Chapter 3: The Game Begins
Rina sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, one heel half-on, half-off as she tugged the strap into place, her hair still damp at the ends from a rushed shower that hadn’t quite cooled her down.
“I’m telling you,” Ginny said from across the room, perched on her own bed with a brush in one hand and Rina’s discarded sweater in the other, “you like him.”
Rina didn’t look up immediately. She smoothed her hands over her thighs, checking the line of the denim mini in the mirror propped against the wall, then reached for the silk tank draped over the chair beside her. Pale ivory, lace-trimmed at the neckline—simple, but unmistakably not from Filene’s Basement.
“I didn’t say I didn’t,” she said, finally, pulling it on over her head and adjusting the straps. “I said he’s interesting.”
Ginny snorted. “You don’t pace your side of the room for ten minutes after meeting someone because they’re ‘interesting.’”
“I was not pacing,” Rina said, though her mouth twitched as she turned slightly, checking the fit from another angle.
“You were pacing,” Ginny shot back. “And then you sat down and stared at nothing for, like, a full minute, which was honestly more concerning.”
Rina huffed a quiet laugh, reaching for a thin gold chain on the nightstand and fastening it around her neck.
“He’s just—” She paused, searching, then shook her head lightly. “He’s not an idiot.”
Ginny froze mid-brush, then slowly lowered it, staring at her.
“Wow,” she said flatly. “The bar is on the floor.”
Rina laughed, this time fully, the sound loosening something in her chest that had been wound tighter than she’d realized.
“You know what I mean,” she said, glancing over at her. “He actually thinks things through. He didn’t just repeat whatever line he’s been hearing all week.”
“Okay,” Ginny said, leaning forward now, interested. “So he’s smart. Is he cute?”
Rina hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—and that was all Ginny needed.
“Oh my God,” Ginny said, delighted. “He’s hot.”
“He’s—” Rina cut herself off, then rolled her eyes slightly, conceding. “Yes. He’s attractive.”
Ginny let out a triumphant little laugh. “There it is.”
Rina stood, smoothing her hands over her hips again, more out of habit than necessity, then stepped into her boots—black, heeled just enough to change her posture without sacrificing movement.
“It’s not just that,” she said, quieter now, more thoughtful. “He listens.”
Ginny tilted her head. “Like… actually?”
“Actually,” Rina said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “And he doesn’t rush to fill silence. He lets things land.”
Ginny considered that for a second, then nodded slowly. “Okay, that’s… rare.”
“Exactly.”
Rina reached for her bag, checking quickly for her lip gloss, her room key, the small things that grounded the transition from one space to another.
“And he didn’t make it weird,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
Ginny’s eyes flicked up. “Weird how?”
Rina shrugged lightly. “He knew who I was. Or figured it out. But he didn’t—” She gestured vaguely. “—do anything with it.”
No shift in tone. No awkward sympathy. No sudden performance of familiarity.
Just… Jon.
Ginny’s expression softened slightly, something more perceptive settling in.
“That matters,” she said.
Rina met her eyes in the mirror again, holding the look for a second before nodding once.
“Yeah,” she said. “It does.”
A beat.
Then Ginny’s mouth curved again, mischief returning.
“So,” she said, hopping off the bed, “birthday girl. Are we excited for the mixer, or are we pretending we’re above it?”
Rina smiled, sharper now, the earlier heaviness gone.
“I’m never above dancing,” she said.
Ginny grinned. “Correct answer.”
*******
The music hit them before the door even opened.
Bass-heavy, a little too loud for the size of the room, already warm with bodies and movement and that particular college-party mix of cheap alcohol and anticipation.
Rina stepped in without hesitation, the shift immediate—out of the contained, analytical space of the conference rooms and into something looser, more physical. Her body recognized it before her brain caught up.
“Oh, thank God,” she said, glancing back at Ginny with a grin. “Something I actually understand.”
Ginny laughed, grabbing her hand and pulling her further in as a couple of other girls from their group waved them over near the makeshift dance floor.
Rina didn’t look for him.
Not consciously.
She clocked the room the way she always did—quick, efficient, taking in the exits, the clusters of people, the general energy—but she didn’t scan for Jon. Not yet.
Instead, she let herself be pulled into it.
The music shifted—something upbeat, familiar—and she felt it settle into her body immediately, the rhythm finding her without effort. She moved easily, instinctively, years of training translating into something that looked effortless even when it wasn’t.
Ginny whooped beside her, already laughing, and Rina laughed too, throwing her head back for a second, letting the moment wash over her.
