Author's Preface
The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla candles and fresh coffee. Warm light filled the living room, softening the simple Scandinavian furniture Clara once only saw in magazines. Large windows looked out over the harbor, where the sunset was fading into deep blue.
Everything looked lived in but for Clara... everything felt wrong.
Clara sat quietly on the edge of the gray sofa, her bag still on her lap as if she had forgotten it was there. She had barely spoken since arriving.
Her eyes moved around the apartment, stopping on photos she didn’t remember taking, books she didn’t recall buying, and small decorations that felt like they belonged to a life she didn’t know. Or perhaps... A life she had yet to live.
Ingrid emerged from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs. "I made chamomile," she said gently, placing one in front of Clara. "I know you like to drink tea whenever you're overwhelmed."
Clara stared at the cup. A small smile tugged at her lips. "So I haven't changed that much."
Ingrid chuckled as she settled into the armchair opposite her. "You've been acting strange all afternoon."
"I know."
"You nearly gave me a heart attack when I found you standing in the middle of the street."
Clara lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"It's not the apology I'm after." Ingrid leaned forward slightly, concern replacing amusement. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
Clara opened her mouth. Nothing came out. How could she explain that only a few hours ago she had been sixty years old? That she had watched her daughter drive away with her fiancé? She looked back up and forced a faint smile. "I think... I'm just tired."
Ingrid studied her for another moment before finally sighing. "You've been working too much."
She stood, clapping her hands together with sudden determination. "That's it."
Clara blinked. "W-What?"
"We're going out."
"...Out?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
Ingrid grinned. "To the club... So you will be reminded that you're twenty-seven, not ninety."
Clara laughed despite herself. "Ingrid... I've never been much of a party person. You know that."
"Exactly why we're fixing that tonight."
Less than an hour later, Clara barely recognized herself in the mirror.
The black satin dress Ingrid had picked fit her neatly... simple, elegant, and striking in a quiet way. It caught the light whenever she moved, made for soft, warm lighting.
Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders. A touch of red lipstick softened the uncertainty in her expression. Nothing excessive.Nothing artificial. Simply just… her.
Ingrid stood behind her, fixing her fitted green dress with simple gold jewelry. She looked confident without trying. She met Clara’s eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “Tonight,” Ingrid said, slipping on her heels, “we’re not healing. We’re not reflecting. We’re not overthinking.”
Clara frowned slightly. “Then... what are we doing? ”
Ingrid turned. “We’re letting rich, emotionally unavailable Norwegian men make bad decisions about us for one night.”
Clara stared at her, lips parting slightly. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“It is,” Ingrid agreed without hesitation. “Which is exactly why it’ll be fun.”
Clara let out a small breath, almost a laugh but it didn’t fully form. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she admitted more quietly, her gaze dropping back to her reflection. “I feel like… I don’t belong in a place like that. I’m not—” She shook her head faintly. “I’m not that kind of woman.”
For a moment, Ingrid didn’t joke. She simply watched her. Then she stepped closer and gently took Clara’s hands.
“Clara,” she said softly, “you’ve spent your entire life being the kind of woman who belongs everywhere except where she actually wants to be.”
Clara blinked, caught off guard. Ingrid squeezed her hands.
“Please. Just tonight… give yourself a chance.”
Her voice softened, but there was something steady beneath it, something grounded in years of friendship and shared history.
“We don’t stay young forever,” Ingrid continued. “And when we’re older… we won’t have the energy, the courage, or even the curiosity to play like this anymore.”
A faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips. “So let’s experience it while we still can,” she said gently. “Let’s let ourselves be seen. Let’s let ourselves feel something… even if it doesn’t last.” She tilted her head slightly.
“When we’re older, Clara… we won’t be able to do things like this anymore. We won’t have the luxury of being reckless with emotions we don’t even fully understand yet.”
Silence settled between them. Clara looked at her reflection again. This version of herself didn’t look like someone who said yes easily. But she also didn’t look like someone who wanted to keep saying no forever.
