My mother shifts beside him but doesn’t object. She never does. I remember a different woman, one who threw her head back when she laughed, the sound filling the whole house. One who once told a snide neighbor to ‘go to hell’ under her breath for criticizing my chipped nail polish. That woman is gone now, replaced by this ghost in pearls. And I miss her so much it feels like a hollow ache in my ribs.
I keep my eyes down, my fingernails digging into my thigh beneath the tablecloth, creating four small, sharp crescents of pain. Trent. Saturday. Smile, nod, perform. Be a good daughter. Be useful.
The air feels tighter now, the scent of garlic turning sour in my nose. The wine in my glass has gone warm, but I sip it anyway just to keep my hands busy. Then, a sound cuts through the oppressive quiet. The soft, measured click of a woman’s heels on the polished floor approaches our table.
A voice, calm and clipped. “Mr. Graves, would you like a refill?”
I look up, and my world stops.
My breath catches in my throat. My blood turns to ice. It’s her. Candace.
The girl from the club. From last night. She stands at the edge of the table in a black uniform, notepad in hand. But her eyes lock on mine, and it instantly shows. Recognition. A connection so sharp and immediate it burns. The blood rushes from my head so fast I sway. My skin prickles. My pulse in my throat acts like a physical countdown to disaster.
Panic, hot and blinding, twists in my gut. She knows. She saw me pressed against Malachi, laughing like I belonged in his world. Now she is here. Standing at his shoulder. My father, who has made it his personal mission to destroy the Outsiders. He calls them dirt—dangerous, lawless, corrupt. The men he built his entire public image condemning.
If she says something. Just one word. Clubhouse. If she even hints at it… it won’t just be awkward. It’ll be war. He will punish me. He will lock me away. I’ll never get out.
I stare at her, my heart pounding a frantic, desperate rhythm against my ribs. My mouth goes dry, like my tongue has turned to cotton. I can’t breathe.
Candace doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But something shifts behind her eyes. It’s not surprise or judgment. It’s… something deeper. Heavier. A weary understanding, like she’s seen the worst of him, too. I don’t know how. I don’t know what she knows. But I can tell; she knows.
Her gaze cuts into me for one second longer. An entire silent conversation passes between us in the space of a heartbeat. It’s a choice. I see her make it. Then she nods. A barely perceptible dip of her chin.
The spell breaks. “I think we’re done for the night,” my father says, already rising, completely oblivious to the silent execution he just missed. “Can we get our check?”
Candace finally looks away from me, her expression a blank, professional mask once more. “Of course.”
She doesn’t look back at me. She doesn’t have to. Because in that moment, I understand: she could have ruined me. Exposed me. But she didn’t. Whatever reason she has for keeping quiet, I owe her for it. Even if she never calls it in. Even if she never says a word.
As she walks away, I give her the smallest nod of thanks, a gesture so tiny no one else would see it. For the first time all night, it feels like someone in this room actually saw me and didn’t use it against me.
The door to the ladies’ room swings closed behind Candace. I hesitate. My father is still dealing with the check—making a show of shaking hands with the manager, probably slipping a business card along with his signature. He always draws it out, making sure people remember who he is.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I should stay seated. Keep quiet. Be the obedient daughter in her pretty lace dress and polished lies. But my feet move anyway.
The bathroom is cold and bright, the tile humming faintly under my heels. It smells like lavender soap and air freshener trying too hard to cover up old pipes. I grip the edge of the sink to steady myself, my heart thudding somewhere behind my ribs.
The stall door opens, and Candace steps out. She pauses mid-step when she sees me, her hand still resting on the edge of the door, eyes narrowing just enough to register me.
I straighten. Too fast. My breath sticks.
Gone is the girl I practically snarled at out of jealousy and desperation. This Candace is composed, silent, sharp. She takes in my dress, my posture, my presence. Every inch of who I pretended to be last night curls up and dies under her stare.
“Hi.” My voice is a scratchy whisper. “Thanks for not calling me out in front of my parents.”God, I sound like a child.
She turns to the sink, her expression unreadable. “It’s not my place.” But the way she says it—steady, weighted—tells me she’s been in a place just like mine.
“No matter what Frankie says,” I say, forcing a brittle smile, “I’m really not a bitch.”Why do I care what she thinks? Why am I pleading my case?
Candace studies me for a long, quiet moment, then extends her hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Candace.”
Surprised, I tentatively take her hand. “I’m Darla.”
She holds my gaze, then her expression sharpens. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”
The question is clean cut, no malice behind it. Just fact. I guess that’s why it doesn’t hurt.
“Yeah.” My cheeks heat. “It was months ago. A one-time thing. I think he did it because he hates my father, not because he actually wanted me.” The words are out before I can stop them, ugly and true. Why am I telling her this? This stranger who has every reason to hate me?
