Kiki (the fit-fluencer) is already stretching like she’s about to run a marathon, throwing aggressive looks at the cameras.
Lucy is blushing furiously as she looks at Lars—who seems ready to sink into his chair out of sheer embarrassment.
And then there’s Sarah.
I watch her massaging Joe’s shoulders, laughing in that shrill, grating way that sets my teeth on edge.
Joe gives her a playful smack on the butt, all pleased with himself, then lifts his gaze and locks onto mine.
He gives me that smile.
The one that used to meanyou’re mineand now means
look what you lost, sweetheart.
Bile burns at the back of my throat. A mix of old anger and new humiliation.
My body goes rigid, my nails digging crescents into my palms.
Cohen steps up beside me.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
I turn toward him. He’s steady. He’s here.
“You want to win?” he asks, his voice calm in a room full of chaos.
“Of course,” I say—and my voice trembles with cold fury. “Obviously.”
Cohen nods.
He leans in, his lips brushing a millimeter from my ear, hidden by the noise around us.
“Then use me, Angel. Don’t hold back. Drive me crazy. I know you want to.”
His permission is gasoline on open flame.
He’s offering me his body, his reaction, his control—
just to help me win this personal war.
52
Heart Rates, Jealousy & the Sweet Taste of Victory
Cohen
There’s a kind of silence that’s louder than a scream.
That’s the silence sitting between me and Sloane right now.
We’re standing beside the futuristic chairs in the Great Hall, surrounded by Aunt Tina’s pink chaos, but my attention is locked on one thing.
Well… two things.
Sloane—frozen stiff like an ice sculpture beside me.
And that guy.
