CHP-4

The ringtone blared through the apartment like a tiny alarm, vibrating against the glass coffee table until Rhea swooped it up with a manicured hand and a smirk.

I was still in bed when I heard Rhea screaming from the kitchen.

"Hey, girl!" she sang, her voice coated in that honey-sweet charm she used when talking to her wild friend circle. I watched her from the kitchen counter, spooning cereal into my mouth as if she wasn't far from where i was laying and as if it would protect me from the inevitable chaos that came whenever Rhea got a phone call that started with that tone.

"Tonight?" she gasped dramatically, already pacing. "Ugh, it has been forever!"

I felt a chill run down my spine.

She hung up with a squeal, tossed her phone on the couch, and turned to me like a woman with a mission. "We’re going out tonight."

I blinked slowly. "Out where?"

She rolled her eyes. "Out as in out, Arabella. Music. Lights. Drinks. Hot guys. Maybe a little sin if the universe is kind."

I scoffed. "You know that’s not really my thing."

"Exactly! That’s why it has to be your thing tonight." She strolled to me, grabbing my cereal bowl and dumping the rest in the sink like a villain. "No excuses. You’ve been here three months, Arabella. Three months of self-pity, hiding, weird dreams, and late-night sketching. It’s time you have a life again."

"I do have a life," I muttered.

"A hot, tragic Victorian novel is not a life, babe."

She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward her closet space like some kind of glittery tornado.

"Rhea, seriously, I have nothing to wear to a club."

She gasped. "Say that again. I dare you."

"I said I—"

"—Nothing to wear? Oh, sweet cursed baby girl. Don’t you know you live with me now?"

She flung open her closet, and a rainbow of different colored outfits stared back at me—silks, satins, sequins, crop tops, boots that could kill a man. She dived in, emerging like a treasure hunter with three dresses in hand.

"Option one: slutty-chic. Option two: velvet seductress. Option three: slutty-chic but with rhinestones."

“I feel like I’m walking into Barbie’s private vault,” I said, fingers trailing along the shimmer of a gold dress so tiny it looked like it might vanish if I blinked too hard.

Rhea popped her head out from behind a row of boots. “Thank you. I take that as the highest compliment.” She shoved a bundle of fabric into my arms.

I stared at her. "I hate you."

"You love me. Now strip."

“What?” I stared at the black satin sliver in my hands. “This isn’t even a dress. It’s a threat.”

“Exactly. You’re going to thank me when someone offers to buy you a penthouse suite just for looking like heartbreak in heels.”

I raised a brow. “You mean a breakdown in boots.”

“Arabella.” Her voice dropped an octave in mock seriousness. “For once in your life, can you just let your tits be free and your standards be low?”

I laughed. I didn’t want to, but I did. The kind of laugh that made your stomach ache and your guard slip, She was ridiculous. And she was right.

“I haven’t worn anything like this!"

She didn’t push. She just smiled and shoved me toward the mirror. “Then it’s time.”

I turned my back and peeled off my hoodie, feeling the air kiss my skin. There was something reverent about trying on another girl’s dress. Like stepping into her power, her confidence, her don’t-give-a-damn fire.

Behind me, Rhea let out a low whistle.

“Damn, babes—your boobs are getting fuller. You’re so lucky,” she said, eyes wide with mock jealousy. “I swear, if I wasn’t deeply committed to dick, I’d be all over you.”

I laughed, heat blooming on my cheeks. “Oh my god, Rhea.”

“No, seriously,” she grinned, flopping dramatically onto the bed and propping herself up on her elbows. “You’d make a fine lesbian partner. I mean, look at you. That soft skin, that waist, those tits. Tell me what guy’s gonna stare at you in this and not get aroused. If I had a dick, it would be standing at attention right now, no lie.”

I tried to suppress my smile, but it spread anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” she shot back, deadpan. “You’re a walking wet dream, Arabella. You just don’t know it yet.”

The first dress was black satin with a deep V that made my collarbones look like something out of a painting. I turned in the mirror, frowning. “I look like I’m trying too hard.”

“You look like someone who eats diamonds for breakfast and steals husbands for fun.”

I snorted. “That is... oddly specific.”

“Okay, fine. Too serious. Try this one.” She threw a crimson dress.

Sliding into the red dress felt like melting into something I didn’t recognize. The fabric clung to my hips like a promise. My legs looked longer.

Rhea leaned against the wall with a slow grin. “Arabella Vale, if you don’t kiss someone tonight, I’m throwing you back into this closet and locking you in with the corsets.”

I smoothed my hands down my thighs, nervous and electric. “What if I don’t feel anything? What if it’s just... empty?”

“Then we’ll fill the night with glitter and kisses with one night stands that don’t matter. And if it still hurts to feel love, we’ll drown it in tequila and Taylor Swift. But you won’t know until you try.”

She had a point.

I tried on three more dresses.

A silver fringe number that made me look like a disco ball. Pass.

A leather bodycon that made me look like I was about to rob a billionaire. Tempting, but no.

And then there was the dress.

Tiny. Sheer in places. Midnight blue like the sky before a storm. It hugged my body like it was made for my skin.

I stepped out.

Rhea’s mouth dropped open. “Oh. My. Fuck.”

“What?”

“That dress. That dress is illegal. You just gave me a bi panic. You look like sin.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

Rhea blinked. “Okay?! Girl, this is not an okay dress. This is a ‘I’m going to ruin your life and smile while I do it’ dress.”

I laughed again. Real, full, and reckless. “Then I guess I’ll wear this one.”

She clapped. “Hell yes! My little depressive wallflower is finally blooming. Now sit. Makeup time.”

I groaned. “Do I have a choice?”

“Nope.”

I sat cross-legged on her bed while she worked her magic. Lip gloss. Highlighter. Mascara, so lethal it should come with a warning.

“Why do I feel like a makeover mannequin?”

“Because you are one.”

“Do I get my rom-com ending?”

“That depends. Are you finally going to flirt with someone? Let yourself feel something?”

I want you wild tonight. No filters. No regrets.”

I met her eyes in the mirror.

“Maybe.”

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