Chapter Three
Serena
“Girl you loud” by Chris Brown is currently shaking the entire street, and probably half of Manhattan, thanks to Sienna.
Her caramel hair is thrown into a messy bun, strands dancing around her face, and she’s wearing this ridiculous yet perfect little sundress covered in lemons, paired with flat sandals. Sienna is the walking definition of summer, even if it’s just the end of May and the city hasn’t caught up yet.
She’s grinning, glowing, but I know her well enough to see the crack beneath the surface.
“I can’t believe my best friend works for the FBI!” she squeals, practically bouncing in her seat as she steers the car like she’s on a rollercoaster. “Oh my God, Serena, are you going to arrest me if I finally kill Knox?”
Her laugh is light, but I hear the sadness underneath. It’s like she’s painting over a cracked wall with glitter.
I try to meet her mood halfway.
“I don’t think I have the power to arrest anyone myself,” I say, half-laughing, reaching over to lower the volume, because at this point, I’m convinced Girl you loud have become the unofficial Manhattan anthem.
“But,” I smirk, “I could probably assess you and tell them you’re mentally unstable. Get your sentence reduced. Maybe a nice cozy room with padded walls? That work for you?”
She scoffs, flipping her wrist like the drama queen she is. “Oh please. I’ll do it without you knowing.”
Her eyes sparkle, but not from happiness, it’s her way of hiding how much Knox’s betrayal is eating her alive.
That’s how we both survive. We hide everything behind jokes.
Meanwhile, the song restarts for the third time, and Sienna starts dancing again, hips swaying in the seat, one hand on the wheel, one hand in the air, singing like her life depends on it.
We’re two girls in a baby pink Audi R8 Cabriolet, flying through the city, screaming the lyrics to Girl you loud, and yeah, we’re loud.
Loud enough to drown out the fact that our lives are slowly falling apart.
We order our usual.
For me, it’s always the same, decaf caramel latte with oat milk. Some people call it boring, but for me, it’s comfort.
Sienna, of course, goes for her signature matcha. She claims it’s for the antioxidants, but I think she just likes the color. Her cup always looks like it belongs in one of those aesthetically pleasing Pinterest boards.
As soon as the drinks arrive, we do what we always do, snap a few pictures for Instagram.
It’s our ritual. Our way of pretending life is simple, soft, and wrapped in moments like this. Two girls, coffee cups in hand, smiles for the camera.
I tilt my head, Sienna gives me a kiss on the cheek, and for a split second, the laughter is real.
She posts the photo with a caption that makes my chest ache in the best way:
“My bestie is better than yours.”
I know she means it. And deep down, I know she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Sienna is the human version of light.
But life doesn’t like letting you be happy for too long.
Our moment is cut short when the TV above the counter, usually playing some soft indie playlist, switches to breaking news.
The screen flashes red.
Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti arrested. Multiple charges. His face is all over the news.
“Damn, he’s hot,” Sienna says, eyes glued to the TV.
I can’t help but laugh at her reaction. That’s Sienna, no filter, no shame.
Her phone’s already out. Of course, she’s Googling him.
Two seconds later, she’s shoving a paparazzi beach photo in front of my face.
It’s him. Shirtless, messy dark brown hair, Greek God body, tattoos peeking from beneath his swim trunks and covering his arms.
I feel the heat crawl up my neck. Gosh. Why do the bad ones always have to look like that?
“Italian,” she purrs, licking her lips dramatically. “Yum. Italian desserts are my favorite.”
I roll my eyes, kicking her lightly in the arm, but I’m laughing.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?” I tease. “You know, model life and all?”
She scoffs, taking another sip of her matcha like she’s above the rules of the universe.
“Some cannoli won’t kill me,” she winks. “Besides, he looks like he’d be worth the calories.”
A few girls recognize her from across the café and rush over, excited.
Sienna is that famous, runway-walked-for-Dior, Vogue-cover famous, but she’s still the same girl who lets me cry into her lap after my mother tears me apart.