It was her birthday.
Eighteen.
In a crowded room in Boston with people who didn’t know her—or didn’t know her fully—music loud enough to blur the edges of everything else.
For a few minutes, that was enough.
Song bled into song, the crowd thickening, energy building in that messy, imperfect way that still somehow worked. Rina moved through it easily, switching between dancing with her friends and getting pulled into looser circles, her smile coming quicker now, her shoulders finally dropping from the tension of earlier.
She was mid-laugh—Ginny attempting something that absolutely did not qualify as dancing—when the opening beat dropped.
Heavy. Recognizable.
“Oh my God,” Ginny said, already losing it. “Yes.”
Rina felt it hit her like a switch flipping.
“In da club,” Ginny sang badly, grabbing her shoulders.
Rina laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained now, and without thinking, she moved with it, hips catching the rhythm, shoulders loosening, the music settling deep into her body.
Go shorty, it’s your birthday—
“Oh, absolutely not,” she said, laughing, but she was already leaning into it, the irony too perfect to ignore.
Ginny shrieked. “IT’S LITERALLY YOUR BIRTHDAY—”
“I’m aware,” Rina shot back, still laughing, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned in harder, playing with it now, the music giving her something easy, something uncomplicated to grab onto.
She spun once, quick and controlled, boots catching the floor just right, then settled back into the beat, letting herself enjoy it.
No arguments. No analysis.
Just movement.
And then—
She felt it.
Not saw. Not heard.
Felt.
That subtle shift in awareness when someone’s attention lands on you in a way that’s different from the rest. Focused. Intentional.
She didn’t turn immediately.
Didn’t break the moment.
She let it sit there for a second, letting herself confirm it—not by looking, but by sensing the way it held, steady, not flickering away like most glances did.
Then she turned.
And there he was.
Jon stood just at the edge of the dance floor, not fully in it yet, one hand loosely at his side, the other holding a drink he’d clearly forgotten about. His eyes were on her—no pretense of looking elsewhere, no hesitation now that she’d caught him.
Just—there.
Watching.
And when she met his gaze, he smiled.
Not wide. Not performative.
Just… real.
Recognition. Something like appreciation. Something else threaded under it now that hadn’t been there earlier.
Rina felt it hit—quick, clean, undeniable.
Oh.
She didn’t stop dancing.
That was the important part.
She held his gaze for half a beat longer than necessary, just enough to acknowledge it, then let her eyes flick away, back to Ginny, back to the music—but not fully.
The awareness stayed.
Alive. Bright.
She turned again a second later, not pretending now, and this time she moved toward him—not directly, not cutting across the floor, but angling, letting the space close gradually, the rhythm of the music carrying her.
He didn’t move away.
Didn’t rush forward either.
He let her come.
Smart.
By the time she reached him, the song had hit the chorus again, the room louder, bodies tighter, the energy peaking.
“Good,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear, the word slipping easily into place like it had earlier.
His smile deepened, something in his eyes warming.
“Yeah,” he said. “Good.”
And then she reached for him—light, deliberate—fingers brushing his wrist, pulling him the rest of the way into the dance floor like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on,” she said.
And he did.
Jon did not belong on that dance floor.
Not in the way Rina did.
That was obvious within about three seconds.
He stepped into the space she pulled him into with the confidence of someone who understood rhythm conceptually but not physically—a half-beat behind here, a little too deliberate there, like he was translating the music instead of feeling it.
Rina clocked it immediately.
And grinned.
“Okay,” she said, laughing lightly as she adjusted her own movement to meet his, her hands briefly finding his forearms to steady the rhythm between them. “You’re thinking too much.”
“I know,” Jon admitted, already laughing at himself, shoulders loosening a fraction under her touch. “I can feel it happening.”
“That’s the problem,” she said. “Stop feeling it.”
“That seems counterintuitive.”
“Trust me,” she said, and there was something in her tone—light, but certain—that made him actually listen.
She shifted closer—not dramatically, not suddenly, just enough that he could follow her more easily, her body setting the pace instead of asking him to find it on his own.
“Just—follow me,” she added, her voice dipping slightly so it cut through the music without forcing him to strain.
He nodded, eyes flicking down for a second like he was trying to map it, then back up to her.
“Okay,” he said. “I can do that.”
She watched him for a beat—really watched—and then started moving again, simpler now, more grounded, giving him something to latch onto.
And he did.
Not perfectly. Not smoothly.
But he adjusted.
Fast.
