PETRA
I open the door to see him standing there in a sharp suit with a rather fetching handkerchief folded in his breast pocket. His eyes widen when he sees me, and he puts his hand over his heart in a theatrical gesture.
“Stop!” I say, feeling immensely flattered. “You’re the better-looking one.”
“Are you insane, woman?” Sin counters. “You’re the most . . . gorgeous forest nymph who ever drifted out of the woods one day and decided to grace this grateful mere mortal with her presence.”
“Shut up, you’re so dramatic!”
But inside, my heart is doing flips and somersaults.
“And you’re coming to the fall ball with me, right?” Sin asks, making a big show as usual. “You aren’t going to just change your mind when we reach the school and just leave me hanging, are you?”
“Oh my God, will you stop it?” I punch his arm again, and he staggers back, holding his heart.
“Okay, okay! I’m done, I’m done,” he says, still sighing at me. When I put on a stern face and cross my arms, he offers me his arm. “Shall we?”
I take his arm, and we step out into the cool evening air. The ride to St. Anselm Hall passes pleasantly, too, like all our “study dates” so far: filled with banter and laughter.
When we arrive at the school, the sight of the grandly decorated entrance stuns me. Twinkling lights and beautifully arranged flowers create a magical atmosphere, and for a moment, I allow myself to get lost in it.
Sin parks the car and turns to me, an excited grin on his face.
“Ready to make some jaws drop, Valentine?”
“More than ready, Arnoult,” I reply with genuine enthusiasm. After all, my time for such shenanigans is fast running out.
We step out of the car and walk into the large hall set aside for the ball. Music and laughter weave together, passing over fashionable coiffures and whimsical braids.
The SAH populace has truly delivered, it must be noted, with the girls looking bright and colorful and even the guys delivering killer looks from Balmain and Thom Browne.
Sin holds the door open for me, and we step inside, greeted by the ethereal strains of a Mitski song.
I can feel the music reaching all the way down to my soles.
“First dance of the evening?” Sin asks, perhaps sensing my mood. I take up his offer and his outstretched hand, and we head to the dance floor.
The music pulses around us, and I allow myself to get swept up in the rhythm. For the first time in a long while, I feel light and carefree. Sin’s eyes never leave mine as we swing our arms and do the silliest moves.
Soon, the crowd has been taken over by a spirit of revelry, and limbs move askance as the music turns from synth pop to techno to trap house and EDM and so on.
“Petra,” he yells into my ears as a Claire Laffut song starts playing.
“What do you think?” I yell back into his ears with a huge grin on my face.
Laffut’s smoky voice sings of being bespelled by love, and I wonder if this is what it feels like . . . this mad ecstasy, this joyful abandon.
Sin pulls me closer, and I go into his arms willingly. For a while, we just hop and sway to the beats of the song, while other couples also join hands and lean into each other, savoring the heady combination of music and romance.
But the body’s crude reality encroaches into this dream bubble of strobe light, artificial fog, and pulsing music.
My bladder’s been getting full more frequently now, for obvious reasons, and it is with the greatest reluctance that I tell Sin.
“Wait, I gotta use the restroom.”
“Sure.” He nods and kisses me on the forehead. “I’ll grab us some drinks in the meantime.”
The music grows slightly muffled as I enter the quiet hallway leading to the restrooms. My feet are starting to get sore from the dancing, but my spirits have never been higher.
As I’m done with my business and push open the door to the bathroom, I hear a couple of girls chatting near the sinks. At first, I automatically filter out their chatter as I wash up and freshen my makeup.
Then one of them, a willowy brunette with perky breasts and long legs, says, “I can tell you that Sin Arnoult the First’s an ass man. From personal experience, you know. He was wild this summer.”
She winks at her friends, who are giggling loudly.
The mascara in my trembling hand almost slides down my eyes. I blink as water gathers at the edges of my waterline.
The blonde is still bragging.
“On a serious note, he sure knows what he’s doing. Man’s got moves!”
She makes an obscene gesture to her friends, who laugh even louder. Meanwhile, I barely manage to slip my things into the small purse on my arm.
“Oh, he can be really gentlemanly and reserved,” the girl is saying now. “But trust me, when he lets loose . . . ugh, I couldn’t keep my voice down; it just felt so good. I was surprised he even took Petra to the ball tonight. Must be out of pity or something.”
The floor seems to be sliding out from under my feet, but I still manage to pull away from the sink, which is clutched so tight in my hands that my knuckles whiten, and stagger toward the bathroom door.
The girls’ laughter follows me all the way out, and the surrounding sounds take on a distorted feel.
A heaviness seems to settle over me. The ballroom’s lively atmosphere only emphasizes the discord I feel inside.
For a moment, I just stand there, looking around in utter distress and unsure of what to do.
In the next moment, I spot Sin by the drinks table.
He is joking and chatting with a group of sweaty guys and girls.
He looks relaxed and completely unaware of the hailstorm I plan to rain down on him.
How dare he lie to me? How dare he try to manipulate me by pretending to be this vulnerable, charming guy who was seemingly taken within me?
Blinded by fury and heartbreak, I stride toward him.
Just as I reach him, he turns and smiles at me.
“Petra, there you are. I got us some—”
“You fucking liar,” I cut him off in a trembling but sharp voice.
