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“The kind of mistakes you’d make again?”
“No,” I say firmly, though a voice inside whispers: how can you be sure? “I’ve learned from them. Painfully.”
Paisley studies me, her expression unreadable. “I’m just not sure you’re ready for this, Hayes. Think about it, because if you’re not—if you’re still working through your grief or your guilt or whatever else you’re carrying—my sister is the one who will pay the price. And she’s paid enough already.”
Something in me snaps at the relentless questioning, at being made to justify my worthiness to love again. I stand, needing physical movement to channel my surging emotions.
“With all due respect,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even, “I believe I’m ready, yes. I’ve done the work. I’ve facedmy grief. I love my son more than anything in this world, and I would never bring someone into his life who I didn’t believe could be permanent. But I think we may have to agree to disagree on this one.”
I turn to go inside, needing space before I say something I’ll regret. Before I can reach the door, Paisley’s voice stops me.
“I’m sorry, Hayes. I didn’t mean to offend you,” she says, her tone softening. “But I’m just looking out for my sister. You have to understand.”
I turn back, meeting her eyes one last time. “I do understand. And I’m looking out for your sister, too.”
24
Seeing Red
BRIELLE
Istumble back into the mansion for tonight’s cocktail party and Lock & Key ceremony, emotionally wrung out from Hayes’s visit with my sister. The too-bright lights of the foyer make me unable to see for a moment, and my brain is still churning with Paisley’s words—when I sense something’s off. The usual chatter has a different pitch tonight, eerily quiet murmurs. I smooth down my dress, force on a smile, and step into what I’m about to discover is my own personal apocalypse.
In the common room, there’s something electric in the air, and not in a good way. More like the crackling tension before lightning strikes. The women are clustered in a circle, their heads bent together, whispers stopping when they noticeme. Tanya gives me a look that’s halfway between pity and fascination—the expression you’d give a gazelle that’s about to be devoured on a nature documentary.
“What did I miss?” I aim for casual as I grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray. My fingers tremble, betraying the calm I’m trying to project.
The room falls quiet as Luna steps into the center, her brown waves cascading over her shoulders, that curvy body of hers shifting with deliberate grace. She’s holding out a photo.
“Why don’t you tell us, Brielle?” Luna’s voice carries across the room. “Or should I show everyone instead?”
She flips the photo up, and there it is—a grainy but unmistakable image of Hayes and me on that beach. Naked and entangled. My stomach plummets to the floor. Did that family take a photo of us and leak it? How did Luna get it? We’re not supposed to have any contact with the outside world… except we just did during hometowns.
“Looks like our little screenwriter had a pre-show audition with Hayes,” Luna says, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. “In the biblical sense.”
Luna—she’s such a snake!
The room erupts. Several gasps, a “holy shit” from someone, and then everyone starts talking at once. I stand frozen, champagne halfway to my lips, my brain frantically trying to compose a response that won’t sound like a desperate lie.
“That’s—we just hooked up.” My voice is embarrassingly weak.
“Naked,” Luna says, and several women titter.
“I had my bikini bottom on, and we stopped—” I stop myself from admitting it was only because we got caught. “Look, it was a moment on a beach that got heated, but it didn’t go anywhere.”
“The photo evidence says otherwise,” Serena says.
“Wait.” Annabelle steps forward, her hair vibrant under the light, freckles standing stark against her pale skin. “You knew Hayes before? You two were...” She can’t even finish the sentence.
“No, Annabelle, I swear. We didn’t know each other—we met at a wedding, there was one moment on the beach, and—”
“And what?” Luna cuts in.
“So you lied.” Serena’s words, usually so measured, slice through the air. “All this time, you pretended to be meeting him for the first time, like the rest of us. You manufactured reactions, acted surprised when he remembered things about you.”
“No—”
“Yes.” Serena steps closer, and I fight the urge to back away. “You’re a screenwriter, Brielle. You craft fiction for a living. You manipulated all of us—including Hayes—for what? Better TV? A career boost? Or did you just want to ensure you had an advantage over everyone here?”