Sienna smirks. “Exactly. Trust me, you’re better off not being his type.”
I hum in agreement, but the thought lingers unwelcome and heavy. Because no matter how many times I tell myself I don’tcare, the truth sneaks in all the same. I’ll never be a tall, Italian goddess like Sienna or Francesca. And for reasons I can’t begin to explain, that realization hurts far more than it should.
Sienna scrolls on her phone while I hang up her purchases. Her closet is the size of the dorm room we shared freshman year. Maybe bigger. Everything gleams under soft recessed lights, rows of shoes lined like soldiers, the faint scent of expensive perfume clinging to the air. The best part, in my opinion, is that it’s color coordinated. My friend is too messy to have done that herself, which means it was likely Rosa.
When I step out of the closet, Sienna’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, practically bouncing with energy.
“We were just invited to a party!” she announces, waving her phone like a golden ticket. “My friend said there’s going to be a ton of celebs there.” Her grin widens. “Wehaveto go.”
Sienna’s always been the life of any party we’ve ever gone to. It doesn’t surprise me that she was already invited to go out.
“It’s at an old library that’s been converted into a club,” she continues, scrolling through photos. “There’s still books and everything. Look!”
I’m the opposite. I like quiet. Corners. Books. Which is why I know she’s hyping it up to sweeten the deal. She shoves the screen toward me, and sure enough, the pictures are stunning—vaulted ceilings, rows of bookshelves glowing under warm light, and a mezzanine level turned into a dance floor. It looks magical.
“You really think your dad’s going to let you go?” I ask, eyebrows lifting.
She grins. “He doesn’t have toletme. I’m not twelve, and besides, he’s got other things on his mind tonight. Frannie, for one.”
I roll my eyes. “Still. I doubt he wants us wandering into a club full of strangers a night after we were shot at.”
Well, I was actually shot, but that’s neither here nor there.
Sienna leans forward, her tone conspiratorial. “That’s why we don’t tell him.”
I stare at her, torn between horror and amusement. “You want tosneak outon your dad? The man whose employees carry guns in his living room?”
She laughs. “Oh, come on, Birdie. Live a little. You’ve been acting like you’re in witness protection since we got here.”
Maybe because I basically am.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I glance at her phone again—the picture of chandeliers and whiskey-colored light, of people who look like they have no idea what fear feels like. It looks like another world. And I can’t decide if I want to run from it or step right inside.
But then I make the mistake of thinking about what Francesca said. I definitely don’t want to hear any kind of moan coming from Lorenzo’s room. Hersorhis.
“Fine.”
Sienna squeals and hops off the bed, throwing her arms around me. “You’re the best friend in the world! Now, wear the black dress you bought. I’ll wear my red one.”
Except when I come back ten minutes later, she’s not in red. She’s in gold. And not justgold—barely-there, molten, liquid gold.The kind of dress that catches every glint of light, hugging her curves like it was sewn directly onto her skin.
I stop in the doorway, my mouth parting before I can stop it. “That’s not the red one.”
She grins, unapologetic. “I changed my mind. Red felt too sweet. This feels like power.”
Of course it does.
Meanwhile, I’m in the black dress—simple, knee-length, the kind that dips just enough at the neckline to feel daring without falling into dangerous territory. It’s elegant, not flashy and hidesthe bandage on my arm. It’s safe. Which, apparently, is exactly what I need to stop being.
“Come on,” she says, grabbing her tiny gold clutch. “The driver’s waiting downstairs.”
“The driver?” I blink. “I thought we weren’t telling your dad.”
She rolls her eyes like I’ve missed something obvious. “We’re not. But I’m not walking in these heels. The driver’s just taking us a few blocks away. We’ll get out before we reach the club. No one will tell him.”
I’m pretty sure Lorenzo knows everything that happens in his world.
Still, I follow her out, heart already picking up speed. I can’t help but notice that his bedroom door is shut. Is he in there with Francesca? And why do I even care? I mean it’s not like I have a chance with him.