Sin’s smile vanishes. “What? Petra, what are you talking about?”
“Yo-you asshole! You told me you had been ‘thinking about me all summer,’ but you had no issue hooking up with other people. What, you thought I’d never find out? That I’m some dumb, na?ve—”
“That’s not true at all, Petra!” Sin cuts in vehemently at this point. “Who the fuck told you that?”
“Does it matter who told me?” I snap, trying my best not to cry. I will not give him that satisfaction. “I should have known better. Coming here with you . . . it was a mistake. A terrible fucking mistake.”
“Petra, please listen to me,” he pleads in an urgent tone. “Whatever you heard, it’s not true. I haven’t been with anyone since . . . since that night we—”
“Liar!” I shout at him and turn around, pushing my way through the crowded dance floor. Over the rising strains of Dua Lipa’s “Dance the Night,” I can still hear Sin calling after me.
“Petra! Wait, please!” His voice is desperate and loud enough to cut through even the din of the party.
But I keep moving, even when my vision blurs with tears and I am shoved and jostled by the dancers around me. Just as I reach the middle of the dance floor, the music stops, and the lights dim even further.
The sound of a projector whirring draws everyone’s attention as a video starts playing on the large screen mounted over the stage.
The sudden change in lighting makes the video too bright for my eyes, and I raise an arm to shield them.
But even before I can see the visuals, the audio makes me gasp.
“Hi there. How are you doing today?” I hear a woman say, and it’s the same voice; I know it.
Oh God, what is this?
When my eyes finally adjust to the light, I realize that playing on the screen, before all of St. Anselm Hall, before Sin, is a video of me at the pharmacy.
Buying a pregnancy test.
No, no, no, this is not real. But that’s clearly me on the screen, looking pale and frightened, handing over boxes of pregnancy tests to the cashier.
Murmurs break out around me as my breathing becomes shallow and rapid. I clutch my chest as my heart gallops like a wild horse.
I’m about to be sick.
This can’t be happening.
But the hellish experience is not over.
Crude comments shoot out of the crowd.
“Slut!” someone yells.
“Who’s the dad?” another chimes in.
Each word causes physical pain as my vision blurs again.
I turn around desperately, searching for Sin, but he’s nowhere near me. Instead, I just stand there feeling utterly alone and exposed, surrounded by people who are mercilessly mocking me when I’m at my most vulnerable.
Tears are now streaming down my face, and I struggle to breathe.
“Please, stop,” I whisper, but my voice is barely audible over the ruckus. “Just stop . . .”
But the crowd is baying for my blood at this point. Their laughter only grows louder, more pointed, more malicious.
“Aww, look at the poor thing. She’s going to cry!” a girl in the crowd exclaims.
My knees buckle, and my hands shake uncontrollably.
I cover my ears with my hands, chanting, “This is not real, this is a dream, this isn’t happening,” over and over again.
I look around again for Sin, but with all the lights dimmed, only the outlines of faces are visible.
But I do see Daphne’s face at the very back of the room.
And when I catch her eye, she gives me a knowing smirk.
Everything feels surreal, like a nightmare I am trapped in forever. The walls seem to close in, and the lights are glaring down on me.
My heart is beating in my ears.
“I can’t breathe,” I gasp, desperately trying to ground myself. “I can’t breathe . . .”
In a blessed moment, I see Sin pushing through the crowd. “Petra!” he calls out, his voice ringing high and clear over the enormous, swelling noise of the malicious crowd. “I’m here.”
“Sin . . .” I begin weakly before realizing that he could have just understood that the baby is his. “Sin, I meant to tell you—” I begin, and Sin starts saying something, too.
But our words are drowned out by a thunderous crack. People gasp, and a scream or two rends the air. Another loud crack fills the auditorium.
“What the hell was that?” someone shouts, while some of the faculty have entered the room and are trying to calm the crowd.
A third deafening crack. The room freezes in time for a split second.
Then, the ceiling collapses with an earth-shattering crash, and something long and heavy falls through, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
“What is that?” a girl screams.
“My God, what is that?” Other shouts and screams fill the room.
But I don’t scream. I don’t even blink. I only stare at the corpse that fell through the ceiling and whose detached head is now lying near my feet.
It’s Harry.
That I can recognize him at all is a miracle because his headless body is badly disfigured. His eyes have been scooped out, and blood spurts forth from his severed neck. A great gush of it sprays over my baby-blue tulle, over the actual baby cocooned in my body.
“NOOOO!” a loud, guttural yell rings through the auditorium, and I realize it’s coming from me.
I clutch at my stomach and let out the most terrifying scream I can muster.
I am scared the force of my outburst might hurt the baby, but I can’t stop.
Harry is lying before me.
His dead body is lying on the floor right before me. His blood is all over my clothes, and he is dead.
The room is spinning, Sin is still shouting something incoherent in the distance, and the sneers and jeers of the crowd have turned into hysterical sobbing and flat-out pandemonium.
I have no idea if that damned video of me is still playing because the lights are flickering in and out of focus.
My head is pulsing with something bright, and bitter, and black . . .
As I crumble to the floor, my last coherent thought is that I could have come to the ball with Harry. He could have been with me.
He could have lived.