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She wore a dazzling champagne pantsuit that made her long legs appear even longer, perfectly tousled curls, and an apologetic expression that belied the dark glint behind her fake eyelashes.

“Oh my god, I’m sooo sorry!” she gasped, not bothering to keep her voice down.

She speared a mock-horrified glance at my ruined dress, at how the red wine bloomed over the silver fabric. It wasn’t only that—though I didn’t have anything to change into, and I bet the little shit knew it—my mood hung in tatters as well.

A hundred caustic replies teetered on the tip of my tongue, but a small crowd had formed around us, and I found myself swallowing them all, until they pooled leaden in my stomach.

The hum of nearby guests dimmed, before it flared up again, like someone was fiddling with the volume knob. Snickers rang out over the music, stabbing my eardrums. People were pointing and whispering, a flash went off as somebody took a picture, and I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

Maybe on another day, I might have snapped something at her—or snatched a handful of her hair, just to see her freeze when someone bit back—but today was not it, not with her cronies around, not with Pri still unaware, enjoying her beautiful party.

She strutted across the polished floor, glee obvious in every step, in every deliberate sway of hips.

That little bitch.

The heat in my veins rose, until it wanted to roar.

She ambled towards a striking figure in a charcoal suit, silver paint dotted over his forehead and cheeks, glittering even from here.

Of course.

She just had to make sure she’d humiliate me on her way… or maybe they’d planned it together. The idea was despicable, but my mind clung to it. Better than admitting all I’d done to earn her cruelty was simply existing in their world.

Something dark flickered in Josh’s expression, too quick to catch. Then, his gaze snapped to Tiffany—sharp, volatile—before he schooled his face back into an unreadable mask.

I turned on my heel,

With a parting glance at Pri—who was lost to the rhythm, spinning around and laughing—I turned on my heel and slunk off like a kicked puppy, a sad little smile tugging at my mouth.

I stepped out of the bathroom, drier but still fuming, having wrestled with the stain with little success, and skidded to a halt.

Someone was waiting for me, leaning on the wall, boldly wearing a shimmery silver shirt that instantly made me want to chuckle.

What are you doing here? I meant to say.

“What are you even wearing?” I said instead, scanning his face and almost chuckling at the little sun and moon painted on his cheeks.

Liam’s grin turned sheepish, and a fraction of the tension bled from his shoulders as he shrugged.

“What? It’s the theme.”

“Careful, or Pri’s gonna hang you up on the ceiling next.”

He made a mock-gesture of clutching at imaginary pearls.

Despite myself, I chuckled.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, brows knotting together with a hint of worry. A split-second later, he winced at the stain spanning half my dress.

“You ok?”

“I’m fine. Plotting murder. Just a normal Tuesday, really,” I joked, and though it was through gritted teeth, the attempt drew relief over his face at last.

“Still,” he said. “That’s horrible.” He offered me a sympathetic, dimpled smile, and the knot in my insides loosened a touch more.

“Or maybe you’re used to it,” he joked, rasping out a chuckle, before he snapped his mouth shut, as if he’d let something slip. But the pause stretched, like he was waiting to see if I’d say his name.

“He’s never spilled his drink on me.”