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Technically, summer wasn't over.
Not yet.
The Manhattan morning light spilled through Monet's bedroom in soft, buttery sheets, catching on the edge of silk curtains and casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. The De Haan penthouse was quiet at this hour—Camille had already left for her Pilates instructor-slash-senator's-wife brunch—but the scent of fresh espresso drifted faintly from the kitchen, accompanied by the low hum of city life revving to a start sixteen stories below.
In the center of Monet's bed—half-draped in a navy sheet, half-buried under each other—lay the girls everyone would be talking about by lunch.
Adelaide stirred first, her bare shoulder rising with a stretch, skin kissed with sunlight and Monet's lip gloss from the night before. Her hair was a beautiful mess, the braid Monet had made unraveling into soft waves across the pillow. She blinked once, then turned her head—and smiled.
Monet was still asleep, dark lashes resting against her cheek, curls spilling across the linen like ink. One arm was thrown across Adelaide's waist in unconscious possession. Her back was warm, her breath steady, and her lipstick-smudged mouth parted just slightly from the stolen kisses of hours before.
Adelaide leaned forward and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead, letting it rest there.
The night had been... tender. Electric. A confession in movement. Fingers through curls. Breathless yeses. The kind of night that made you forget you'd once weaponized silence against the same girl now curled into your chest.
They'd fallen asleep tangled in each other, limbs and hearts wrapped tight.
Now, as the sun streamed in and a new school year loomed just hours away, neither girl moved to break the spell.
----
Camille was pouring her espresso into a bone-white porcelain cup when Isabella Kingsley let herself in, dressed in an off-white linen jumpsuit with oversized tortoiseshell glasses and the faint smell of Tom Ford Neroli.
"Please tell me she's not making Addy wear that God-awful tie again," Isabella said, reaching for the orange juice with a practiced glide.
Camille chuckled, setting the espresso down. "You say that like your daughter didn't spend half the summer braiding Monet's hair and writing op-eds about climate migration for fun."
"And sleeping in my guest room less and your daughter's bed more," Isabella smirked.
Camille raised a brow. "Jealous?"
Isabella ignored her and sipped. "Should we... start planning? You know, the thing?"
Camille pretended to be scandalized. "Isabella Kingsley. Are you suggesting we plan their engagement before they've even finished their college essays?"
