Chapter 7 #3
I deserve every fucking second of this.
Playing the jealousy card would make me a hypocrite. I shot him, and with each day that passes I’m starting to think he’d never believe me if I told him how much I regretted it. How much I suffered that first year, feeling like part of myself died with him.
Camille and I won’t be home tonight.
There’s only one thing to do to fix this.
Play into it.
I stand at the top of the spiral staircase, watching my plan unfold below.
Bodies grind across the living room as strobe lights flash and music shakes the floor. Coke lines the coffee table. A girl covered in glitter snorts a whole rail while a guy fucks her from behind.
Punk bumps my shoulder with hers. “I didn’t know this kind of insanity lived inside you, Vanya. Have you been holding out on us all these years?”
I swallow champagne straight from the bottle and let the bubbles burn my throat. “Oh, this is new.”
And it’s true.
“Ah, sweet love,” she sings, skimming the crowd.
I lift a shoulder as two guys climb onto the couch.
“I plan to tear that particular problem out before it does more damage.”
My phone buzzes in my palm. Atlas.
Wow. You really outdid yourself, Ice Mommy. I brought friends too…
Ice mommy? Is he joking?
Punk stays on my shoulder, following me through the crush of skin and perfume. Influencers, tourists, whoever the hell she dragged in from the island. Did I expect there to be two hundred? No. But… whoops. I didn’t expect to open a door and see him fucking his ex either, so here we are.
Atlas props himself against the doorframe with one arm draped over some girl’s shoulders, smirking.
“Ivy.” He spreads both arms wide. “My beautiful disaster.”
People snap photos, lights flashing across the room.
He brings a joint to his mouth, and I steal it before he can light it, catching it between my teeth.
Flicking open his zippo, he shields the flame with his hand. “You good?”
I grab his collar and yank him close. “No, I’m not okay! These feelings are all new to me, Atlas, and I don’t know what to do with them except make shit burn.”
Smoke fills my lungs as I hand it back to him.
He squints through the smoke. “He’s going to kill you.”
I widen my eyes. “He can try, but I’m better at it than he is.”
Thirty minutes slip by. The music climbs higher, bodies pressing over each other. I’m done pretending I’ve got boundaries, because I fucking don’t. Not with him, not ever with him.
Shit. How drunk am I?
A bottle lands in my hand. Someone tugs me toward the stairs, and I grin, following. Burning my own life down feels good as long as his goes up with it.
At some point between my fourth bottle of champagne and losing count, I end up on Asher’s bed with three strangers. Silk shifts under my feet as I move with the music.
Taking a deep drag, I let the weed crackle between my lips, watching smoke wind toward the ceiling as my phone keeps flaring beside me.
A heavy thud shakes the room, and Sinead fills the doorway.
“You’re back.” I throw my arms up like a kid who just got candy. I can’t tell if I’m drunk on alcohol, high on weed, or snorting lines of that chaos…
“Ah.” Their brows dip, shoulders tight as they step into the room.
“Or are you a ghost? A figment of my fucked-up imagination?” I sway with the music and giggle.
Fucking. Giggle.
Sinead’s eyes shift past me before snapping back. They’re closer now, standing right beside the bed.
“No, but you might be.” Their hand locks around my arm, pulling me up.
I wriggle free and wag a finger. “Nah uh. You go tell your boss that he wanted to marry me.” I back toward the pillows. “So he gets to keep me.”
One of the men behind me hooks an arm around my waist, hauling me back onto the mattress before covering me with his body. Another catches my wrists and pins them above my head, grinning as if he’s just claimed a prize.
Mmm. Maybe this is what I should’ve been doing all along…orgies with men ten years younger.
My phone lights up again.
I shove the man off and reach for it. Instagram opens to a photo of me taking body shots from a guy’s chest.
First comment: Whatever he did we’re on her side.
Second: It could have been cocaine. You do you, boo.
Third: I liked her better when she didn’t talk.
I snap a screenshot, sending it to the group chat with three laughing emojis. The room sways as I sink farther into the bed, silk gathering beneath my thighs.
One man traces slow circles over my hip while another leans on his elbow, watching the smoke curl upward. The third scrolls through his phone, laughing against my ear.
“Ivy!” Punk rushes in gasping, one hand on the frame. She glances from Sinead to the mess sprawled across the bed. “We have a problem.”
The mess being me.
I lift my head, squinting at her. “What kind of problem?”
Everything’s too heavy, and I drop back down onto the pillow.
She steps toward me. “The husband kind!”
The door bursts inward with a splintering crack, revealing Asher in the doorway, shirtless and streaked with blood.
My lips curve upward into a smirk. Jackpot—he’s fucking pissed.