And then everything collapses.
From the entrance of the dining hall, a high-pitched, grating laugh slices through the air.
I turn—and my stomach drops.
Sarah.
She walks in on Joe’s arm.
And Sarah is… everything I’m not.
She’s wearing a neon-pink sports set that looks spray-painted onto her body. Brunette. Fake lashes a mile long. Lips so overfilled they look seconds away from popping.
But the first thing I notice—what makes me instinctively tug my oversized sweater tighter—is her chest.
Huge.
Surgically perfect.
Displayed like a trophy.
Joe’s words echo in my head, from the night my world cracked:
She’s… a bomb, Sloane. I couldn’t resist.
Back then, I thoughtbombmeantwilling to do anything.
Seeing them now—seeing how he holds her, how he shows her off like a prize—
it hurts.
It hurts because it reminds me that I wasn’t enough.
They head for the buffet.
But Joe stops.
His eyes sweep the room…
and land on us.
On me.
He sees Cohen beside me.
And instead of ignoring us, he changes direction.
He walks straight toward our table.
“Oh no,” I whisper, freezing.
Cohen feels it. His hand stills on my back. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t get the chance to answer.
Joe is already there.
He’s wearing that good-boy smile—the one with dimples. The one that fooled me and only me.