Slowly… hesitantly… she exhaled. “Just tonight,” she whispered.
Ingrid’s smile returned immediately. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The Aurora Lounge overlooked the Oslo waterfront from the top floor of an exclusive hotel. No flashing neon lights greeted its guests. Instead, crystal chandeliers reflected across polished marble floors while a live jazz quartet filled the room with slow, elegant melodies.
Men in tailored suits exchanged quiet conversations over aged whiskey. Women in evening dresses laughed beneath warm golden lights, their confidence as effortless as their smiles.
Everything about the place whispered wealth rather than announcing it. Clara instinctively slowed her steps. It reminded her of the places she had only ever walked past.
The kind with polished windows, she had admired from the sidewalk before quietly convincing herself she didn't belong inside.
Even now, dressed in satin instead of the practical clothes she usually wore, she felt like an imposter who had wandered into someone else's life.
"I don't think I belong here," she admitted quietly.
Ingrid slipped her arm through hers. "Neither did I the first time."
Clara looked at her friend. "Then how did you stop feeling that way?"
Ingrid smiled without slowing her pace. "I didn't."
"I just stopped caring whether I belonged."
She gently nudged Clara toward the entrance. "Come on."
"The rich people inside don't own confidence any more than we do."
Despite herself, Clara laughed. Together, they disappeared into the crowd.
At another corner of the lounge, Zoren Eikland sat alone. A half-finished glass of whiskey rested near his hand.
The music had faded into background noise as he stared through the panoramic windows, watching the city lights stretch endlessly below like scattered constellations trapped on earth.
Another drink. Another conversation with his father. Another reminder that his law career would have to wait while he assumed responsibility for the family’s publishing house.
It had never been his dream yet somehow… It had become his obligation. He let out a slow breath and raised the glass again when something caught his attention and pulled him out of his thoughts.
His gaze drifted across the lounge. People moved in soft motion beneath golden chandeliers, laughter, glasses clinking and the low hum of wealth and quiet indulgence. And then...
He noticed her.
A woman standing slightly apart from the crowd. She stood as though she wasn’t sure whether she belonged there. Her back was turned at first, but what caught his attention wasn’t her posture.
It was her hair. Dark. Long. Wavy. Falling in soft, effortless waves like water in motion.
Beside her stood another woman... a Black woman, elegant and confident in her presence. They appeared to be speaking briefly before the companion smiled and slipped away into the crowd, leaving the first woman alone.
Foreigners, he assumed.
Oslo had become increasingly international over the years, but something about the contrast between the two women drew his attention.
The Black woman disappeared into the moving crowd, and the remaining woman stood still for a moment, as if adjusting to the sudden absence of company. That was when Zoren noticed something else.
The men nearby. Their attention had begun to shift. Subtle at first, glances that lingered too long, conversations that faltered mid-sentence. Then more direct stares, unmistakably drawn toward her. Zoren frowned slightly, his grip tightening around the glass.
The woman shifted her stance, unaware or perhaps pretending not to notice the growing attention surrounding her. Then, almost by accident, she turned slightly toward the room. And for the first time, he saw her face.
Young, soft-featured, and quietly striking. She didn’t try to draw attention, but she still did. There was a gentleness in her face that stood out against how the room reacted to her.
Asian, he thought absently. He wasn’t sure why that mattered. Or why he noticed at all.
A faint crease formed between his brows as he followed the movement of the men closer to her. Their attention was no longer subtle. One of them stepped forward, closer than necessary, his body language already crossing a line that did not need words to define it.
Zoren took another slow sip of his whiskey. Still watching. Then the man reached for her wrist. The woman’s expression changed instantly.
Not loud nor dramatic. But she looked uncomfortable, tense and holding herself back, clearly trying not to show it. Something in Zoren’s gaze hardened. The glass lowered.
And for the first time that evening, he stood.