Those raw knuckles from this morning flash in my memory like a warning signal—fresh, angry bruises he'd barely tried to hide when we'd spoken. The cold dread pooling in my stomach deepens.

Camilla follows my gaze and lets out a sharp laugh. "Looks like Abercrombie got what was coming to him."

"What do you mean?" I try to keep my voice casual, but it comes out tight.

"Apparently," she draws out the word with relish, "there was some kind of drug deal that went sideways at Connor's party. Rumor has it, Evan tried to screw someone over and got his head kicked in for his trouble."

Marcus raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, sipping his champagne with practiced indifference.

My heart hammers against my ribs.

A drug deal gone wrong.

Someone kicked Evan's head in.

That someone could only be one person, and the thought makes me dizzy.

"Do they know who did it?" I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.

Camilla shrugs, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "I'm guessing whoever it was sent a pretty clear message, considering the state of him." She glances at me, her smile fading slightly. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I force a weak smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just… I need to use the bathroom."

The world feels like it's tilting as I make my way across the grounds. This has Nate written all over it—the bruised knuckles, the vague explanations, the tension in his shoulders this morning when I'd asked where he was.

A drug deal gone wrong?

No. This feels personal. And Nate doesn't get involved unless it's personal.

The bathroom is a stark contrast to the bustling polo grounds—all marble surfaces and echoing silence, perfumed air heavy with whispered conversations and the click of designer heels. I let out a shaky breath as I wash my hands, studying my reflection. My cheeks are flushed from earlier, lipstick slightly faded like a secret I can't quite hide.

Keep it together

The air shifts, growing thick and suffocating. Through the mirror, Farrah appears behind me like a perfectly coiffed demon, her red lips curved in a smirk that doesn't reach her cold eyes.

"Well, if it isn't Eden's little train wrecker," she sneers, her voice bouncing off the marble walls.

My spine stiffens.

"Farrah." I keep my voice steady despite my racing heart.

She moves closer, claiming space like it's her birthright. Her manicured nails tap against the counter—click, click, click—each sound a tiny needle under my skin.

"You've been getting around quite a bit since you got here. Haven't you?" Her voice drips sweet poison.

I turn to face her, hands clenched to hide their trembling. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Her laugh cuts like broken glass. "Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." She pulls out her phone like drawing a weapon. "First Evan, then Jake, now Nate. Have you fucked both brothers yet?"