Sari nods, not even pretending to be modest. “It’s already in motion. I know who the weak links are. We hit them first, plant the story, set the scene. By the time anyone knows what’s real, it won’t matter. Perception is everything.”
I sip my cold coffee, pretending to be thoughtful, but mostly I’m cataloguing the power moves on display. Belle’s charm offensive, Sari’s ruthless efficiency, and somewhere in the middle, me—still not sure if I’m a player or just another mark.
But I want to be a player so I matter, and that’s why I’m still sitting here, letting them talk about Mayhem as if I’m a chip to be traded.
I glance at the clock again. “I guess the question is, do we want to destroy her or just knock her down a peg?” I ask, trying to sound casual, like I’m already on the team.
Belle’s eyes light up. “Destruction is so final. I prefer something more… transformative. Make her beg to be forgiven, and then refuse it as the tide turns in the entire community.”
Sari grins. “But first, we have to break her.”
There’s a brief silence that hums with anticipation.
“I’ll do what you want,” I say finally. “But if we’re going to war, I want to be in on the planning, not just the execution.”
Belle and Sari exchange a look, and for a second I think they’re going to laugh at me. But then Belle nods, slow and deliberate. “Deal.”
And just like that, I’m in.
I feel the weight of it settle on my shoulders, not heavy, but exhilarating.
Belle stands up, stretches, and walks to the window, looking out at the lake. “It’s going to be a great party,” she says, almost to herself. “Rethink Mayhem. He’s less trouble than he looks.” She whispers it, but there’s a challenge behind her words.
Maybe she’s right. Or maybe they just want to see if I’ll bite.
Sari hoots. “Oh, boy, Amanda, watch that one. He’ll take you on a hell of a ride on that fat hog of his.” She bobs her brows, and I give her saucy grin back.
After Sari’s peal of laughter, Belle pegs me with a look that’s both conspiratorial and a little bit pitying, like she’s already seen five moves ahead and knows how I’ll end up six months from now, hungover and limping and possibly in love with someone else’s boyfriend.
“He’s not the worst,” she says, her voice sly. “He’s surprisingly gentle if you know how to handle him.”
I can’t tell if she’s warning me or recruiting me, but it’s clear she wants me to rise to the challenge. I fake a confident little shrug—whatever, I can handle a little chaos—and as if on cue, Sari reaches into her messenger bag and withdraws a batteredpiece of posterboard, folded in half and fraying at the edges from repeated use.
“Let’s get technical,” she says, smoothing out the paper on the table with the flat of her palm.
It’s a blueprint, not a photocopy or a printout, but the real thing in blue ink and pencil, complete with shorthanded notations and what looks like a food stain obscuring the powder room. I recognize the floor plan immediately—Deli’s house, but not the way I’ve ever seen it.
This is a grid, a map of vulnerabilities and opportunities, annotated with arrows and circled names and acronyms that don’t mean anything to anyone but the most dedicated of plotters. Belle and Sari lean in, their arms overlapping as they orient themselves with an ease that tells me this isn’t the first operation they’ve planned.
Sari points to a rectangle in the living room. “The main gathering will be here, obviously,” she says. “There’s a choke point at the end of the driveway and as you enter the backyard, so if you want to trap someone one-on-one, those are your best bets.” She traces a route from the foyer to the back patio.
Belle takes over, tapping a diagonal line that runs from the staircase to the living room. “Deli always hosts from the upper landing at the start—she likes to do the big entrance, see everyone lined up and ready to worship her. The problem is, she never sees the side flanks.” She grins at me. “That’s where you come in. We’ll put you with B-listers in the sunroom. When Deli does her parade down and out to the back, you make your move.”
“Move?” I say, more skeptical than I’d like to admit. “This isn’t a chess game. People aren’t going to just follow me.”
“You’d be surprised,” Sari says. “Most people at these things freeze up if you introduce even a minor variable. Last time, we triggered a meltdown just by switching the music playlist. Everyone lost their minds for ten minutes.”
Belle nods. “Social entropy. All you have to do is to be the most interesting thing happening, and the rest will collapse around you.”
I’m the bait, I suppose, even though I didn't want to be.
The way they talk about parties is the way generals talk about battles— terrain, timing, the psychology of the enemy. I should be put off, but I’m kind of intrigued by their obsession with the mechanics. There’s something almost pure in their devotion to the art of the spectacle.
“Okay,” I say, letting myself get swept up in the momentum. “Assuming this works, what’s the endgame? Just embarrass her in front of everyone when he shows?”
Belle’s smile is slow and sly. “It’s not about embarrassment. It’s about opening the power vacuum. If Deli is distracted or destabilized, everyone else gets a chance to climb. It’s… natural selection.”
“If we play it right, we’ll end up running the show,” Sari says smugly. “Which means she’ll have to ditch those assholes, and come crawling back.”
