Game on
Chapter 23
SOPHIA
I cannot go out there like this.
That is my first thought when I look at myself in the mirror. And my second. And my third. No amount of staring is making this any better.
Maria was right about one thing: the dress fits like it was made for me.
But that is also the problem. It fits in the specific, dangerous way of things that leave absolutely no room for error.
It is too short to move without a constant, low-level anxiety about what might be happening at the hem.
The neckline is doing something architectural that I am not entirely prepared for. This dress is way too sexy for me.
I gather my clothes from the floor of the small bathroom. The space is so narrow that turning around requires a strategic sequence of movements. I hold the bundle against my chest like a shield I am not ready to put down.
"Are you done?" Maria's voice cuts through the door over the heavy bass, accompanied by what I can only describe as impatient knocking. "Shopi! Come out!"
"I can't wear this," I call back, my voice tight.
"Come out and let me see..."
"Maria"
The door handle rattles. Decisively.
I look at my wet clothes. I look at my reflection. I unlock the door and step out.
"Oh my God." Maria clasps both hands together in front of her chest, beaming at me with the specific delight of a mastermind whose plan is going even better than expected. "Shopi."
"I cannot wear this," I say again, because it bears repeating.
"You look incredible"
"It is extremely short, Maria."
"It's supposed to be short!"
"I cannot bend down. I cannot reach for anything above shoulder height. I am essentially committed to standing completely still for the rest of the evening."
"You look hot," she says, with the finality of a judge closing a debate.
I turn reluctantly to the large mirror on the wall.
Maria steps in behind me, appearing over my shoulder, and we both look at my reflection.
The dress is deep green. The kind of rich, emerald green that does something unexpected and striking with my coloring.
My hair, which I had shoved into a rough bun at some point in the last hour, has partially escaped.
It falls in loose waves around my face in a way that looks either disheveled or highly deliberate, depending on who is looking at it.
It is fine.
Actually, it is more than fine, and I deeply resent that. It would be considerably easier to go back into the bathroom and lock myself in if I looked bad.
"The only thing missing," Maria says, already rummaging through her bag with the focused efficiency of someone prepared for multiple worst-case scenarios, "is this."
She produces a hairbrush and a makeup bag, setting them on the counter with the immense satisfaction of a soldier completing a mission. "Different hair and Lipstick."
"And what," I ask, trying not to move my lips too much as she leans in and uncaps a sharp black eyeliner, "does any of this have to do with your plan?"
"Plan A," she says, drawing a dark, sharp line with the concentration of a neurosurgeon, "is to enjoy the party."
"Maria. My aunt is going to wake up, find her car gone, notice I'm not in my bed, and she is going to how can i enjoy the party"
"She won't find out."
"She absolutely will find out"
"I know Lorenzo." She switches to a bold lipstick, her movements calm and certain.
"The boat will be back at the pier in a few hours. He wants to make you uncomfortable, not actually strand you forever. He's dramatic, Shopi, not insane."
She caps the tube and looks at me in the mirror with pure satisfaction.
"Plan B," she whispers, "is to provoke him."
I look at her reflection, my eyes narrowing. "Provoke him," I repeat.
"If Lorenzo sees you having a good time, it will drive him absolutely insane." She begins pulling the pins from my messy bun, letting my hair fall completely free. "If you walk out there and act like this yacht is exactly where you want to be, you take his power away. You steal his victory."
I consider this, the weight of her words sinking in.
"Weren't you the one," I say slowly, "who was telling me at school today that you thought Lorenzo had changed? That maybe he wasn't as bad as you thought "
"That was before he orchestrated a 2 AM fake emergency " she says pleasantly. She locates a clip in the depths of her bag and uses it to pin back one side of my hair. She steps back and surveys the result. "There. A small, satisfied nod. That's the look."
I look at myself. Then I look down at my feet.
"Shopi," Maria sighs, staring at my flip-flops with an expression that suggests she is deeply, personally offended by their existence. "Again?"
"They were by the door."
"What is it with you and these flip-flops?"
"They are literally all I have."
"You cannot wear plastic flip-flops with a designer dress"
"Then I'm not going out." I say it with genuine relief, turning back toward the bathroom safety.
"Problem solved. I'll stay in here and wait for the boat to dock."
"Sophia Miller." Maria steps in front of the door, blocking my path.
She is not a large person, but she is a determined one.
And determination, in my experience, counts for far more than size.
"You are going to walk out there in that dress and those ridiculous flip-flops, and you are going to be completely fine. Because I promise you" she tilts her head, and that dangerous, wicked Maria smile appears, "you are going to get every single person's attention."
"That," I say, "is exactly what I'm worried about."
She looks at me, her eyes softening. "I know," she says gently.
"I know you hate it. But Shopi... he brought you here to make you feel small. You can either stay hidden in this bathroom and let him be right" she pauses, her voice hardening, "or you can walk out there and show him and the rest of them that they have absolutely no impact on you."
The boat moves gently beneath us, rocking against the waves. The thumping music comes through the walls in physical vibrations.
I look at my reflection one last time. The emerald dress. The wild hair. The bold lip color Maria put on me that is doing something fierce to my face. The flip-flops that are an objective fashion disaster and that I am apparently wearing anyway.
And underneath all of it, underneath the exhaustion and the very real anxiety about my aunt's car something else stirs.
Something that has been burning there since the moment I saw his face tonight. Since I saw the dark bruise, the cut lip, and the strange, unreadable look in his eyes in that split second before everything exploded.
I am still angry.
Every single bit of that anger is still pulsing inside me.
It is not going anywhere, and I have absolutely no intention of pretending otherwise.
But if Clara is going to find out about tonight—and she is, there is no version of reality where she doesn't—then I am at least going to make sure there was a point to it.
I look at Maria. "What exactly do I have to do now?"
Her smile sharpens into a blade. "Walk out there," she says simply. "Look exactly like that. And let him come to you."
"So it's game on, then," I say.
Together, we open the door and walk back into the lions' den.
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