If I hold my breath,the dress fits perfectly.
If I exhale, the zipper digs into my ribs like a serrated knife, reminding me that I’m an impostor in emerald silk.
I stare at myself in the gilded mirror of the Emerald Hills Country Club ladies' room, smoothing my damp palms over my hips. The tag is still tucked into the side seam, scratching against my skin. Four hundred dollars. That’s what this dress cost. That’s two weeks of groceries. But I needed to look the part tonight. I needed to look like future wife material, not the scholarship girl who clawed her way into a marketing degree she’s still paying off.
"You belong here," I whisper to my reflection.
My eyes look wide, darker than usual against the pale flush of my skin. I look terrified.
"Stop it," I hiss, leaning in to fix a smudge of lipstick. "Ryder is going to propose. Tonight’s the night. You are enough."
The tag digs in again, and I wince. I can’t go back out there like this. I grab my clutch and duck into the large stall at the very end of the row, needing privacy to adjust the fabric so no onesees what I’m doing. I’ve just slid the latch home when the main door to the restroom swings open.
Two women walk in, a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and entitlement drifting in their wake. I recognize Sienna Montgomery’s voice immediately—high, shrill, and dripping with fake sweetness.
"I honestly don't know how she shows her face," Sienna says, the sound of running water filling the silence. "It’s embarrassing at this point."
"Maybe she has a humiliation kink?" the other girl laughs. I think it’s Chloe? Or maybe Zoe. They all look the same. Blonde, polished, expensive.
"Please. Blair? She’s about as adventurous as a slice of white bread. That’s why Ryder’s bored. I mean, Vivi has been fucking him since July. Everybody knows."
I freeze, my hand hovering over the zipper. The world tilts on its axis. The blood rushes out of my head so fast I have to grip the handicap bar to keep from sliding to the floor.
Since July.
It’s fuckingNovember.
"Well, she’s holding on for dear life," Sienna sniffs. "Poor thing. She thinks she’s going to get a ring, and Ryder’s just waiting for the right time to tell her she was just a fun little experiment in slumming it."
They laugh—a cruel, tinkling sound that grates against my eardrums—and breeze out of the bathroom, leaving me alone with the echoing silence and the taste of bile in my throat.
I should cry.
I should collapse into one of these velvet settees and sob until my mascara runs down my face.
But I don't.
Instead, a cold, hard knot forms in the center of my chest.
It’s a familiar feeling. It’s the sensation of watching my father pack his Subaru when I was twelve. He didn't look back at thehouse. He didn't look back at me. I stood in the driveway and realized for the first time that people don't stay just because you love them. You have to be worth staying for.
And clearly, I wasn't.
Slumming it.
I straighten my spine. The zipper digs in, but this time, I welcome the pain. It keeps me focused. I’m not going to let them see me bleed. Not Sienna. And definitely not Ryder.
I walk out of the bathroom and back into the ballroom.
The sensory overload hits me instantly. The smell of pine and roasting meat, the clink of crystal, the low hum of hundreds of wealthy people congratulating themselves for donating money they won’t even notice is gone.
I scan the room for Ryder.
I find him near the open bar, swaying slightly. His tie is crooked. He’s laughing too loud at something James Thornton is saying. He looks sloppy.
And then, I feel it.
The weight. The heat. The absolute, crushing pressure of being watched.
