Chapter 5

Celia stood at the bathroom mirror, reapplying her lip gloss with hands that trembled no matter how tightly she clenched the tube.

The bathroom was empty. Quiet except for the distant thump of bass behind the tiled walls.

She took a slow breath. Smoothed her skirt. Reached for her mascara.

And then—

“Celia?”

The voice was soft. Kind. Completely wrong.

Celia jumped, the mascara wand slipping from her fingers and clattering into the sink. She caught her reflection as it happened—wide eyes, startled muscles, the echo of fear she’d trained herself to hide.

“God, you scared me,” she laughed, too quick, too forced. She bent to retrieve the wand, praying her hands wouldn’t betray her. “Some guy bumped into me near the bar. Sent me flying into a stool. Wrecked my makeup.”

Brielle stepped further inside, concern etched across her features. “Yikes. That sucks. Xander’s back and wondering where you disappeared to. I offered to check on you.”

Celia straightened slowly. Forced a smile that felt like it cracked something inside her.

“Thanks,” she murmured, quieter now.

Brielle slipped into a stall, and Celia took the moment to breathe. Deeply. Count to five. Swallow the rising dread crawling up her throat. She looked down at her hands—they still shook. Not violently. Just enough to feel like they weren’t hers.

When Brielle emerged, she went to wash her hands. Celia had already pulled herself together, her hair fluffed back into soft curls, her mouth repainted into that perfect, glossy smile.

“How long have you and David been dating?” Celia asked casually, as if the question hadn’t been festering inside her since she first saw them.

Brielle smiled easily, instinctively. “Almost six months.”

Six months.

Celia nodded, her own lips tightening faintly. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror—calm, pretty, and lying.

“He’s… very handsome,” she said at last.

Brielle flushed, eyes lighting like someone who still believed the world was safe. “Yeah. He is.”

There was a pause.

A deep, coiled pause where Celia almost said something real.

Almost told her. Almost reached out like one survivor to another.

But Brielle wasn’t a survivor. Not yet.

So Celia did the one thing that still gave her power—she smiled like she knew a secret.

“I bet he’s talented in bed,” she said, her tone featherlight and laced with implication.

Brielle blinked. The pink in her cheeks deepened. “Uh… I wouldn’t know.”

Celia’s breath caught.

And just like that—she understood.

Of course he hadn’t touched her. Not like that.

Not yet.

He was still grooming her. Still wearing the good-boy mask.

A strange relief washed through her—twisted and ugly.

He hadn’t ruined Brielle yet.

“Good for you,” Celia said, slipping her lip gloss into her purse with a little click. “Hold out as long as you can. Guys like to think they own you once they’ve had you. Especially the charming ones.”

Brielle laughed, but it was uncertain—awkward. Like she didn’t quite know whether it was a joke or something heavier.

She wouldn’t know.

Not until it was too late.

They exited the bathroom together, the club lights pulsing like a heartbeat. David looked up before they even reached the table—his dark gaze tracking Brielle first, then slicing cleanly to Celia.

He smiled.

But it wasn’t warmth.

It was a warning.

He patted his lap with a single open palm.

Brielle didn’t hesitate. She slipped into his arms like she’d always belonged there.

David kissed her once, slow and easy.

Then again, harder. Longer. Possessive.

And when he opened his eyes and met Celia’s across the table, the message was unmistakable:

Mine. You had your turn. Stay silent.

Celia sat beside Xander without a word. Her fingers folded neatly in her lap. Her back was straight. Her face unreadable.

Inside, she was screaming.