Under The 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.