The word made bile rise in my throat.
I turned toward the mirror above the sink, the one I usually avoided, and stepped closer like I was approaching something dangerous.
And there she was.
The girl in the reflection.
Cheeks flushed. Lips red and swollen. Eyes too wide, too full of something I didn’t want to name.
I looked like someone who’d been kissed senseless.
I looked like someone who had liked it.
My nails dug into my palms, hard enough to leave marks. I wanted to scream. To grab the stupid dress off the floor and burn it. To scrub my skin raw until every trace of him was gone.
But even if I did—he’d still be in me.
In the place between my ribs where rage and confusion lived.
“I should hate him,” I whispered.
The words didn’t land.
They just floated there. Empty. Useless.
Because the truth was?
I didn’t.
Not completely.
I hated how he made me feel.
I hated that he knew he made me feel it.
But most of all?
I hated that there was a part of me—twisted and aching and small—that didn’t want him to stop.
The silence pressed in tight, thick like syrup, and I turned from the mirror before I had to watch myself fall apart any further.
But it didn’t matter where I went.
There was no escape from this feeling.
No running from the fact that he had changed me.
And now?
Now I didn’t know how to get back to the girl I’d been before Hades Sinclair touched me like I was something he already owned.
And worse?
I didn’t know if I wanted to.
I turned the taps on full blast, the roar of rushing water drowning out the storm still echoing in my chest. Steam curled toward the ceiling like smoke from something already burned.
My hands shook as I reached for the bottle of bubbles, pouring more than necessary. They frothed instantly, too sweet, too soft—too wrong.
