Page 50 of The Rules

"Rough day, Blondie?" His voice was calm.

Kath smirked, lazy and unbothered.

"More like arough week," she tossed back, aiming for careless.

Her voice was too even, betraying none of the tension coiling inside her. But her body wasn't as convincing.

Ian saw. He always did.

He didn’t call her on it. Didn’t press. Just watched— still, calculating. The kind of silence that meant he’d notice things.

And then—

"You don't have to work tonight," Ian said, his tone measured but casual.

Katherine froze. Because Ian offering her an out? That wasn't normal. He didn't give easy exits or offer nights off without a reason.

Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag instinctively. This should have been relief. It wasn’t. Because if Ian noticed, if he thought she needed an out—then maybe she wasn’t hiding as well as she thought.

That realization made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

She exhaled slowly, shaking her head as if to physically dismiss the unease creeping up her spine.

"I'm fine," she stated, keeping her tone light and even.

The moment Ian nodded, something shifted inside her.

A flicker of unease, like a warning light blinking in the back of her mind. His casual acceptance should have been a relief—but instead, it felt loaded. Like a door had closed behind her.

She should’ve taken the out when she still could.

One strap still hung loose off her shoulder as she leaned toward the mirror, smoothing powder beneath one eye.

The low thrum of bass from the club floor pulsed through the walls—distant, muffled, irrelevant. Movements stayed precise: lashes, gloss, perfume. Not thinking. Just preparing.

She opened the drawer beneath the counter, fingers brushing through the clutter of lipsticks and broken compacts.

Half muscle memory, half escape.

Her hand stilled on a familiar tube—sleek black with the faded lettering almost worn off.

A breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t used this one in ages. It was her color once—something soft, almost mauve, with just enough defiance in its undertone.

She twisted the cap, stared at the worn bullet inside. “God, I used to live in this shade,” she muttered, half to herself. A pause. “Of course they don’t make it anymore.”

The thought lingered longer than it should have—ridiculously nostalgic for a product she hadn’t touched in years. But it felt like something solid. Something that used to mean confidence instead of armor.

She turned back to the mirror and set the lipstick down without using it.

Five minutes left to disappear into the part. To become Blondie again.

Then it hit—a shift in the air pressure. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Stilettos struck the hallway floor in clean, clipped rhythm—cutting through the ambient hum like a blade. Trouble approaching. The air grew heavy with fragrance, overly sweet and suffocating against Katherine's senses. Aria's arrival always announced itself this way—brash, calculated, commanding the room to bend toward her.

And then—that unmistakable voice sliced through everything else.

"Got a favor to ask, Blondie," Aria said, her tone sickly sweet and insincere.