The three of them—Aria, Damien, and Zoe—stood around Damien's desk. Zoe unlocked her cracked iPhone and slid it across the mahogany surface.
"I've been trailing Lucas for weeks," Zoe explained, her voice low. "You know, trying to find dirt to help you break up with him before... well, before all this happened."
She tapped the play button.
The video was shaky, taken from a distance—likely from inside another car or behind a bush. It was night, grainy and dark, but the subject was illuminated by the harsh yellow glow of a streetlamp.
It was Lucas's distinct white Porsche convertible. The top was down.
Inside, two figures were tangled together in the passenger seat. It wasn't a conversation. It was a frantic, messy collision of mouths and hands.
The camera zoomed in. The woman threw her head back, laughing—or moaning.
It was Bella.
And the man burying his face in her neck, his hand sliding up her thigh, was unmistakably Lucas.