She poses for their photos, signs a few napkins with her perfect signature, glowing under the attention like it’s oxygen.
She belongs in the spotlight. I don’t.
I’m the shadow behind her, the lone wolf quietly sipping coffee, watching my best friend shine.
When the girls leave, Sienna finally turns back to me, her expression softening.
“You excited about this new job?” she asks gently.
She knows me. Knows that my dream was never to work for the FBI.
My dream was to write, to get lost in love stories where the man would burn down the world to keep his girl safe.
But I can’t afford to chase dreams anymore. I have responsibilities now. Expectations. Marriage contracts on my desk.
“To be honest?” I sigh, stirring my coffee, eyes lost in the swirl. “Yeah. I am. Even if it’s not what I always wanted… it’s still something I earned. And I’m ready for it.”
Her face softens. “That’s my girl.”
We finish our drinks, gossiping about people from her agency, who’s sleeping with who, who’s cheating, who’s lying about Botox.
It’s nice to pretend we’re normal. For just a second.
When we step outside, I’m not paying attention.
My face smashes right into a hard, broad chest.
I stumble back, breath caught in my throat, and when I look up—
Dark blue eyes meet mine.
Sharp jaw. Messy blond hair.
Full lips curved into a smirk I’ve seen before, but only from a distance.
He’s around 6’4, lean but solid, like the kind of man who doesn’t need to try hard to be dangerous.
And I recognize him.
Even if my brain tries to play dumb, my brain knows exactly who this is.
Knox Hunter.
Sienna’s New York cheesecake. Her complicated on-again-off-again. The man she claims to hate but can never quite quit.
And now he’s standing in front of us, radiating danger and heat, like the universe has a sick sense of humor.
“Ladies.”
His voice is low, cool, indifferent, but his eyes never leave Sienna.
Knox Hunter is the type of man who owns a room just by walking into it. He doesn’t have to smile. Doesn’t have to say much. His presence is loud even when he’s silent.
I don’t know him well, but I know the stories.
Every girl in our circle knows the stories.
Knox, the man who can have anyone he wants, and usually does. Except for Sienna. With her, it’s complicated. They’ve been something for years, but no one knows exactly what. Lovers? Enemies? A beautifully toxic mix of both.
Rumors swirl around him like cigarette smoke. They say he’s slept with half the modeling industry, but no one can prove it.
Yet Sienna stays. Maybe she’s hypnotized by his muscles. Or maybe it’s something deeper. Something more dangerous than lust.
Because, well, look at him.
He’s carved from sin.
Those biceps alone could silence a room, and trust me, they do.
He leans in, his hand sliding around Sienna’s waist like he owns her, and presses a slow kiss against her lips.
Not a real kiss. A performance. A promise.
Then his lips drift to her cheek, and he whispers something I can’t hear.
But I don’t have to.
I can see it in her eyes, the way they widen, the way her breath catches.
“I’ll see you at home, baby girl,” he murmurs loud enough for me to catch, just before giving me a slight nod.
A polite nod. Like I’m just a piece of furniture in the background.
Then he walks away.
In the opposite direction of where he came from.
Like he came here for no other reason but to rattle her, whisper something poisonous into her ear, and leave her drowning in the aftermath.
I watch his tall frame disappear down the street, leaving behind nothing but tension and the ghost of his cologne.
Sienna’s color drains. Her eyes glaze over for a second too long.
“Is everything okay?” I ask her, even though I already know the answer.
She forces a smile. The kind of smile that hurts to wear.
And she nods.
Another nod.
We drive home, both pretending the Knox moment didn’t happen.
That’s the thing about us. We’ve mastered the art of pretending. Pretending things are fine. Pretending heartbreak is normal. Pretending men like him don’t crawl under our skin and live there rent-free.
But tonight, isn’t about him.
It’s about us. About friendship. About forgetting.
Tomorrow is Saturday.
