A TASTE OF SIN
"Yes. My best friend, as you wish. You're just like your w.hore mother."
My words, sharp as shattered glass, sliced the air between us. Tessa’s face twisted—not in shame, but in smug satisfaction, as if she fed on my hatred. She began caressing her flat belly in slow, exaggerated circles, her every movement a deliberate performance designed to provoke me. She wanted me to notice, to react.
I stared at her belly, feigning the exact look of surprised horror she so desperately craved. Tessa lifted her chin, proud and taunting. She thought she’d won.