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UNKNOWN: Solnyshko, this woman keeps on touching me.

Should I fuck her...or?

A photo is attached beneath the text. A chest I’d recognise even in complete darkness; broad and familiar, now flushed beneath the touch of a woman whose breasts strain against the scraps of a red sequin dress barely covering her.

Her hands rest on his shoulders while his settle on her waist.

Sergei is with a woman. A woman who isn’t me.

Because I told him to stay away.

I pushed him towards this distance with my own hands. But the reminder does nothing to soothe the sharp twist of jealousy clawing through my chest, the ache spreading so deep it feels unbearable.

ME: Fuck. You.

UNKNOWN: So, you're on board?

Any semblance of reason I possess flies out the window as I march towards my wardrobe, searching for the sluttiest dress I own.

I rummage through the cabinet before slipping into the little black dress. I smooth my hands over it, tracing the clean lines, the structured bodice, the soft fabric tapering into a sharp, minimal hem.

The neckline dips just enough to tease a hint of cleavage, the back cut lower than expected, held together by barely- there straps resting against my skin.

If sanity were in the room with me, she’d hit me so hard I wouldn’t dare leave the house. So, pardon me if my behaviour seems unjustifiable.

An hour later, I’m fully dressed and ready to step into Roman’s father’s mansion.

The mansion is massive in that old-money way, a three- story estate sitting at the centre of endless stretches of land and concrete.

The house is drowning in decorations that scream Halloween more than an old-money soirée. Dark drapes, masked guests, and designer clothes I bet cost more than what most people make in a year.

I am most people.

Security is tight and suffocating, men are stationed around the premises, armed. Men who are paid to kill. Men who look like they could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

What am I even doing here?

I half expect to be stopped, turned away, but they only take one look at me before escorting me inside like I belong.

News flash, I don’t.

Soft piano music plays quietly in the background, blending into the hum of the ballroom. The space opens wide, ceilings stretching impossibly high, with two long rows of chandeliers suspended above like floating constellations.

It isn’t crowded, which only confirms this event isn’t for commoners like me. In fact, it’s so extravagant you’d probably need royal blood to attend.

I admire it for a moment before scanning the crowd, searching for a certain six-foot-four inconvenience untouched by conscience.

I spot Roman instead—an entirely different inconvenience, but an irrelevant one, and I digress—clad in a dark green suit that clashes with his icy blue eyes, standing beside his sister, Alina, dressed exactly like the mafia princess she is.

Her eyes dart around the room, her hand looped through Alec’s arm as she continues searching for—you guessed it— Sergei.

Her gaze lands on mine, and the pretentious smile plastered across her face twists into a scowl. She excuses herself politely before stalking in my direction with practised perfection.

I’m reminded of the day I was minding my own business, sitting in the cafeteria with my phone in hand, scrolling through the group chats.

Everyone discussed everything there except studies, that’s where they drew the line.

But the hot topic was always how Alina chased after an uninterested Sergei yet again and failed spectacularly.