Sophia didn't move from the doorway. The blanket around her was a shield, but her eyes were weapons. "You can just tell me the truth, Camilla. I'd understand. He was an asshole for saying that to you. Anyone would snap. Maybe… with Bran's death, and everything… Is it all haunting you? Did you…?"
"Trust me, I didn't," I said, the words brittle. "Why would I? I left. But I know who did."
Her posture shifted, a slight tilt of the head. The calculation returned, swift and cold. "And who is that?"
I took a shaky breath, the name feeling dangerous on my tongue. "Lucian Throne."
For a moment, there was only the hum of the house holding its breath.
Then Sophia laughed—a loud, sharp sound that choked into something bitter. It wasn't amusement. It was disbelief edged with scorn.
"I'm serious," I insisted, my voice straining.
She wiped the corner of her eye, the gesture theatrical. "Lucian Throne? The Lucian Throne? Camilla, come on. Do you hear yourself?"
"Bran sold me to Lucian Throne," I said, the words leaving me like stones dropped into a well. "I'm not joking."
Sophia's face softened into a mask of pity. It was worse than her laughter.
"Camilla… you really need to see a therapist." She shook her head, another low chuckle escaping. "You're not well."
"Sophia, why don't you—"
"Okay. Enough." Her voice sliced through mine, all pretense of patience gone. "Listen. Tomorrow, you're leaving. The police are building a case. They plan to arrest you. Tomorrow is your only chance to disappear."
My face went numb. A cold, hollow pain spread through my chest.
I didn't kill Charles. But every clue led back to me. Every assumption, every whisper—it all pointed my way, as if his death was my fault. As if I'd pulled the trigger just by being there.
"But tonight," she said, her tone shifting unnervingly toward something like excitement, "we're going to a party."
A party.
The word echoed stupidly in my head. A warrant was being typed with my name on it, a man was cold on a slab, and all she could think about was a party?
"No," I whispered. "Why would I party? I'm standing in a crime scene."
"I'm not asking you." Her voice lost its false warmth, turning transactional. "You need to clear your head. Tomorrow you leave for Mexico. New name, new life. Consider this your farewell. Our last night of… fun."
I argued. I pleaded. But it was like shouting into a locked door.
When Sophia made up her mind, she didn't bend. She redirected reality until it fit her plan.
And I couldn't see the sense in running.
You run when you're guilty.
You run when you have something to hide.
I had nothing but the truth—and the truth had already been tried and judged in every pair of eyes that had looked at me today.
I did nothing.
And yet, here I was, being fitted for an escape I didn't choose.
I didn't want to go.
But I can't lie—the dress she gave me was perfect. Silk the color of midnight, cut to drape and cling in ways that felt like someone else's skin. The light makeup wasn't light at all—it was art, highlighting bones I forgot I had, shading eyes that usually just looked tired. Everything was too considered, too precise, for just a party.
She handed me shoes that probably cost a month of my old salary. A bag so soft it felt like holding a shadow.
What kind of party were we actually going to?
This wasn't preparation. This was costuming.
I caught my reflection in her full-length mirror.
A stranger stared back—all sharp edges and shimmer.
I looked… beautiful.
No.
Sorry. Too sexy.
And in this dress, with this face, I didn't look like a suspect on the run.
I looked like a weapon being polished.
Her driver dropped us at the curb. The venue was all dark glass and hidden light, a low bass thrumming from within—dum-dum-dum—like a monstrous heartbeat.
Who could dance to that? It was the sound of a building coming down.
"You can't go in." The guard's voice was a low, bored rumble, his body a wall blocking the entrance. He tapped the sleek device on his wrist—a screen glowing with codes. "Not on the list. Invitation only."
Sophia launched into a wheedling plea. My stomach sank.
She'd brought us to a party that required a digital ledger?
This wasn't escape. This was public disgrace.
People flowed past us with a flick of their wrists toward a scanner. A soft beep, a nod, and they vanished inside, sleek and sure. We were the only ones stuck at the velvet rope, exposed. I kept my head down, wishing my hair were a curtain.
"Sir, what does a party need?" Sophia's voice turned sharp, performative. "Hot girls. Look at us. We're so hot. Just let us in."
Humiliation burned through me. I was done. I just wanted to disappear back into the car, back into the silent, non-existent safety of my room.
I stepped forward, my hand closing around her wrist. "Sophia, let's just go."
Before she could argue, the guard's eyes—which had been scanning his screen with bored dismissal—lifted and locked onto me. His expression shifted. The irritation melted into something appraising, slow.
"What's your name?" he asked, his voice dropping.
The question felt like a trap. "Camilla," I said, the name leaving me like a surrender.
He glanced at his screen, thumb scrolling. A tense second passed. Then a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "Camilla… You're not on the list." His gaze dragged over the lines of the dress Sophia had called perfect. "But for you… we can make an exception. Consider it a courtesy."
I forced a smile—a tight, strange thing that said, I don't need your stupid party.
"The door is open," he murmured, stepping aside with a deliberate sweep of his arm. "You both can enter." His eyes lingered on me, a smirk playing on his lips. "Maybe you can… thank me properly later."
Before I could pull away, his fingers brushed the back of my hand—a touch so slight it could have been an accident, but it wasn't. It was a claim. A preview.
"Fuck, I wish you weren't leaving. I'd take you to all the parties… you, beautiful, would give us a free pass for life," Sophia said, her grip on my arm tightening like a vise as she pulled me across the threshold.
The music didn't get louder—it changed. The deep bass from outside twisted into something arrhythmic and groaning inside. The light died, replaced by a feverish, pulsing red glow that made every shape look like a wound. My eyes strained to make sense of it.
This wasn't a party...
It was a porn set. A tableau of exposed skin and twisted limbs. Everywhere I looked—against walls, on low couches, half-hidden behind sheer curtains—people were kissing, sucking, fucking. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and a low, collective moan that drowned out the music.
A wave of nausea hit me so hard I stumbled. I clamped a hand over my mouth almost puked.
"Rich people are so crazy," Sophia giggled, her eyes darting greedily around the room. "I never knew it would be like this."
But it wasn't funny. Nothing about this was funny. A man was dead. I was being hunted. And now I was standing in the middle of a grotesque, writhing circus. My life wasn't just falling apart—it was being dragged through a place where dignity went to die.
It couldn't get any worse.
But the night was still young.
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To be continued...