Message from Faith
Attached: 1 photo
I open it.
It’s a mirror selfie. She’s wearing her outfit from tonight, but in this pic I can see the red lace poking out of her top. One hand tugging at her hair, head tilted like she already knows the power she has over me. Her eyes are daring—inviting. That smirk? Sin incarnate.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Another message pops up.
Faith: Ohhh… sorry. Didn’t mean to send that
Yeah. Right.
My thumb hovers over the screen. My jaw clenches. Heat pulses behind my sternum and lower.
Hunter: You should be working, not sending photos.
There’s a pause. Like she’s letting it hang, giving me time to squirm.
Faith: Maybe I was sending one to a table! You know, gotta give them the best service!
My jaw drops open.
And before I can even begin to type a response, another one hits.
Faith: Just kidding…that was just me messing with you. You know, like how you lied to me for weeks about your identity.
Oof.
That one hits lower. In my chest.
I stare at the text like it might rearrange itself into something softer. But it doesn’t.
She’s not just teasing.
She’s pissed.
And hurt.
I rub the back of my neck, the high of seeing that photo evaporating under the weight of my guilt. She has every right to throw jabs. I kept the mask on too long. And now I’m feeling every damn consequence of it.
Across the room, she reappears behind the host stand. Eyes sparkling, face calm. No one here knows what just passed between us, and yet it feels like the whole bar should be spinning on its axis.
Daphne walks past me with a tray of empty glasses and raises an eyebrow. “You good?”
I nod once, even though I’m not.
Because yeah—I saw the red lace.
But I also saw the knife hidden inside that smile.
And if I don’t figure out how to fix this?
She’s going to cut me loose.
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