Rina felt it, the way he stopped overcorrecting, the way his shoulders dropped, the way he let himself be a little looser, a little less precise. It wasn’t polished—but it was responsive.
Which, honestly, she liked more.
“See?” she said, a small, approving smile tugging at her mouth. “Better.”
“Marginally,” Jon said, but there was a note of relief in it now.
“Don’t get cocky,” she shot back, and he laughed again, the sound easier this time, less self-conscious.
The music thumped around them, bodies pressing closer as the chorus hit again, but the space between them held—defined not by distance anymore, but by focus.
He was looking at her.
Not at the crowd. Not at his feet.
At her.
And now that she’d brought him into the rhythm, she let herself move more fully again—hips catching the beat, shoulders rolling, the kind of instinctive control that came from years of training but didn’t read as practiced, just… natural.
Jon watched it happen, something like appreciation flickering across his face, and Rina felt it—not in a way that made her perform, but in a way that sharpened her awareness of him.
“You’re very good at this,” he said, leaning in just enough for his voice to carry.
She tilted her head, a hint of a smirk forming.
“I’ve had some practice.”
“Yeah,” he said, a quiet laugh threading through it. “I gathered.”
The chorus hit again, louder this time, the whole room surging with it.
Go shorty, it’s your birthday—
And suddenly Ginny was there, and then two more of Rina’s friends, collapsing in around them in a burst of laughter and movement.
“IT’S HER BIRTHDAY!” Ginny shouted, grabbing Rina’s shoulders and shaking her slightly, already half-singing, half-yelling the lyrics directly at her. “Go, go, go—”
“Oh my God,” Rina laughed, trying and failing to fend her off, her hands coming up in mock defense. “Please stop—”
“NO,” Ginny said, fully committed now, dragging one of the other girls into it. “We are absolutely not stopping—”
“Happy birthday, you bitch!” someone else yelled over the music, and Rina doubled over for a second, laughing, her hair falling forward before she pushed it back.
Jon laughed too, instinctively stepping back just enough to take it in—the chaos of it, the way she lit up inside it, loose and unguarded in a way she hadn’t been in the ballroom.
The girls swarmed her for another beat—hugging her, spinning her, singing badly and loudly—and then just as quickly, they were gone again, pulled back into the crowd.
The space between them opened.
Rina turned back toward him, still smiling, a little breathless now, a faint flush high on her cheeks.
Jon tilted his head, the realization landing cleanly.
“Wait,” he said, a grin breaking across his face. “Is it actually your birthday?”
Rina stilled—not completely, just enough that the question landed.
For a split second, something softer crossed her expression. Not uncertainty—just a flicker of shyness, like the attention had shifted in a way she hadn’t entirely chosen.
Then she exhaled, a small laugh slipping out as she met his eyes again.
“Yes,” she said.
Jon let out a quiet, delighted huff of a laugh, shaking his head.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s kind of perfect.”
“Isn’t it?” she replied, her smile returning—but different now. Warmer. More private. Like the moment had narrowed again after the interruption.
The music swelled around them, bodies pressing closer again, but the space between them held.
Rina held his gaze for a second longer, then tilted her head just slightly, her voice dropping just enough to cut through the noise.
“So,” she said, light but deliberate, “are you going to give me a birthday kiss, or are you going to make me ask twice?”
Jon froze for a fraction of a second.
Not long. Just enough to register the shift.
Then his expression changed—not dramatically, not in a way that broke the moment, but something in it settled. Focused. Certain.
“I don’t think you need to ask twice,” he said.
And then he closed the distance.
It wasn’t rushed.
That was the first thing Rina noticed.
He didn’t lunge, didn’t fumble, didn’t overthink himself into hesitation. He just—moved in, one hand lifting almost instinctively to her waist, grounding the space between them before his mouth met hers.
And then—
Oh.
Rina felt it immediately.
The kiss wasn’t tentative, but it wasn’t aggressive either. It was intentional—the kind that paid attention, that adjusted in real time. His mouth was warm, steady, the pressure just right, like he was listening to her the same way he had in conversation.
She responded without thinking, her hand sliding up to his shoulder, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt as she leaned in—not collapsing into it, just meeting him fully.
The music blurred.
Not gone—still there, bass thudding through the floor—but secondary now, background to something sharper, more immediate.
He shifted slightly, angling his head, deepening it just a fraction, and Rina followed, her breath catching briefly at the change, at the way it worked.
God.
This was—
Good.
Really good.
Better than she’d expected, better than she’d planned for, better than a first kiss in the middle of a crowded, overheated dance floor had any right to be.