I’m already planning to lock myself inside, read something escapist, and try not to think about Monday.
The first day at the FBI.
The first day of this new chapter I didn’t really choose.
“Are you flying to Japan tomorrow?” I ask, eager to shift the energy back to something light. Sienna’s face softens, color returns to her cheeks like someone turned the lights back on.
“Yes! I’m so excited. I’ve never been to Japan.”
Her green eyes sparkle again. She glances at me while driving, her lips curling into a mischievous pout.
“I wish you could come with me. We could have a girls’ weekend before you start your new job. It’d be perfect!”
I shake my head, laughing. “Sienna, I start Monday. How would that even work?”
She thinks for a second, her smile turning wicked.
“Call in sick?”
“On my first day?” I raise an eyebrow, just as my phone vibrates in my lap.
I glance down.
A text from my mother.
Cold. Robotic. Mechanical.
Lauren: Congratulations on your job.
That’s it.
No heart emoji. No warmth.
Just an obligation fulfilled.
I shove my phone back into my bag and focus on Sienna’s face.
“Okay, okay,” she sighs, reading the no on my face. “Maybe not the best idea. But you promise you’ll see me when I get back, right? I want every single detail about your first day.”
I nod, this time with real affection.
“Of course.”
She pulls into my driveway, parking like she owns the whole street.
We sit there for another ten minutes, teasing each other, laughing, hugging too long, not wanting to say goodbye.
She kisses my cheek, a loud, wet, obnoxious kiss, and I smile even though my heart feels heavy.
Because I know once she leaves, it’ll just be me again.
Alone. With my thoughts. With the silence.
“I love you, you idiot,” she says, finally pulling away.
“I love you more.”
And then she’s gone.
I open the front door and step into a house that feels more like a museum than a home.
Silent.
Cold.
Empty.
No footsteps echo from the hallway. No sound of Erika humming while folding laundry. No clinking of dishes from the kitchen. Since she left for Germany to visit her family this week, the house has felt like a lifeless shell. Like something abandoned, except for the people still breathing inside.
I kick off my sneakers, the soft thud the only noise filling the massive, hollow space.
It’s like walking into a graveyard of glass and marble. Our house is too big for three people, hell, it’s too big for ten. But that’s how my parents like it.
Grand, cold, and empty. Just like them.
I should go straight to my room. I should hide under the covers and lose myself in a book, pretend the world doesn’t exist.
But something in my chest pulls me toward her door.
My mother.
I walk down the long, sterile hallway, my heart picking up speed the closer I get.
I knock softly, but there’s no answer.
“Mom?” My voice wavers.
I hate how I sound, small, unsure. Like a kid again, tiptoeing through a house filled with secrets.
After a long pause, her voice finally comes through the door.
“Yes, my dear! I’m just… a little busy. Congratulations on your job.”
Her tone is clipped, rushed. Her words are wrapped in something sharp and ragged, like she’s holding her breath between each syllable.
I try the door handle. Locked.
“Okay.” I swallow the knot in my throat. “You’ll let me know if you need me, right?”
“Don’t worry,” she replies quickly. Too quickly. “I just need to rest.”
Rest.
That word again.
That code word for leave me alone.
I stand there for a few more seconds, staring at the door. My fingers linger on the handle, but I don’t push. I’ve learned my lesson about that.
If she wanted me, she’d call me.
If she loved me, she’d open the door.
I let her be.
Back in my room, I peel off my clothes like they’re made of cement.
My skin feels too tight, my chest too heavy.
I remove my makeup carefully, layer by layer, wiping away the mascara, the foundation, the fake smiles.
I step into the shower, letting the water scald my skin. Maybe it’ll burn away the ache in my chest too, but it never does.
When I finally crawl into bed, I grab my favorite book, the one I’ve read a thousand times, and sink beneath the covers.
This is my heaven.
A book in my lap, my hair still damp from the shower, and the illusion of another life to escape into.
Because in this one?
There’s nothing but silence.
And locked doors.