Page 9

Mia's innocent baby blue eyes went wide. "The dress?"

"The revenge dress. The one that makes me look like I could ruin someone's life and enjoy it."

"Harper, this is supposed to be a peace offering dinner, not—"

"Not what? Not me reminding Captain Miserable that I'm a whole person with value who doesn't deserve to be talked down to like garbage? Because that's what I'm doing. I'm showing up looking devastating so she remembers I'm not just some vapid Instagram girl she can dismiss." I stood and grabbed my jacket. "I'm going home to get ready. Tell Isla I'll be there. And tell her if Cam starts anything, this time I'm fucking finishing it."

The dress was black, fitted, with a neckline that was just shy of obscene. I paired it with my favorite heels, the ones that made my legs look incredible and added three inches to my height, and spent forty-five minutes on my hair until my adorable black 3B curls were perfect. Full makeup. Red lipstick. The works.

I looked hot. Like, disgustingly hot. Like I'd stepped out of a photo shoot for bisexual rage.

Mia picked me up at 6:45, took one look at me, and sighed. "You're doing too much."

"I'm doing exactly enough." I checked my lipstick in my compact. "If I'm being forced to spend an evening with someone who thinks I'm shallow and vapid, I might as well look expensive and hot while doing it."

"She doesn't think you're shallow."

"She called me Instagram, babe. As an insult. That's pretty much the definition of thinking someone's shallow. Meanwhile, her entire social media presence is fake as hell, but sure, I'm the shallow one."

Mia pulled out of the parking spot, heading toward Isla and Trish's place up in the hills. "For what it's worth, Isla says Cam's been a mess about this. Apparently she keeps asking Trish if you're okay."

"Well, I'm spectacular. Living my best life. Definitely not spending my free time hate-scrolling her Instagram and getting increasingly annoyed by her hypocrisy and complete lack of authenticity."

"Harper."

"What? I'm just trying to understand how someone with zero personality on social media gets to judge me for having one. It's a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in professionally lit basketball photos."

Mia was trying not to smile. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm a delight, and you know it."

We pulled up to Isla and Trish's house, a gorgeous Mediterranean mansion in the hills with red terracotta tiles, pale yellow stucco siding, sloping archways, and a view that stretched across the city like a pretty postcard. All paid for by a multi-million dollar Nike endorsement, of course.

I took a deep breath, checked my reflection in the visor mirror one more time.

"You look beautiful," Mia said softly. "But you know you don't have to prove anything to her, right?"

"I'm not proving anything. I'm just existing fabulously in her general vicinity. There's a difference."

We got out of the car. I smoothed down my dress, squared my shoulders, and followed Mia up the front steps like I was walking into battle.

Which, let's be honest, I kind of was.

Isla opened the door before we could knock, her red and silver hair catching the evening light. She wore a fashionable purple cocktail dress, and in her heels, stood approximately five inches taller than me. Of course, she still had nothing on a WNBA player, like her six-foot-six wife.

She took one look at me and grinned. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

"I'm here to accept an apology graciously and then leave," I said. "Where's the wine?"

"Kitchen. But first,” Isla grabbed my arm, lowered her voice, "Cam's already here. She's nervous. Be nice."

"I'm always nice."

"Harper."

"Fine. I'll be civil. That's the best I can do."

Isla led us through her lavishly furnished home to the living room, where Trish was opening a bottle of wine and Laine was arranging cheese on a board and—