Chapter 12: Petals and Blood

It came from the terrace entrance, high and bright and sharp, like a spoon tapped against crystal. Harper knew that laugh. She'd heard it on a hundred red carpets, and once, last night, through a pane of smoked glass.

Serena Calloway swept in under the rose arch in a cream silk dress that probably cost more than Harper's first car, golden waves bouncing with every step. Three women trailed behind her like ladies-in-waiting: Madison, Tatum, and Chloe. Matching blowouts, matching iced lattes, matching smirks.

Serena scanned the terrace. Her eyes landed on Harper, and she stopped dead.

Then she smiled, slow and delighted, like a cat spotting an open birdcage.

"Oh my God. Girls." She didn't lower her voice. She didn't need to. "Look who crawled out of the laundry room."

Valentina didn't even turn around. "Don't," she murmured. "Whatever she says, don't."

"I wasn't going to."

"I was talking to myself."

The four of them drifted over and fanned out around the table, blocking the sun.

"Harper Moss, right?" Serena tilted her head. "The diver. Sorry, ex-diver. I almost didn't recognize you out in daylight. Don't you usually stay home and fold things?"

"Only on weekdays," Harper said.

Madison snickered into her latte.

"I heard you're basically a housewife now," Tatum cooed, her voice sticky-sweet. "That's so cute. Very vintage."

"And a failed diver." Chloe wrinkled her nose. "Didn't you, like, fall off the platform on live TV? I would've moved to another country."

"Antarctica," Madison offered.

"The moon," said Tatum.

They laughed together, a practiced little chorus. Harper set down her glass without a sound. Under the table, Valentina's hand had curled into a fist. Harper covered it with her own and kept her eyes on Serena.

"Anyway." Serena admired her manicure. "I'm getting married soon. To someone very important. It's going to be the wedding of the year." She looked up and smiled with all her teeth. "Maybe I'll invite you. You could pass around the canapés. You're good at serving people, right?"

The girls howled. At the next table, a man in a linen suit lowered his newspaper to watch.

Harper waited. She let the laughter run its course, the way you let a wave break before you swim through it. When it was quiet, she folded her hands on the marble.

"Are you done?"

Serena blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I asked if you're done. I'd hate to interrupt." Harper's voice was low and even. "I hope your wedding is beautiful, Serena. I really do. And I hope your husband isn't trash. I hope he never decides your career matters less than his image. I hope he never locks you in a big house and calls it love." She tilted her head. "And I really hope he doesn't take a fancy whore to dinner while you're home keeping his food warm."

The terrace went so still that Harper could hear a bee working through the white climbing roses.

Serena's smile held for one second. Two. Then it cracked at the corner and slid off her face. A flush crept up from her collar to her cheeks, blotchy under the makeup.

"You," she hissed. "You bitch."

"Serena." Madison tugged at her sleeve. "People are staring."

"I don't care!" Serena shook her off, her voice climbing, the polished starlet melting into something shrill and raw. "You think you're so clever? You think you've won something? Just wait until my wedding. Wait until he's done with you and you're nothing but a used-up, pregnant little maid, you stupid, poor, redneck bitch!"

Nobody breathed.

Then, one by one, the phones came out. A woman in pearls two tables over tilted hers just above her menu. A pair of college girls by the fountain didn't bother hiding theirs at all. Even a waiter froze with a tray of croissants balanced on one hand and his phone held up in the other. Little red recording dots blinked across the terrace like eyes in the roses.

Valentina stood.

Her chair hit the flagstones with a crack, and her hand came across Serena's face even louder. Serena's head snapped sideways, golden hair flying, one diamond earring skittering under the next table. A red handprint bloomed across her cheek, bright as any rose in the garden.

"That," Valentina said pleasantly, shaking out her fingers, "was for the redneck."

Chloe moved first.

Maybe she thought she was defending her queen. Maybe the iced latte had gone to her head. Either way, she let out a shriek like a stepped-on cat, flung her cup aside, and lunged across the table at Harper, ten pink acrylic nails curled into claws.

Harper didn't think. Her body did it for her.

Fifteen years on a platform had taught her one thing above everything else: where her weight was, every second. She leaned back in her chair, smooth and unhurried, the same way she used to set up for a back dive, and Chloe's nails sliced through empty air an inch from her cheek.

Chloe kept going.

Her stiletto caught the leg of Valentina's toppled chair. For one long, slow-motion second she hung there, arms windmilling, eyes wide with the dawning horror of a woman who had made a terrible decision. Then gravity took over. She went down face-first, and her mouth met the rim of a stone planter with a sharp, ugly click.

A shower of pink petals rained down on her.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then Chloe pushed herself up onto her elbows, spitting out rose petals, and opened her mouth to wail. Right where one of her perfect front veneers used to be, there was a jagged little gap.

"My tooth!" It came out as a lisp. "My toof! Thhe broke my toof!"

"I didn't touch you," Harper said calmly.

"You moved!"

"That's usually what people do," Valentina said, "when somebody tries to claw their face off."

Tatum and Madison rushed to haul Chloe upright, both of them staring at Harper like she'd sprouted wings. Chloe clutched her mouth with both hands, her lipstick smeared halfway to her ear, one broken nail dangling from her finger like a tiny flag of surrender. At the next table, the man in the linen suit raised his espresso cup in a small, silent salute.

Harper picked up her glass and took a sip. Her hands were perfectly steady.

Through all of it, Serena hadn't moved. She still had a palm pressed to her cheek. Her eyes were huge and wet, and for a moment she looked like what she really was under all the gloss: a spoiled girl who had never once been told no, watching her friends fall apart one by one.

Then her lips thinned into a white line, and she pulled out her phone.