At first, I think she won’t answer—she has no incentive to—then she gives a little shake. “I told you.” Chelsea folds her arms, pouting. “She fucked my boyfriend.”
“He drugged her.”
She snorts, shaking her head like I’m a fool.
My voice grows harder. “If you hadn’t gone in the room, he would’ve raped her.”
“Well maybe that’s what she deserved for stealing my soul mate!”
Her lip curls and I can barely look at her, struggling with my temper.
“But of course, you’d take her side,” she scoffs. “That’s the real reason you didn’t want to continue our relationship, isn’t it? Because she poisoned you against me with her lies. Same as she always does.”
I’m stunned by her strange leaps of logic. Enough that I’m not watching her carefully.
There’s a burst of movement, and I grab her wrist again, slamming it against the rough brick wall. A weapon clatters on the hard ground.
I kick it away from her, then grab it.
“A knife?” I shake my head in disbelief, then jam the switchblade against the wall until the blade retracts, tucking it into my pocket.
Like father, like daughter.
I tug down my polo neck and her nostrils flare at my bruises. My forefinger jabs against the healing wound her dad gave me. “You see this?”
She nods, pout growing more pronounced with every second.
“This is a gift from your father.”
Chelsea shakes her head again but doubt flashes in her eyes.
“The night I took you home from Dad’s party, Vincent pulled a knife on me. Said he’d kill me if I hurt ‘his little girl.’” My mimicry of his phrase drips with sarcasm. “If you have trouble getting laid, it’s nothing to do with Ophelia. Your darling daddy’s the one reverse cockblocking you. Every date you bring near him is probably terrified,includingCraig.”
I pull out her knife, tapping it against her forehead. “I’m keeping this. Come near Ophelia at the dance, and I’ll bury it in your skull.”
I push away from the wall, vigilant for sudden movement until I reach my car. When I’m in the driver’s seat, I grip the wheel, fishing the knife from my pocket and pressing the button.
Its blade gleams, refracting the glow of late afternoon sunlight into jagged shards. I rehouse it, sliding its cold lethality into the glovebox.
Ready for tomorrow night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
OPHELIA
“You should cometo the dance with me,” Cam says, and my eyes narrow in suspicion as he fidgets outside the changing room.
I’d retrieved both the ticket and the boutique card from the dusty classroom floor after Damien revealed he’d followed through on his promise. It doesn’t take away his betrayal, doesn’t fix things, but I’ve allowed myself a tiny sprig of hope that he might still find a way.
“Mm-hm.” The curtain rasps aside, its plastic hooks clicking against the railing. “And where did this idea originate? Was it perhaps at the behest of your employer?”
“The be-what now?”
I wish—not for the first time—that I hadn’t crushed my expensive glasses into plastic splinters. Although I stand by the impulse, I loved being able to magnify expressions.
“It’ll be fun,” Cam continues when I pull the curtain back in place. “Basil’s fit but he’s hardly a grand communicator, and everyone knows the swim team can’t dance.”
“And you can?”
