Page 68 of I'm sorry, Princess

What the fuck?

I down another glass of vodka, the burn fueling the haze in my head, and glance around the room. Everyone’s having fun. Maybe I should, too. Half-drunk and half-wasted, I already feel the familiar pull of recklessness creeping in. Another line of coke should do the trick. I run my tongue over my teeth, scanning the room until my gaze lands on the nearest brunette. Blue eyes, soft curves.

She’ll do.

“Come here, sweetheart,” I say, beckoning the brunette with a flick of my fingers.

But if Lev’s got two girls, why the hell should I settle for less?

“Bring your two friends as well,” I add, my voice dripping with authority.

The trio approaches, and I’m immediately glad they’re not blondes. The last thing I need tonight is a reminder of what I’m trying to forget. I can’t deny it, though, the group I’ve pulled is hot. Perfect, actually.

One of them climbs onto my lap, her hips rolling as she grinds against my cock. Her curves press into me, and I can already feel the heat rising. The second girl settles beside me, her lips trailing across my neck, leaving soft kisses and teasing licks that send shivers down my spine.

The third? She’s busy locking lips with the girl on my lap, their movements slow and deliberate, while her hands work their way to my shoulders, kneading the tension out of my back.

Life is good.

Chapter Nineteen

Serena

I’m definitely drunk. Not tipsy, not buzzed, drunk.

At some point, we met up with two of Sienna’s friends from the modeling world, Clara and Kylie, both gorgeous and effortlessly confident, like they walked straight out of a magazine spread. The night has taken on a surreal edge, a kind of chaotic fun that only happens when you’re just sober enough to function but too far gone to care.

Oddly enough, my head feels clear, well, as clear as it can be after God knows how many shots. Clear in the sense that, for once, I’m not obsessing over a certain Italian psychopath. A very hot Italian psychopath.

Damn him.

“Shots!” Sienna shouts, her voice cutting through the music like a war cry.

I grab the glass without hesitation, and the burn hits my throat instantly, sharp, unforgiving. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had, but at this point, counting feels pointless. We’re drunk. No, very drunk. We’re dancing now, and not just swaying mindlessly to the beat. No, we’re moving like we’ve got a crowd to impress, hips rolling, hands in the air, laughing like we’re invincible. We look good, too, hot enough to be mistaken for professional strippers, the kind that owns every inch of the stage.

This is why girls need girls’ nights. Nights to get drunk, dance like no one’s watching, and forget, forget whatever the hell’s been swirling in their heads. Boys, jobs, life, none of it matters right now. Still, something about the energy in this club feels off. People keep whispering, glancing toward the VIP section. A big deal about someone’s birthday? Seriously? Who cares? It’s just a birthday. I take another sip, dismissing the thought. Tonight, the only thing that matters is us ‘Who’s birthday it is?’ I ask like three times for the girls to hear.

Clara turns to me, her face twisted into an exaggerated, almost comical expression. “I don’t know,” she says with a lazy shrug, her words slightly slurred but still clear. “Some rich businessman, I guess. Him and two of his friends, they’re upstairs, surrounded by girls. Like, a lot of girls. Crazy.”

She laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder as her hips sway effortlessly to the music. Her laughter is infectious, sharp and carefree, like she’s fully absorbed in the madness of the night. With a mischievous smile, she shoots a playful wink at the barman, who’s been watching her like she’s the only person in the club.

It works, of course. The guy hands over another round of drinks, sliding three shots across the bar without a word, free of charge. Clara’s got that kind of charm, the kind thatmakes men lose their common sense. I don’t think we’ve paid for a single drink since we walked in.

“Cheers to that,” I mutter, clinking my glass against hers as the music pulses around us.

“Let’s play truth or dare!” Kylie declares suddenly, her voice loud and unsteady. Then she giggles, already amused by her own idea. “But without the truth. Only dares. Let’s dare ourselves to do stupid shit, like giving a random guy a lap dance.”

She bursts into laughter, and so do I. We’re both drunk, teetering on the edge of chaos, but somehow, this feels like the perfect kind of first.

“Me first!” I blurt out, swaying slightly as I turn to Sienna, my words tumbling out too fast. “Sienna, I dare you to kiss the hot guy sitting at the table next to the bar. And no, you’re not allowed to refuse!” I lean in, planting a quick kiss on her cheek for emphasis, as if that seals the deal.

Her eyes widen, and she frowns, her lips curling into a half-smile, one of those sad smiles that’s supposed to look casual but never does. “I never said I was playing,” she protests, shaking her head. “And you know I’m in some sort of relationship.”

Not tonight, though. Tonight isn’t for sad smiles or complicated feelings.

“Oh, fuck Knox,” I say, my tone sharp but teasing. I tilt my head toward another target. “Go kiss the hot, mysterious guy who’s been glued to his phone for the last hour.”

Her smile falters for a second, then returns, this time a little brighter, like the challenge is a distraction she didn’t know she needed. And honestly, I need this too. Tonight’s for us, for laughter, bad decisions, and dares we’ll regret in the morning.