HIS MUSE, HIS MADNESS

                                            |Ever|

My palm cracks across his cheek before I even realize I've moved. "Fucking pervert!"

A few gasps ripple around us, and the lights swim in my direction, fracturing the smug face in front of me into a hundred glittering pieces.

The smell of expensive perfume mixed with champagne wafts into my nostrils, threatening to spill the bile from my throat.

I swallow it back instantly.

But the man before me doesn't move. His cold eyes linger on mine, hands in his pocket, as an uneasy laugh slips from his lips.

"Next time you grab my butt again, that'd be the end of your fucking little balls!" I snap—a little too loud—at the towering man before me.

Something about him feels unnervingly familiar; his expensive Rolex and the sharp edge of his tailored tuxedo stand out, but I don't stop to think.

The feel of his palm on my ass twists in my stomach as a fresh wave of nausea rises.

I turn away, my gait a little unsteady, the floor spinning just slightly, then I blink, trying to keep my composure.

But the stupid sequin dress my best friend forced me to wear pricks into my side.

Tugging at it, a sudden chill rolls down the back of my neck, so I stop to look around.

The music has stopped. Glaring eyes and whispers from faces I might have only seen on screens have begun to throw themselves at me.

Phones are raised, and camera flashes blur my vision.

"What?" I bark. "What are y'all looking at? He grabbed my ass! Is that allowed, now?"

No reactions, their gazes only pinned on me.

I roll my eyes. I didn't even want to come to this stupid party.

"Um..excuse me," a tiny voice I remember so well weaves through the small crowd behind me. I turn.

"About time you show up, Aida," I hiss through my teeth.

Aida walks toward me, her lips pressing into a fragile grin. Her wide eyes dart toward the crowd in a silent panic.

"Are you scared of them, now?" A bitter laugh slips through my lips. "This is the 21st century, and as my best friend, you should know I'll always stand up for myself."

Aida doesn't say anything. She just grips my arms and pulls me toward the exit, away from the scene I'd caused.

Once the doors close behind us, Aida lets go abruptly, and I almost fall.

"What the hell, Aida? I could have broken my ankle!"

Aida scoffs. "Maybe it would help you realize the damage you've caused to me and my career!"

"What?" I blink. "You'd rather I get groped than ass-kiss arrogant celebrities and rich folks because you wanna be a celebrity DJ so bad?"

A beat of silence passes until Aida speaks up.

"I only wanted to help you, Ever." She says, her voice trembling, a stark contrast to the rage blazing in her eyes.

"I thought bringing you out of your stinky, stuffy room would fix things. You've been buried in there for months because of that... that ex of yours."

Aida shakes her head, her eyes dropping to the floor for a second before snapping back at me.

"I thought it would stop your father from worrying himself sick over you..."

Another pause.

"...but I can see you now. You're not only selfish, Ever.  You're determined to drag everybody you care about into your misery!"

My jaw slacks open, but nothing comes out of it. Aida's words hit me like shards of glass.

"It's been six months!" She explodes, the control in her voice finally shattering.

"Six fucking months since Jeremy broke up with you! And you're still a mess. Do you even see what you're doing to your dad? His health?"

"Don't you dare bring my father into this!" I fire back.

Aida's eyes go flat, the light draining out of them.

The look makes me feel stupid, but I wave it off, hardening my glare.

"Right, everything has to always be about you."

Aida nods, then points behind me. "Your ride is here. It will take you straight home."

And with that, she turns and struts back into the building.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ride back home feels like the longest. Hot tears stream through my makeup, and I swipe them away angrily, the salt stinging my skin.

I always ruin things. Maybe that's why Jeremy left. But it wasn't my fault that his boss groped me in the presence of everyone, while he, Jeremy, watched.

It isn't still my fault that a stupid, giant, smugly arrogant man grabbed my butt like he had the right to. Like he owned me!

Fuck him! Fuck Jeremy! Fuck Aida!

I won't stand by while I get disrespected. Not in this life. Not ever.

The roof of my house rears its ragged head, and for once, I'm happy to be back home to my bed. The car stops, and I hop out, muttering a thank you to the driver.

"How's the party?"

A familiar gruff voice startles me, and I jump.

"Oh my God, Dad! Why are you still awake?"

I switch on the light, and there he is, in his faded pyjamas, in his wheelchair.

"Why are you back so quickly?" My father asks, ignoring my question, as his hand shot out to grab my arm. "Have you been crying? Is this about Jeremy again?"

"No— That's not what I asked, Dad. I'm fine!" I say, pulling my arm away a little too quickly. "How did you even get out of bed?"

"Jesus, Ever, I only have a partial stroke, I'm not bedridden for life!" He wheels back an inch, a flash of irritation in his eyes.

I sigh, the fight draining out of me.

"I know, Dad. I know..." I hesitate, "...but I'm tired. We should both go to bed."

He grumbles something I can't catch, but when I move behind his chair, he doesn't resist. I wheel him into his bedroom and help him into his bed.

Back in my room, I ease out of the ridiculously tight sequin dress, letting it puddle like a discarded skin.

Glad to be free from its clutches, I  plop into my bed.

The familiar scent of the lavender detergent powder wraps around me, and soon after, pulled under by alcohol, I fall into a deep sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The incessant ringing of the house phone drags me up from the depths of a dead sleep. I scream into my pillow.

"Who the fucks calls a house phone at the crack of dawn?"

I stumble downstairs, my body heavy with sleep and the dregs of last night's alcohol.

Picking up the phone, I paste a smile I hope is audible.

"Hello, Jones residence."

"Ever! Oh my god, finally!" Beverly's voice is frantic. "Where's your phone? I've been blowing it up. What happened at the party with Thomas Knights? Tell me he didn't actually—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, Bev." I rub my temple, a headache already blooming. "What are you talking about? What party?"

The distinct whirl of my father's wheelchair cut through Bev's staticky panic. "Who's on the phone?" Dad calls out.

"It's Beverly. From college." I say, turning away from the receiver. "She's just freaking out about something—"

"Ever! Are you listening to me?" Bev's high-pitched voice cuts through sharply. "Check your damn phone!"

With a click, the line goes dead in my hand, my heart thudding against my ribs.

I dart upstairs, taking two steps at a time. Then my gaze lands on my phone sitting in the dark on my nightstand.

With a sense of dread clawing at my throat, I press the power button.

It blinks to life, then immediately begins vibrating continuously.

Notifications bloom across the screen, a flood of texts, alerts, and missed calls from friends, family, and even strangers.

Most were strange questions I can't process yet, a jumble of names and panic. But a message from Aida stands out: a link to a news article.

I tap on it.

The screen loads, and my jaw drops.

There I am, in a grainy photo, my face twisted in fury, the headline beneath it punching my gut and turning my life into a nightmare.

"Chaos at Elite Party: Billionaire singer, Thomas Knights, involved in an Altercation with an unknown party crasher."