And for now, that’s enough.
The hotel lobby smells like polished marble and fresh flowers. Cora practically bounces ahead, dragging me toward the lift like a kid on Christmas morning. Abbie is already snapping photos, captions forming in her mind, Instagram-ready chaos in motion.
I let myself be swept along, letting their energy fill me, as we make our way to the spa.
Duncan—who still can’t look at me after witnessing my breakdown—stations himself by the door while Liam and Aidan sweep the hall, and Smithy takes up position in the lobby. Even here, safety isn’t silent, it crackles constantly, like background static.
Abbie stretches across a heated stone lounge, towel wrapped tight, sipping pink champagne. Cora scrolls through her camera roll, showing us every second of the last year, feet soaking in a gold basin as she does so.
“I think you should wear the lingerie,” Abbie says casually, like it’s the most normal suggestion in the world.
Cora makes a small protesting sound, but it’s playful, not disapproving. “We’re actually doing this?”
“Why not?” Abbie shrugs. “I wore black to my wedding just to piss off Logan, you wore the tiniest gym sets to tempt Owen. We’re all a little twisted. The unholy trinity, if you will.”
Cora raises her glass. “To being beautifully unhinged.”
I hesitate. “I don’t want to encourage him. I don’t want him thinking he still has that kind of power.”
Cora studies me, sharp, but soft. “Hey. Acknowledging how much someone gets under your skin isn't a weakness.” She nudges me gently. “And you’re allowed to want things. Even messy things. It’s what you do with that wanting that matters.”
Her words hit something raw, and I flinch.
“Sorry,” she adds quietly. “I just… worry about you. You’ve been carrying all of this alone, and you shouldn’t have to.”
I swirl the champagne in my glass, watching the liquid form into a gentle whirlpool of motion. She’s right. It isn’t just that I want him. It’s that some reckless, unhealed corner of me still believes he sees me. That maybe—if I’m honest—I want to know if he’d finally fight for me.
I shouldn’t wear it.
And yet every thread of black lace feels like a choice I’m not supposed to make. A dare. A confession I can’t say aloud.
He said he’d know. And God, I hate—detest—how much I want him to. How much I want him to imagine me spinning beneath club lights, pretending I’ve moved on, while the silk against my skin betrays me.
It’s not that I need him. I don’t.
But I want him to watch me burn.
I swirl the champagne again, eyes fixed on the bubbles, trying to convince myself I’m still in control.
Abbie tilts her head, studying me. “You know what you’re doing, right?”
I shrug, the lie too thin to hold. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Abbie scoffs, fond, not frustrated. “Lily, babe. You’re about to put on a black lace dagger aimed straight at your own chest, and you’re calling it maybe?”
Cora huffs a laugh, leaning over the basin. “Look, wear it becauseyouwant to. Not because of him or because you can never turn down a challenge. Not because of what he might feel or think or imagine. You're allowed to feel powerful without letting him dictate that power.”
A sharp breath catches in my throat. “I know that. I just…” The words crumble. “I just want him to see. To feel something. Even if it’s anger. Even if it’s…” My voice cracks. “Even if it’s not good.”
Abbie slips an arm around my shoulders. “It doesn’t have to be about him. Let it be about you reclaiming something. Wear it because you look hot as hell and deserve to feel it. Lingerie is about how it makes you feel, not who's going to see it.”
Cora nods, gentler now. “Exactly. If you’re going to play with fire, we’re here with extinguishers, ready to step in and pick up the pieces if it comes to it.”
A hollow laugh escapes me. “Pieces…”
“Yes, pieces,” Abbie says firmly but warm. “Every single one. Every messy, twisted, infuriating piece. You’re ours, Lily. We’ve got you.”
The heat in my chest twists, this time not just for him but for them. My lifelines. My tether when everything else threatens to pull me under.
