Damien: I’ll let you have your time. I’ll text tonight.
Me: Sounds good.
The phone landed on the counter as I passed through the bathroom. A twist of the knob, a cough from the pipes, and the shower hissed to life. Steam crept along the mirror’s edges, blurring my reflection into a ghost, as I stepped into the warm spray.
An hour later, I pushed through the glass door of Polished, our favorite salon.
The air smelled like acetone, hand cream, and roasted coffee from the little Keurig station at the front.
“Hey,” Candace called, turning away from the wall of polishes.
“Hey,” I echoed, pulling her into a quick hug. “Have you picked a color yet?”
She held up two nearly identical pinks. “Ballerina or Bubblegum?”
I scrunched my face in horror. “Neither.”
Candace gasped. “Excuse me? Ballerina is a classic.”
“Sure it is,” I muttered.
“I’m sorry I’m not a goth,” she shot back, eyes flicking down my black-on-black outfit. “Like some people.”
“I’m not goth.” I scoffed. “Black is classic.”
She threw her head back and laughed—loud enough that half the salon looked over.
“Candace, Emma,” Jenny called, motioning us toward her and her twin sister’s stations. “Come on over!”
Jenny and Jennifer had been doing our nails for years. They’d heard everything—breakups, Elion’s chaos, every spectacular Garrett implosion. They knew most of our secrets and remembered more gossip than was probably legal.
I dropped into the chair with a graceless flop. Drills hummed, bottles clicked, and the twins moved with the smooth, synchronized ease of people who’d done this a thousand times.
“How are things with you two?” Jenny asked, chin tipping between me and Candace.
“Things have been good.” I kept my tone light.
Candace snorted. “No, they haven’t.”
Jennifer’s head popped up. “Okay, spill.”
“She had a date Friday,” Candace announced.
Jenny gasped. “No way!” She grinned as she started filing away my old polish. “Tell us everything.”
Candace smirked. “Go on, Em. Don’t skip the juicy parts.”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. “It went horribly—but not in the way you’d think.”
“Okay…” Jenny said, wrapping my fingers in foil. “Define horribly.”
“Turns out he lied about who he was.” The words came flat. “And that I know him from work.”
Jennifer jerked upright. “He wasn’t an employee, was he?”
“No.”
Candace leaned in, savoring it. “His name turned out to be Damien Holt—the CEO of Falkirk.”
