Maria nods in agreement. “And you owe us answers.”
The front door shuts behind them, the house exhaling into a quieter rhythm.
From downstairs, the clatter of cookware and the faint hiss of something hitting a hot pan drifts upward. My mom has clearly thrown herself into dinner preparations, which usually means she’s overcompensating for something. Garlic and rosemary weave through the air, warm and welcoming in a way that feels almost forced.
My phone vibrates in my hand again.
The group chat explodes with messages. Cheyenne has already shifted from concern to commentary, Maria not far behind her. Their earlier warnings about danger have beenreplaced with bold claims about his looks. Words like unfair and criminally attractive float across the screen. A string of eggplant emojis follows.
The phone goes dark after the sixth one.
It’s easier to turn it off than to keep reading.
Silas may be attractive. That’s undeniable. But that doesn’t soften the truth that he killed someone. No amount of sharp cheekbones or tattoos erases that fact. The tension in my stomach refuses to settle.
Three outfits are spread across my bed like options in a game I didn’t ask to play. Cheyenne clearly curated them before she left. Each one reveals a little more than the last. The final option is something she could pull off effortlessly, something bold and unapologetic.
I pick up the smallest piece, holding the bralette in the air and studying it like it’s a foreign object.
There’s no world where I would wear that alone.
A quiet breath leaves me as I pace in front of the mirror, robe loosely tied around my waist. The fabric shifts open slightly as I move, offering glimpses of skin I’m not always comfortable seeing.
For once, I don’t look away.
My hand drifts down the front of my body, fingers tracing the curve of my waist and stomach. The shape is softer than the standards etched into my head, but not excessive. Not monstrous.
Still, my mother’s voice creeps in.
Piggy.
The word lands like it always does.
The robe is pulled closed quickly, as if fabric can shield against memory. Thin scars map across my stomach in faint, pale lines. Each outfit Cheyenne picked would expose at least one of them.
The safer choice wins.
A cropped black tank and soft flared jeans feel manageable. As the shirt slides down over my torso, a few light scars remain visible near my waist. I lift the hem again before I can stop myself, staring at them as if they might have changed.
They haven’t.
The memory follows anyway.
“Lesson one, little Piggy,” my mother’s voice echoes in the back of my mind. Her breath heavy. The cold drag of metal against skin. “The only way to succeed in this life is to be beautiful. If they leave their mark, so do I.”
The sensation is so vivid that I almost feel it again.
“Got to cut away the fat-”
“Where does Stephanie want my laundry to go?”
Silas’s voice slices through the memory abruptly.
Our eyes meet in the mirror before I fully register that he’s standing there. My shirt drops instantly, fabric falling back into place.
He’s in the doorway like he belongs there.
A towel hangs loosely from his hand. His hair is still damp, darker now that it’s wet and pushed back from his face. A hoodie and sweats should make him look casual, almost boyish, but somehow they don’t. The broad lines of his shoulders and the quiet control in his posture make even comfortable clothes look good.
