Page 122 of Revenge Is a Dish Best Served… Wearing Heels?

And suddenly, there they were. Preston and Sloane near the entrance. Looking the exact same way they had in high school—gorgeous, perfect in every way, not a hair out of place or a speck of lint on their clothes.

That backbone I'd just reveled in with Tristan? It disappeared in a small, pathetic poof, all those old feelings that I'd supposedly vanquished flooding back with a force that took my breath away and threatened to drown me.

"Everything okay?" Tristan asked.

When I didn't answer, I felt his eyes on my face, and he must have followed my line of sight because an understanding "Ahh" came out of his mouth.

Willing my heart to slow down—that couldn't be good for the baby, could it?—I watched with dread as they stepped inside the space, both of them sipping on champagne already, glancing around the room, sharp and deliberate, like hawks searching for their prey.

Oh, fuck. I was the prey, right? I always had been before, and according to my sister, people were incapable of change.

Ice filled my soul, all the worse because in the ten years since high school, I'd deluded myself into thinking I was over it, that I'd therapy'd the awful feelings out of me, that I'd handled it, dealt with it, and moved on.

But clearly, I hadn't. Or I wouldn't have been chilled to the bone at the mere sight of them.

A hand grasped mine—strong, solid, warm—then squeezed.

"Baby, you've got this."

Tristan's voice cut through the noise of my fear. And it hit me then that this was what mattered, this feeling, this support, the thing that Aria had mentioned in that supply closet, the possibility of it existing for me what had propelled her to tell Tristan about the doctor appointment.

But before I could fully grasp onto that fragmented thought, two sets of eyes across the room landed on me, and every coherent thought in my head fled when I knew I'd been spotted.

Fuck. Fuck me.

And they made a beeline right for us, instinct making me glance behind me for an escape route.

This moment was about to happen, whether I wanted it to or not, and I had two choices here... I could run. Or I could face it head-on.

That hand grasping mine squeezed tighter, infusing strength in me, something I didn't think was possible. And I suddenly knew what I had to do, what that wounded fat girl inside me needed. I wouldn't ignore her anymore.

She wasn't less than. She wasn't undeserving of a normal life. She shouldn't be treated any differently because of a number on a scale.

And goddamnit, I was ready to do battle for her.

They finally reached us, standing right in front of me, eyes searching, taking in everything, my outfit, my shoes, my hand still clasped in Tristan's.

There was that familiar, awful tilt of Sloane's head, like she was thinking of something evil to say, right before the vile words were spewed from her mouth.

And there was that squint of Preston's beady eyes, like he was doing the same.

"Preston. Sloane," Tristan said, voice firm and steady, making me wonder for the first time what he was feeling in all this. After all, these were supposed friends of his, people he'd hung out with plenty of times since our days at St. Lucius. "Thanks for coming tonight."

"Sure," Sloane said, her tone different than I remembered.

Preston nodded. "Of course."

An awkward beat passed, as their attention returned to me, Sloane inhaling like she was about to speak, but then thought better of it.

Should I say something? Was this up to me, for fuck's sake? I mean, what exactly did one say in this situation?

Thanks for ruining my senior year. Thanks for making my life hell. Thanks for being the single source of my nightmares for the last decade. Sure appreciate it. Sure appreciate you making my teen years so unforgettable.

Preston ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up, and not in a very flattering way.

Wait a second. Was his hand shaking? Was I hallucinating?

When he repeated the same gesture, this time I watched more carefully, and yes—holy shit—his hand was indeed shaking.