Chapter 14
The Cost of a High
Violet
Cami’s aggressively cheerful ringtone buzzes across the kitchen counter while I’m wiping surfaces that are already clean. I stare at my phone for a second longer than necessary, debating whether I have the emotional bandwidth for whatever version of enthusiasm she’s bringing today.
It’s Cami. Ignoring her will only escalate the situation.
I answer with a sigh. “Morning, Cami.”
“Vi,” she purrs, stretching my name out like it belongs on a billboard. “Do you have any idea how brilliant you are? Like—Einstein-level genius. But hotter. Obviously.”
I snort despite myself. “I’m guessing this isn’t about how beautifully I reorganized the clinic’s supply closet.”
Her laugh is bright, sharp. Weaponized. “Please. No. I’m talking about Zephyra. People are losing their minds over it. Still.”
My hand stills mid-wipe. The cloth hangs frozen over the counter. “Still?”
“Yes,” she says, delighted. “Still thinking about their person. Still feeling it. Days later, Vi. Can you imagine? They’re calling it soul-bonding or some shit. It’s insane.”
Cold slides down my spine. “Cami. That’s not normal.”
“Well, obviously,” she says breezily. “That’s why it’s amazing.”
“That’s why it’s dangerous,” I snap. “If it’s lingering that long, it’s interacting with reward pathways it shouldn’t be touching. That’s not a party drug—that’s neurological interference.”
“Oh my god, relax,” she says. “No one’s complaining. They’re obsessed. Do you know how many people have texted me asking when the next party is?”
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Cami, no.”
“Cami, yes,” she sings. “There’s a penthouse party coming up. Huge. Like paparazzi-on-the-sidewalk huge. The host is dying to have Zephyra there.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“People are still under its influence days later,” I say. “That means I don’t fully understand the half-life yet. I can’t keep producing something this potent without knowing what it’s doing long-term.”
“Then tweak it,” she says, unfazed. “You’re the chemist. Make it lighter. Softer. Just make sure there’s something to bring.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not how this works.”
“It literally is,” she counters. “And no one’s gotten hurt.”
That you know of.
She pauses, just long enough to feel intentional. Then—soft. Calculated. “Vi. This party matters. You want Ella happy? You want Langport handled? This is how we get there. One more batch. One more night.”
The air leaves my lungs.
Cami always knows where to press. Always finds the exact fracture line.
“I’ll text you the details,” she says gently. “Just… think about it.”
The call ends before I can respond.
I stand there staring at my phone, thoughts colliding—chemical data, ethical alarms, and the echo of obsession she brushed off too easily. And threaded through it all, uninvited, is the memory of sharp blue eyes, and a voice that felt like a warning disguised as interest.
I set the phone face down and scrub the counter harder than necessary, like pressure might erase what I already know.
No more Zephyra, not until I understand what I’ve actually made.
I walk through town with my hands shoved into my coat pockets, my thoughts looping in tight, obsessive circles—calculations and half-formed fixes, the same problem replaying itself no matter how I try to outrun it.
Zephyra lasts too long. Longer than it should. Longer than I designed it to.
The compound is supposed to metabolize cleanly—hit hard, burn bright, and disappear. Instead, it lingers. It sinks its teeth in, burrowing deep into the brain’s reward system and refusing to let go.
The nucleus accumbens should process the surge and move on.
Pleasure in, pleasure out. That’s the point.
But Zephyra doesn’t fade the way it should—it settles.
Maybe it binds too aggressively to the dopamine receptors, overstimulating pathways that never fully shut down.
Maybe I underestimated the oxytocin response, the way it reinforces emotional attachment, and quietly rewires connection into fixation.
Obsession.
That’s the word no one wants to say out loud, including me.
I need to adjust the formula. Tweak the enzyme breakdown. Reduce the binding strength without killing the high. There has to be a way to control the duration—to let the body metabolize it instead of clinging to it like something precious and dangerous.
I could go to the lab Cami set up, run more tests, pull blood panels, and simulate decay curves until my eyes blur.
I will. But not yet. I need to be careful.
The thought settles heavy in my chest as I turn down a quieter street, the city noise dulling behind me.
I’m close to work now, and the rhythm of my steps steadies, my breathing falling into sync.
For a moment, there’s almost peace.
Then my skin prickles.
That unmistakable sensation crawls up the back of my neck—the feeling of being watched.
I don’t stop. Don’t spin around like an idiot. I slow just enough to catch my reflection in the darkened window of a storefront.
Across the street, a woman leans against a lamppost.
It looks casual, but it doesn’t feel casual. She’s too still, and too deliberate, like she’s waiting rather than resting.
My pulse ticks faster.
She looks familiar—not someone I recognize, not really, but something about her sets my nerves screaming. Dark hair, nearly my shade. A similar build. Close enough that in low light, we might pass for each other at a glance.
It’s like looking at a distorted reflection. A version of me that doesn’t quite belong in the world.
I turn the corner and pick up my pace, heart thudding now, and breath fogging the air in front of me. I risk a glance back.
Nothing. The street is empty.
I let out a shaky breath and shake my head, forcing my shoulders to relax. I’m tired. Overstimulated. Seeing patterns where none exist. No one knows about me. About Zephyra. About what I’ve done.
No one is looking for me.
At least… that’s what I tell myself as I keep walking.