Candace is beside me in an instant, her eyes missing nothing. “You’re still favoring them,” she says, her voice low and steady.
I just nod, dropping my hand, a flush of embarrassment heating my cheeks.
“I promised I’d teach you how to defend yourself, remember?” she says, her expression serious. “Want to learn? Right now?”
I glance around the pristine, expensive boutique. The air smells of vanilla and sandalwood. “Here? Now?”
“No better time. First rule,” she says, ignoring the confused look from a nearby sales associate, “always protect your core. If someone comes at you,” she says, and her entire body shifts, her center of gravity dropping. She demonstrates a sharp, fast block-and-strike move, an elbow-jerk that is both fluid and deadly. “Lead with your elbow, not your fist. Like this.”
I watch her, mesmerized by the fluid, deadly grace. The confidence. It’s something I desperately want. I copy her stance, my own movements stiff and awkward.
“Frankie, you next!” Candace calls out, trying to get her in on it. “Show her that move you used on that drunk at the bar last month.”
Frankie, who has been watching us from a rack of jeans, makes a face of pure disgust and shudders. “Ugh, no. All that... physical exertion. It’s so messy.” She walks over, holding up her hands, which are covered in intricate silver rings. “I don’tthrow punches. I just… make suggestions. The universe usually listens.”
Ansley, who is folding a shirt nearby, freezes, her eyes wide with a look of pure, shocked confusion. “She... what?”
Candace and I just laugh. “It’s true,” Candace says.
“See?” Ruby shouts, taking this as her cue. “Frankie’s got the voodoo, Candace has the karate. We’re basically the Avengers. I’m obviously the Loki of the group with my chaos and charm. Frankie’s our Doctor Strange with all her creepy intuition. Candace is Black Widow because, duh, deadly and hot. Sloane’s Captain America—noble, bossy, kind of repressed—and Darla’s totally Spider-Man. Sweet, underestimated, and about two minutes away from saving all our asses. MY TURN!”
Ruby launches into a truly terrible high-kick-karate-chop combo, her boot coming way too close to a delicate silk mannequin.
“You’re going to break something, you lunatic!” Sloane laughs, grabbing her arm and pulling her back before she can cause thousands of dollars in damage.
It’s in that moment, as I’m laughing so hard my bruised ribs twinge, that I catch Sloane’s eye. The laughter has died on her lips, and she’s watching the chaos, her expression haunted, lost. I recognize that look. It’s the one I’ve seen in my mirror. The mask of a lonely girl, drowning in a secret.
I walk over, picking up a soft cashmere sweater. “This color would look amazing on you,” I murmur.
She starts, her focus snapping back. “Oh. Thanks. It’s nice.”
“It’s loud, isn’t it?” I say, not looking at her, just running the soft wool between my fingers. “The world, I mean. Even when it’s supposed to be fun. Sometimes it’s just… a lot.”
Sloane stares at me, her guard fully up. But, for a split second, the mask cracks. “My father,” she says, her voice so low I almost miss it, “always said that a moment of fun was just a momentof weakness you hadn’t paid for yet.” She forces a small, tight smile. “He wasn’t a big fan of parties. At least, not any that he wasn’t in complete control of.”
The words hang between us, a shared, chilling acknowledgment of a life we both understood. I just nod, a silent, invisible thread connecting us.
Ruby, who claps her hands together with a loud, jarring sound that makes Sloane jump, breaks the heavy moment. “Okay, sad-secret-sharing time is over! We’ve got so many clothes my dad’s credit card is probably going to spontaneously combust, which means my work here is done. Time to check out!”
We gather our armloads of clothes—soft jeans, dark-colored tank tops, and a couple of skirts that are definitely more “snake-print” than “garden party”—and head to the counter where Ansley is waiting with a warm smile.
As she rings up the piles of denim and soft cotton, her kind eyes land on me. “It’s good to see you looking so… free,” she says, her voice soft but sincere. She gestures to the clothes I’ve picked. “This is a great new style for you.”
A small, genuine smile touches my lips. “It’s not new,” I murmur, thinking of the “closet rebel” Frankie mentioned. “It’s just… me.” The girl I had to hide under pearls and pastel cardigans for a decade.
“Well, it’s a perfect fit,” Ansley says warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Listen, I’m working on some new designs for my line—a little more leather, a little more edge. I’d love to design a few skirts and shirts just for you, something to go with your... true style.”
The offer is so kind, so unexpected, it makes my throat tighten. “Ansley, I… thank you. I’d love that.”
“It’s a date,” she says, bagging the last item.
We pile back into Frankie’s convertible, the car now full of shopping bags. The ride back to the clubhouse is loud, high onsugar from the sodas we grabbed and the simple, unadulterated freedom of a girls’ day out. We’re still laughing as we pull into the parking lot, Rider pulling in on his bike right behind us, a constant, silent shadow.
“Okay,” Ruby says, grabbing her bags. “Let’s go show the boys our haul and make them insanely jealous.”
We walk back into the clubhouse, our arms full of bags, still laughing about Ruby’s plan to make Nash jealous by flirting with Kyle. The sound dies in our throats as we enter the common room.
The men are out, and the war room door stands open. A grim atmosphere hangs heavy, the air thick with the weight of recent decisions. Our bubble of light and laughter pops. Reality comes crashing back in.
