I tug on a black shirt, pants and leather jacket.
She smooths her glitter dress over her hips, hands shaking slightly.
When I hold out my hand, she takes it. My eyes tell her how stunning she looks. Her eyes soften at the compliment. I kiss the corner of her mouth, then her knuckles.
Then we walk out together.
United, uneasy but still burning.
Ready to pretend everything is fine.
Ready for the party that’s about to blow us up in brand new ways.
Ruby
I shouldn’t have called home.
Not because I don’t miss Oregon—God, I do. The pine trees, the rain, the silence, the feeling that the only thing watching me is a bored raccoon.
But hearing my mom’s voice, hearing her concern, hearing her say“you can come home whenever you want, baby”…it cracked something open.
And Zane heard it.
It’s almost laughable that it predictably led to our first real fight. The kind where emotions get sharp and words get louder and suddenly you’re kissing because you don’t know how else to stop the ache.
Now, even hours after the fact, my thighs feel like I’ve been sinfully benched for a double-header, and I’m shaking just a little as we walk into the party Freddie refused to cancel.
The place was transformed as I slumbered in post-fight post-coital bliss.
And now as we come down the stairs and head out onto the mile-wide terrace, I’m blinded by lights, deafened by music and perfume thick enough to choke a small mammal.
The people, the clothes, the egos…everything sparkles. It’s a room filled with sharks pretending to sip champagne.
I don’t belong here.
I know it the second we walk in.
Hollywood starlets draped in dresses that cost more than my old rent. Studio execs with teeth too white and smiles too plastic. Influencers with ring lights clipped to their phones like they’re in a portable interrogation scene.
And there’s me.
In a sequined dress Zane silently pointed to, the same one I glared at him for because it was my choice before he stole the agency from me.
With makeup done by a professional and hair curled like I’m about to star in some blockbuster romantic drama.
Still feeling like the barista who kept accidentally burning the milk because Toby wouldn’t stop staring at my chest.
People stare now but with something new in their eyes.
Curiosity.
Judgment.
Envy.
Hate?Fucking hell.
I can feel it crawling up my skin like individual legs of hideous spiders.
