus celebrity with your new girlfriend."
Brendon winced. He wanted to tell her that Gloria was a lie. He wanted to tell her that he had spent every day of that year looking for her in every crowd.
But the look in her eyes stopped him. It wasn't just anger. It was trauma.
And he was the one who had caused it.
