The second half goes quickly after.
I pour another.
And another.
By the third, the room stops spinning from the drug and starts spinning from the alcohol instead. A different kind of dizzy. A different kind of dangerous.
A controllable one.
My breathing slows.
My skin warms.
My limbs loosen.
The fear doesn’t go away.
It just… changes shape.
Becomes sharper.
Feral.
Like a cornered animal with nowhere left to run.
I grab my phone and flick through my playlists until I find something loud enough to drown out my own heartbeat. Something with drums, something with teeth, something that tastes like rebellion and regret.
The song hits like a punch:
“Control” — Halsey.
I’ve always hated how much I relate to it.
The opening chords vibrate through the kitchen, rattling the empty glasses, humming through the floorboards. The wine in my hand swirls. My pulse syncs to the beat, sharp and erratic.
I lift the glass to my lips again.
Swallow.
Hard.
The warmth climbs my neck, loosening something inside me I’ve held too tight for too long. My bare feet slide against the cool marble, and I move without meaning to—first a shift of my hip, then a slow sway, then a full step back.
My pulse hammers against my throat.
I dance.
Not gracefully.
Not seductively.
Not like the elegant fiancée of a wealthy man.
I dance like a woman cracking open.
My robe slips off one shoulder again, but I don’t fix it. The song pulses through my veins, and I move faster, heavier, spinning sloppily on the tile like I’m trying to shake something out of my bones.
Maybe I am.
