The words are a thousand jagged pieces of glass slicing through me.
I turn and leave.
She calls my name. I don’t stop. Can’t.
Jackson mutters under his breath but I’m already gone.
In the hallway, I delete her number—even though I know it by heart. I’m going to spiral tonight. That’s inevitable. But at least this way, I won’t be tempted to send some pathetic 2 a.m. message I’ll regret by sunrise.
Once I’m in the elevator, I hurl my phone at the wall, because why the fuck not? Betrayal, heartbreak, almost assault, and now property damage.
Of course the screen is now cracked.
Still not enough.
I consider ripping out the panels on the walls. But think better of it when the doors ding open.
The lobby is quiet. My footsteps echo as I push through the exit.
The night air slaps my face ad reality finally catches up. My hands twitch. My chest aches. I shove my fists in my pockets to keep from shaking.
And I keep walking. One step. Then another.
Because if I stop, I’ll fall apart.
CHAPTER 2
HAIRNETS AND HIGH STAKES
RORIE
Laughter ripples through the breeze,braided with conversation and the thrum of bass from overhead speakers.
String lights twinkle with a soft glow across the rooftop terrace, catching on the polished rims of cocktail glasses and the edges of mirrored tabletops. The city sprawls beyond the railing, a restless, glittering beast of breathing heat, buzzing light, and the occasional wail of distant sirens. Its towering buildings pulse with summer’s energy, as if the skyline itself is raising a toast to the season.
I’m perched at a high-top table, one ankle hooked behind the chair leg, posture loose in a way that looks breezy but is tightly managed.
My jacket is draped over the back of my chair. Even though I’ve loosened my bun, and ditched the button-down for the tank underneath, my lipstick is fresh.
On the outside, I look composed, but every inch of me is frayed beneath the surface. Still, I slap on my best mask and nod along.
Jeremy’s mid-story, laughing so hard he nearly spills his drink, mimicking the world’s worst date from his hook up app, Romance Roulette. He’s got messy hair, black-rimmed glasses, and a smirk sharp enough to draw blood.
He’s one half of my ride or die work besties and the one who travels with dry shampoo, a portable phone charger, and enoughaudacity to tell off your toxic exandfix your eyeliner in the same breath.
“So then I said, ‘Sir, if your idea of foreplay involves a Groupon and two-for-one mozzarella sticks, I’m calling an Uber.’”
Maya, the other half, props her chin in her hand, elbow braced on the table. She idly taps her nails against the surface, each click a punctuation of calm competence while listening.
Then her gaze slides to me. She catches the far-off look I’m wearing and nudges me with her knee under the table. “Stop thinking about Vanguard.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I heard it was brutal,” Jeremy adds, his tone softening just enough to sting.
“Brutaldoesn’t even begin to cover it.” I take a sip of my martini. The chilled vodka slides down my throat, briny with a tang of olives and a whisper of citrus, but it might as well be water for all the good it does.
“Who said it was brutal?” Maya asks.
