"Riva? You're standing here all alone. " The voice behind her was warm, familiar—too perfect to be innocent. "Honey, what's wrong? You look like a ghost."
Her spine locked.
She turned slowly, as if her body were crossing a border her mind didn't yet trust.
Marcus Gray stood there holding two champagne flutes, bubbles climbing the glass in polite, rhythmic streams.
His smile was the one she used to starve for—soft concern, measured for maximum gravity. His green eyes remained clear and gentle, a gaze engineered for rooms exactly like this one.
Even here, amid a haze of bass and old money, he wore the curated version of himself: the doting fiancé, the visionary director, the man who never lets the mask slip.
Her stomach tightened—not with nausea, but with something more primal. An animal rejection.
Her fingers curled into her palms, her skin still haunted by the memory of prison fabric, the way every breath in that place had tasted of industrial bleach and oxidized metal.
The silk sliding against her legs felt too smooth. It didn't feel like luxury; it felt like a cover-up.
Stay calm.
The words rose from a dark, quiet place.
Remember where you crawled out of. You are the hunter now. Keep your teeth hidden. Let him believe the air is still sterile.
"You're so pale," Marcus said, stepping into her space with practiced worry. "Are you coming down with something?"
Riva tightened her fist until her nails bit into the meat of her palm.
Pain was simple. Pain was honest.
She lifted her chin and let a weary smile settle into place. "I think I just drank too fast," she said, her voice a light, melodic lie. "It caught up with me."
She added a small frown—the delicate, manageable kind he liked to fix. "And the music. It's aggressive tonight."
She took the flute, gripping the stem high to ensure no accidental brush of skin, no shared warmth. The glass was freezing, the condensation slicking her fingertips. She held it like the state's evidence.
Marcus didn't flinch. His arm rose in that familiar, proprietary arc, aiming for her waist as if it were a piece of real estate he already owned.
"What can I say? My queen is the girl of the hour." His smile widened, hitting its cinematic peak. "Neon Shadows took the top spot this week. Everyone is here to celebrate you, Riva. They're obsessed."
A heartbeat before his hand could make landfall, Riva moved.
It looked natural—a shoulder strap adjusted, a graceful half-step to the side, the kind of pivot women learn when the cameras are always hungry.
But it was tactical. She slipped out of his orbit and drifted toward the crystal liquor cabinet, where the bottles stood in neat, amber rows like a display of polished sins.
"I know," she said, her back to him, her tone soft and yielding. "It's just… a lot. My head is spinning."
She reached for a glass of ice water—something clear, something that couldn't be spiked or spun—and used the reach to mask the one thing she couldn't fully kill: a jagged tremor in her hand.
Then she let her eyes do what they had learned to do in the dark.
She scanned the room—fast, cold, methodical.
Exit first. Reflections in the glass. Who watched too long. Who leaned in too close. Which smiles were sharp enough to draw blood.
She wasn't here to be celebrated.
She was here to find the fracture in the narrative.
The penthouse was a hive—new-money Hollywood, producers whose smiles never reached their eyes, agents slick with synthetic charm, and actresses shimmering under the chandeliers like high-end décor. Riva let the cacophony blur into white noise and locked onto the only face that mattered.
Bella Lawrence.
Silver sequins. A practiced heiress smirks. Men orbiting her as if on a payroll. Bella's eyes drifted from face to face, taking inventory, her gaze never lingering long enough to be caught.
Riva knew the machinery behind that pretty blankness: a cold, high-speed calculator. To Bella, Marcus Gray wasn't a man—he was an asset. Prism Pictures wasn't a dream; it was leverage. The Lawrence name didn't deal in love; it dealt in strategic upgrades.
Riva kept her own expression hollow, her focus sealed tight.
Bella, she thought. Not tonight. But soon.
She turned back to Marcus, the glass of ice water still a cold weight in her hand. Her voice was soft and controlled—polite enough to pass, final enough to cut him off.
"Marcus," she said, "I'm done for the night. My head is spinning. I'm going to lie down." She lifted the glass slightly, a silent proof of her own sobriety. "You're the host. Go handle them."
She moved before he could manufacture a rebuttal, cutting across the plush carpet at a measured pace. Her dress trailed behind her in a calm, defiant line. She gave him nothing but a view of her back.
Down the hallway, down the stairs—past framed photos that looked like an airbrushed draft of a life they never actually lived.
The master suite waited, cavernous and expensive, still heavy with the cloying scent of the diffuser she used to mistake for comfort.
Riva shut the door and held her breath.
Click.
The lock engaged—a small, metallic snap that felt final.
She leaned into the heavy wood, the cold grain seeping through her skin. The second she was alone, her legs gave out. She slid down to the carpet, her breath coming in jagged, shallow pulls. Her heart hammered with a hard, mechanical rhythm that didn't match the music bleeding through the walls.
Beyond the door, the party kept laughing.