There was a moment—just a flicker—where it could have tipped too far, where it could have become something else entirely.
It didn’t.
They both felt it.
And they both pulled back at the same time.
Not abruptly. Not awkwardly.
Just enough.
Rina stayed close, her hand still resting against his shoulder, her breath just slightly uneven as she looked at him.
“Well,” she said softly, her mouth curving, eyes searching his. “That was a good decision.”
Jon let out a quiet breath, something like a laugh caught in it, his hand still at her waist.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m glad you asked.”
She smiled—slower this time, more deliberate—and let her fingers trail lightly down his arm as she stepped back half an inch, not breaking contact entirely, just… resetting the space.
“Me too,” she said.
The music swelled again around them, the chorus hitting for what felt like the hundredth time, the room alive and loud and chaotic.
But the moment held.
Sharp. Bright.
And very, very real.
The kiss left Jon a little unsteady—not in a disorienting way, but in that rare, clean way where something lands exactly right and your brain hasn’t quite caught up yet.
He was still half in it when he pulled back, still aware of the warmth of her mouth, the way she’d met him without hesitation, like it wasn’t a gamble for her, just a decision.
“Well,” she said softly, and he felt the shape of her smile more than he saw it at first, “that was a good decision.”
“Yeah,” Jon said, the word coming out quieter than he intended. “I’m glad you asked.”
She smiled again—slower this time, something more deliberate in it—and he felt that same pull again, steadier now because it had somewhere to go.
“Me too.”
The music surged around them, bodies pressing closer, the room loud and alive in a way that should have swallowed the moment whole.
It didn’t.
If anything, it sharpened it.
Jon let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his hand still at her waist, grounding himself in the reality of it—her, here, now—when something flickered past her shoulder.
A shift.
A presence that didn’t match the rest of the room.
His gaze lifted, just over her head, and caught on it.
A guy—tall, dark suit that felt slightly too formal for the room, posture stiff, eyes locked directly on them. Not casually. Not curiously.
Intently.
Watching.
Jon’s smile faded just a fraction, not gone, but edged now with something more alert.
He tipped his head slightly, still close to her, his voice low enough that it didn’t carry past her.
“Do you have a boyfriend,” he murmured, glancing briefly back at her, “or a very jealous ex here?”
Rina didn’t turn immediately.
She followed his line of sight a second later, slower, like she already suspected the answer.
And then she rolled her eyes.
Not subtle. Not polite.
Just—done.
“Oh my God,” she muttered, the words half-lost under the music but clear in tone.
Jon followed her gaze again, more directly now, and caught the way the guy stiffened almost imperceptibly when she looked at him—like being seen was part of the goal.
“Who is that?” Jon asked.
Rina exhaled sharply through her nose, the earlier warmth snapping into something colder, more irritated.
“Jared Kushner,” she said flatly.
The name didn’t immediately land for Jon, but the way she said it did.
“Okay,” he said. “And he is…?”
“A problem,” she replied without hesitation.
She crossed her arms briefly, then dropped them again like she didn’t even want to give him that much energy.
“He’s a senior at Harvard,” she continued, her voice dry but edged now. “Studying government. Joined College Dems this year very suddenly, which I’m sure is a complete coincidence.”
Jon’s mouth twitched.
“Of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed. “He’s been—” She paused, searching for the least generous but still accurate word, then gave up. “—circling. For months.”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “Circling.”
“Mm,” she said, unimpressed. “Trying to impress me with his father’s real estate deals. Which is… not as compelling as he seems to think it is.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “Can’t imagine why.”
She shot him a look, brief but sharp with humor under the irritation.
“And he’s not even good at it,” she added. “Like, if you’re going to attempt that strategy, at least be interesting.”
Jon glanced back over her shoulder again, catching the way Jared was still watching—still fixed on them, something tight and unpleasant in his expression.
“Does he know you’re not interested?” Jon asked.
Rina let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Yes,” she said. “Very clearly.”
“And he’s still—”
“Yes,” she cut in, already over it.
Jon nodded once, slow, taking that in.
“Cool,” he said. “Love that for him.”
That got her.
A quick, sharp smile breaking through the annoyance, her shoulders loosening just slightly as she looked back at him.
“Right?” she said. “It’s really working out.”
He held her gaze, the humor settling something back into place between them.
And then—because he could feel it, the shift in her, the way that look over his shoulder had pulled her out of the moment just enough to matter—he said, quieter now:
“Do you want to stay here?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“No."