Dancing with Danger
The bass of the club throbbed like a racing heart, lights flickering like paparazzi flashbulbs. Carina Gordy was in her element—or what was left of it. Dressed in gold barely held together by thread and delusion, she swirled a crystal flute of champagne above her head, flanked by so-called friends who came for the chaos, not the company.
“To freedom,” she slurred, raising her glass, “and to finally being rid of that… incubator living in my mansion!”
Mocking laughter exploded around her. A redhead in platform heels leaned in. “You mean the saint? What’s her name again?”
“Gabby,” Carina said with venom. “Sweet little Gabby. Our Blessed Virgin, pregnant with my husband’s baby.”
She crossed herself theatrically, spilling champagne. “Saint Gabby of the Guest Room.”
Phones were out. Recording. Always recording.
Somewhere else, Gabby watched the clip trending online. A viral reel labeled #CarinaUnhinged.
She sat on the edge of the bed, one hand over her belly. Four months along. Her silence was louder than any scandal.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.
But she packed a bag.
A single, small overnight bag.
Phil found her by the front door, hands shaking as she zipped it closed.
“Gabby?” His voice was a blend of confusion and concern. “Where are you going?”
She didn’t look at him. “I need space.”
He stepped closer. “Talk to me.”
“She hates me,” Gabby whispered. “She’s humiliating me in public. She’s poisoning this house with her hate. And this baby feels it, Phil. I feel it.”
Phil’s jaw tightened. “You think running will fix it?”
“I think peace is priceless.”
He exhaled, stepped forward, and gently pried the bag from her hands. “You’re not leaving. Not like this. Not when you're the only one in this house doing the right thing.”
Gabby looked at him for the first time. “Why are you defending me?”
“Because you’re worth defending,” he said. “Because she’s noise. You’re the melody.”
And just like that, the bag dropped.
The next morning, Carina still wasn’t home.
No text. No call.
Until 5:42 a.m.
Phil’s phone lit up. Unknown number.
He answered groggily.
“Phil?” Carina’s voice was thick with panic. “I—I’m in jail.”
He sat up fast. “What the hell happened?”
“I went out with this guy—Jose Hernandez. I didn’t know who he was! We were just having fun.”
“Jose Hernandez?” His voice turned to steel. “You mean the drug trafficker with three federal warrants?”
Silence.
“You’re lucky you weren’t taken. Do you even understand the danger you’re in?”
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “Please… I need bail.”
Phil stared out the window, where Gabby sat under the sycamore tree, humming lullabies to the life growing inside her.
He clenched his jaw. “We’ll see.”
Click.