Camille's back was arched in a perfect bow, head thrown back, lips parted on a silent, ecstatic cry.
Lucas was buried deep between her spread thighs, hips snapping forward in a relentless, hungry rhythm that made the headboard knock against the wall.
Her nails raked down his back, leaving angry red trails. His mouth was latched to her breast, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak while her legs locked tighter around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper, faster.
Mara saw everything.
The flex of his back muscles.
The slick shine on him every time he pulled out.
The way Camille's body took every thick inch like it had been waiting for him all along.
The way Lucas growled Camille's name against sweat-slick skin like it tasted like heaven.
Mara's stomach lurched. Acid flooded her mouth.
But her feet stayed rooted to the hallway floor.
Camille's eyes fluttered open, She spots Mara at the door.
And she smiled,a slow, satisfied, victorious smile, like this moment had been choreographed for years.
Lucas still hadn't noticed the doorway.
He was too lost, pounding into her sister like the world was ending and Mara had never existed.
Camille reached between her own legs, fingers circling herself shamelessly and moaned louder, deliberately louder, just for the audience of one.
"Lucas," Mara whispered, the name barely air.
His head snapped up.
His eyes widened in pure horror.
"Mara—shit—"
He shoved Camille off so hard she nearly tumbled off the mattress.
Camille only laughed, low and lazy, and dragged the sheet over herself like modesty was the punchline to a joke.
Mara was already backing away.
Her spine slammed into the doorframe; pain flared bright and sharp, but it was nothing compared to the ripping inside her chest.
"Mara, wait—" Lucas scrambled for his boxers, tripping over the sheets. "It's not—"
"Don't."
Her voice came out flat. Dead.
Camille stretched like a cat. "You really should knock, little sister."
Mara stared at Lucas.
His mouth was swollen, slick.
A fresh bite mark bloomed on his shoulder, Camille's teeth, not hers.
He reached for her. "Baby, please—"
She slapped his hand away so hard her palm burned.
The crack echoed through the bedroom.
Everything went still.
Camille sighed, bored. "Drama queen."
Mara turned and ran.
Down the hallway, past the little kitchen counter where she used to make him pancakes on Sundays.
Past the couch where he'd whispered I love you three months ago like it meant forever.
She was out the front door before he even found his jeans.
The hallway reeked of garbage and weed.
She stabbed the elevator button twenty times. When it didn't come, she took the stairs, five flights, lungs on fire, tears finally breaking free, hot and ugly and unstoppable.
Outside, the drizzle had turned into a full, merciless downpour.
She had no umbrella, no jacket, no dignity left.
She just walked.
Her phone buzzed and buzzed in her pocket.
Lucas: Baby I'm sorry
Lucas: It was a mistake
Lucas: She means nothing
Lucas: Come back please
She blocked him.
Blocked Camille.
Stood under a dying streetlight and stared at the pathetic $32.17 glowing on her cracked screen.
Her roommate had moved out last week, taken the cat, half the furniture, and every shred of safety Mara had left.
She couldn't go home.
She couldn't go anywhere.
So she wandered, aimless and freezing, while the rain soaked through her cheap work shirt and the city blurred into watercolor streaks of neon and despair.
Her teeth chattered so violently she tasted blood where she'd bitten her tongue.
And still, she kept walking.
Mara walked until her legs stopped working.
The rain didn't let up. Cold needles against her skin, soaking through the thin fabric of her uniform until it clung to her like a second, freezing skin. Her shoes were soaked through, squishing with every step. Her phone was dead—0 %. She had $32.17 left in the world and no idea where she was going.
She ended up on a random corner in SoHo, hugging herself under the weak awning of a closed boutique. The street gleamed shiny black, neon lights fracturing in the puddles like broken mirrors.
She didn't see the crosswalk turn red.
She didn't hear the car until the headlights blinded her.
Tires screeched.
The black Maybach stopped inches from her knees.
The driver's door flew open.
A man stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, coat unbuttoned despite the downpour. Rain slid off hi
s dark hair and down the sharp lines of his face. He looked furious