Chapter 11

I’m sweating.

Not, like, cute glowy sweating. No. This is full-blown, upper-lip, stress-sweat while holding a mini steamer and trying not to melt Emily’s dress.

It’s 2 p.m., and we’ve already screamed twice, once because Emily couldn’t find the eyelash glue, and once because I sat on a sketchbook she swears could be worth a fortune one day.

Callie’s curling Emily’s hair in two-inch sections like she’s prepping her for the Met Gala. Emily is pacing in leggings and a bralette, already whispering that maybe she should just cancel the whole thing and flee the country.

Honestly? Same.

Not because I’m debuting a collection of heartbreaking, soul-baring art in front of an elite crowd of critics, exes, and trust fund demons. But because my brain won’t shut up.

Like no matter how many times I remind myself that today is not about me, my thoughts keep circling back to one thing. One stupid, haunting picture.

“Where’s the double-sided tape?” Emily yells, panic-crying into her vanity. “I swear I bought a whole pack. Charlotte, did you eat it? You eat weird things when you're nervous.”

“I didn’t eat the tape!” I yell back, half-offended, half-off-balance as I stretch the steamer cord toward the hem of her dress. “And that was one time. One glitter glue stick. I was seven.”

Callie doesn’t even look up. “You were eleven.”

And okay, maybe I deserve that. But today’s not about me. Today is Emily’s day, and I’m going to be a good friend if it kills me.

Which, honestly, it might.

But I don’t let it show. Not yet.

Because today, Emily needs me. And I know what it took for her to get here, how many rejections she powered through, how many nights she cried into sketchbooks, how many times she doubted whether her work was even worth showing at all.

And now she has an entire gallery in SoHo with her name on the wall, and there is no way I’m letting my latest mental breakdown steal the spotlight.

I glance at the picture on my phone for the millionth time because, apparently I’m a sucker for pain.

The worst part is that it’s not even scandalous. If I were half-naked or posing seductively, at least I could make a joke out of it. Turn it into a power move.

But no. It’s me, blurry and flushed, with lipstick-stained lips and a little drool, curled up in his bed like I belonged there.

Like he wanted to remember me that way.

I haven’t told anyone yet. Not even Callie. And we literally had a three-hour phone call last week ranking every Salvatore brother meltdown.

Just then, the phone rings.

Emily freezes mid-rant about her missing lip gloss and picks it up. “Hello?”

And then, her face goes white. I mean paper white. Her eyes flick toward me, and her mouth opens, then shuts again like she forgot how to speak.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, turning away.

“WHAT.” Callie and I both say at the same time, because we are nosy and invested, and she looks like she just got a call from the IRS.

“It’s gone,” she chokes. “They, they can’t find the sculpture, the one from the Spencer breakup collection. The long dagger.”

Callie drops her eyeliner.

I drop the steamer.

And Emily bolts for the bathroom like she’s about to toss her soul into the toilet.

We spring into action. I tear through the living room like a woman possessed. Callie checks the closet. I check under the couch, behind the fridge, in the tub.

I yell to the bathroom, “Did you check the box tower by the window? The one with, like, five unopened packages from Amazon?”

“WHY WOULD IT BE IN THERE?” Emily yells back, but I don’t answer because I’m already elbow-deep in cardboard.

And then I see it.

Behind a stack of boxes. Tilted at an angle. One long, curved iron spike sticking out like a middle finger from the universe.

“FOUND IT,” I yell triumphantly. “She lives!”

Callie grabs her keys. “I’ll drive it to the venue. I don’t trust Uber with Emily’s trauma dagger.”

Once she’s gone and the adrenaline dips even slightly, I can feel it bubbling back up again, the anxiety. Not about the sculpture. Not about the exhibit. About him.

Emily’s sitting on the couch, hair half-curled, glass of emergency wine in one hand and her expression halfway between murder and concern.

“You’ve been weird,” she says.

I snort. “That’s rich coming from the woman who just accused me of eating tape.”

“You’re twitchy. And quiet. And you keep blinking like you’re confused.”

I try to brush it off. “I’m just excited for you. And maybe slightly overcaffeinated. I had, like, three of those mini espresso things from your fridge that expired last week.”

She doesn’t buy it.

And I can’t lie anymore. Not when it’s right there. Not when I’m sure she can read me.

I collapse next to her on the couch, bury my face in a throw pillow, and say, “Axton sent me a picture.”

That gets her attention. “What kind of picture?”

“Not that kind. Not sexy. Just… me. In his bed. From that night. Sleeping. Like a full-on candid. No text. No caption. Just me. In his sheets.”

Emily’s mouth drops open. “WHAT. THE. ACTUAL—”

“I KNOW,” I groan. “Like, what does that even mean? Is he taunting me? Flirting? Marking his territory?? Was it a warning? Am I the other woman? Like did he just snap a pic of me passed out in his king-sized penthouse bed and think, ‘wow, can’t wait to send this to her two weeks later and then vanish off the face of the earth.’”

Emily blinks. “Okay but what a weird power move. Also, ew.”

“Right? Like one-night stand etiquette 101: don’t send unsolicited sleep pics to girls you possibly cheated on your fiancée with?”

She throws a blanket over my head. “Okay. We’re handling it. You’re not a homewrecker. You didn’t know who he was. And if he’s being shady tonight, I will remove my press-ons and fight him in front of the SoHo interns.”

I laugh. Like, a real one, and it helps.

The gallery is already buzzing when we arrive. It’s all clean white walls, soft lighting, and people with names like Barclay and Sloane discussing “the raw texture of emotional trauma” while sipping lukewarm chardonnay.

Emily’s hands are shaking, and her lips are dry. I stand next to her and squeeze her fingers and whisper, “You’re brilliant. They’re lucky to be in the same room as you.”

Callie joins us, and we spend the first twenty minutes fawning over the setup, marveling at how real it all feels. Like we’ve stepped into someone else’s life, someone cooler, more successful, with a skincare routine that actually works.

Emily starts mingling begrudgingly. We push her toward a cluster of gallery owners and artist types, promising to hover nearby in case of emergency.

I’m just taking another sip of champagne when the air around me shifts.

No warning. No sound. Just a sudden, suffocating tightness in my chest. My hand clamps tighter around the champagne flute.

And then I see him.

Axton.

Looking like he invented heartbreak. Calm, composed, and devastatingly handsome.

And he’s not alone.

There’s a girl on his arm. A red-haired, slender woman, decked out in a silky dress and designer heels. She’s laughing at something he says while touching his chest and looking up at him like he personally invented orgasms and oxygen.

My blood goes cold.

My grip tightens on the champagne flute.

My stomach flips so hard I think I might literally, physically die.

She’s laughing at something he said.

And I think I might throw up on Emily’s favorite sculpture.