Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
In the mirror, I look—well, not like the girl in the park photo from last summer, but not bad either. I tilt my head and try to see myself the way Hunter might: the lines of my shoulders, the way my hair slips down my spine, the contrast of skin and silk. I practice a smile in the mirror, a little too sly, then laugh at myself and turn away.
I lie back on the bed, the dress bunched up under my knees, and check my phone again. The replies are rolling in, the group chat blowing up with memes and screenshots and, from Chloe, an ungodly number of GIFs. I tap out a few answers, suggest a time, then scroll up to the message from Hunter.
Arriving Saturday evening. Do you need anything from town? – H
I let my finger rest on it, feeling the latent charge in the single letter. What I want is to reply with something glib and dangerous, like: Only if you’re bringing trouble. But I don’t. I let the question sit, a dare in the dark, and focus on the now.
The HVAC hums in the walls, the house holding its breath. I close my eyes and picture the party: bodies pressed together on the dance floor, spilled champagne on the marble, someone making out on the velvet bench in the foyer. I picture myself in the middle of it, laughing until my sides ache, kissing someone I barely know just for the rush of it. I picture Hunter arriving, his face impassive, and what it would feel like for once to make him jealous.
I sit up, finish the last swallow of champagne, and open the window. Cold air floods in, sharp and cleansing. The future is a blank page, but for the first time in a while, I want to write all over it.
The phone lights up with a new text: See you tomorrow, star girl.
I don’t know which of my friends sent it, but I like the sound of it. I set the empty glass on my nightstand and watch the city lights blink in the distance, each one a tiny, perfect invitation.
I have one night left before Hunter arrives.
I plan to make it count.
3
WHEN THE CAT’S AWAY, THE MICE WILL PLAY
Stella
The night begins the way a good story should—sweaty, disorienting, just a little bit dangerous.
By ten, the mansion is unrecognizable: all those cold, curated lines of architectural intent have vanished beneath the onslaught of heat, bodies, and music, the raw nerve of it vibrating up through the imported marble floors. The great room is a single, undulating mass of movement, the pulse of the speakers so deep and relentless it rattles the glass shades of the sconce lights. The air is thick with the tang of alcohol and the oily, expensive resin of burning candles, the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to unbutton your shirt before you’ve even made it past the foyer.
Kayleigh and Mary Kate are early, and so are Chloe and her entire Nicolette coterie, plus a few boys from the St. Thomas business school and a pair of local influencers who show up with a camera and a ring light, like this is a planned PR event and not just a get-drunk-and-ruin-the-upstairs bathroom affair. There are more people than I remember inviting, and by eleven, there’s a line at the kitchen island for cocktails and someone has already filled the powder room sink with ice and half a handle of Tito’s.
I glide through the crowd on bare feet, my stilettos slung rakishly from two fingers, dress clinging to my ribs like a second skin. Each step is accompanied by the hiss and fizz of my own breath, punctuated by the staccato sound of glass on glass: champagne bottles opening, shots lined up, the hiss of a shaken shaker. Every time I pass through a cluster of people, I catch someone’s gaze—always lingering, always curious—and I meet it, head-on. My hair is a wild, blonde halo tonight; my lips are a little redder than I’d planned. I feel more visible than I have in months, and I drink it in like oxygen.
Somewhere near the fireplace, Mary Kate is perched on a velvet ottoman, her legs crossed and her new ring glinting in the light. She’s surrounded by a phalanx of girls, all overflowing with questions about her engagement, and she’s loving every second of it. Chloe’s crew has colonized the formal dining room, playing King’s Cup with antique Waterford crystal and shouting rules so loud that the next room over vibrates with it.
Kayleigh materializes at my elbow, already tipsy, her hair in a glossy, artfully messy bun. “This is insane, Stell,” she says, voice thick with pride and tequila. “How does it feel to be the queen of the castle?”
I clink my glass to hers, which is sloshing pink liquid everywhere. “Like I’m one gust of wind away from a total collapse.”