Chapter 8
The Beginning of the End of Me
Violet
The days after the party stretch strangely—too long, too fast, and all at once.
My routine holds steady because it has to: Ella off to school, clinic shift, errands, dinner, dishes, laundry, and then collapse.
Repeat. But my head won’t stop moving. Certain images keep circling like they’re caught in the spin cycle of my brain—the lights, the music, the crush of strangers, and the slick thrum of bass in my bones.
And him. Always him.
My phone shrieks beside my bed, cutting through the fog of almost-sleep. I groan, tangle myself upright, and fumble until my fingers close around the damn thing.
“Hi,” I mumble, voice sandpapered from dreams I barely remember.
“Well good morning to you too, sunshine!” Cami chirps, far too alive for a human being at this hour.
“Morning,” I mutter, rubbing my face, raking a hand through my hair like that’ll make me sound less dead.
“So, I got a call from my other supplier,” she says, breezy as brunch. “And it looks like someone noticed your little contribution to the party.”
My stomach drops right through the mattress. “What do you mean noticed?”
“Relax, Vi. It wasn’t bad. They just wanted to know what it was and where I got it. I told them you were a friend doing me a favor. Easy.”
“Cami, you can’t just—”
“Oh, please,” she cuts in. “It’s fine. It’s just Mav. They’re not mad. Actually, they’re… interested. You might’ve just made a name for yourself with these people.”
“Perfect,” I say flatly. “Just the career milestone I was aiming for.”
She laughs, utterly unbothered. “Anyway, they want more. And there’s another party this weekend. I already told them you’d take care of it.”
I sit up straighter. “Cami, are you out of your mind? I can’t just—”
“You can,” she steamrolls. “It’s easy money, they’re clearly into it, and I’ll be there. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I could list the horrors alphabetically, but arguing with Cami is like trying to stop a train with your palm. She hears objections as encouragement. She should have been a lawyer.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because that old memory hits—the one that always hits—and I’m gone.
Ella curled against me months ago, shaking so hard I felt it in my teeth. She’d woken screaming, clawing at my shirt, sobbing until her words broke apart.
“They were there, Vi,” she’d whispered, terrified. “Mom and Dad. I saw them. The headlights—”
I had held her until her breathing softened, whispering anything gentle enough to bridge her back to sleep. But I didn’t sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, hating every inch of my own helplessness. Wanting more than anything to take her pain and crush it in my fists.
And I promised myself—quietly, desperately—that I would find a way to give her a life where nightmares were not the only thing she inherited.
I swallow hard. The weight of that promise settles where my ribs feel too tight.
What else am I supposed to do?I’ve worked extra shifts. Tutored. Sold Mom’s jewelry. Stretched every dollar until it screamed. And still—short. Every time. Langport doesn’t care about excuses.
The first time I did this… God. I told myself it was temporary. A one-time bridge to something safer. But the money came fast, and the need stuck to me like humidity in August. The guilt lingered, but the relief always won. At least for a while.
And now?Now I’m standing at the edge of the same decision I swore I’d never touch again.
The justification machine starts on its own, humming through me like muscle memory. One more time. Just this once. Just enough to catch up. I can control it. I won’t let it spiral.
But I know. I know I’m lying to myself.
“I’ll text you the details,” Cami chirps. “And wear something cute. You never know who you might see.”
Before I can breathe out a syllable of protest, she hangs up.
I stare at the phone like it just betrayed me.
I wonder if he’ll be there.
Those eyes flash in my mind—piercing, impossible, and knowing—and my breath snags. There was something about the way he watched me at the party. Like he wasn’t watching the room at all. Like he already knew how I tasted. Like he was memorizing me cell by cell.
His sharp jaw, the way his suit clung to him, and the calculated way he cut through the crowd—predator smooth. It replayed all night in my head. Still does.
It’s ridiculous how much mental real estate this man occupies. I have real problems. Tangible ones. Tuition deadlines. Rent. Groceries. Not… whatever this is.
I hate that it's come to this—counting on a drug I shouldn’t have made in the first place. My parents would be horrified. They wanted stability for us. Safety. Then a drunk driver ripped everything apart. And now it’s on me to build something better for Ella from scraps and fumes.
Langport isn’t optional. It’s her way out. Her restart. I’ll bleed myself dry if that’s what it takes.
So why does my mind keep drifting back to him?
Who was he? Why was he at that party? And why can’t I stop imagining what it would feel like to see him again?
I’ll have to ask Cami. She knows every face worth knowing and a few that aren’t. Maybe she’ll give me a name. Something. Anything to explain why my pulse jumps when I think about him.
But having thoughts about him feels dangerous in itself. A luxury I don’t have the funds for. Still… my image of him lingers like a song I can’t quite shut off.
At the clinic, I slip into the old rhythm. Animals come in shaking and leave calmer, their people grateful, and eyes softer. It fills something in me, but it drains something too. Everyone always needs something, and I don’t have much left.
By the time I get home, the apartment is still. Ella won’t be back for a bit, so for the first time all day, the weight loosens enough to let me breathe.
I put on music. Something familiar. Something that pulls at the edges of who I used to be. And before I know it, I’m moving through the living room. Letting my body go where it wants. Hips, arms, and breath. For a moment—one brief, beautiful moment—I feel free.
And then it hits me mid-turn, sharp and terrifying.
What if I let myself play at the next party?
The thought chills me. I’ve been to parties before, of course. But always from the edge. Always observing, absorbing, and analyzing. Never surrendering to the current.
What would it feel like… to let go?
I think of the couples from that night—the raw intensity of them, the way the air itself felt charged, and the way desire moved through the room thick enough to taste. The memory steals my breath all over again.
The front door clicks open, and I freeze like a guilty teenager.
Ella kicks off her shoes. “Viy, I’m home!”
Music off. Fantasy gone. Mom mode engaged. “Hey, sweetheart! How was your day?”
She drops her bag and launches straight into a story about her biology project. I smile, nod, and drink her excitement like water after a long day. But the echo of my earlier thoughts lingers—quieter now, but still there, still pulling.
I watch her talk, her hands moving, and her eyes bright. And I remember why I’m doing this.
Every long day. Every risky choice. Every sleepless night.
For her. For her future. For Langport.
There isn’t room for anything else. Not him. Not the thrill of the party. Not the dangerous tug of what I almost let myself imagine.
I have a job to do.