"I'm glad we never finished the summer list," he says as music swells around us."Because you just made sure number seventeen on my list never happens."

The harshness of his words sinks into me like poison. I reach for him, desperate, but he pulls away with a finality that breaks something inside my chest.

"I need to go get ready."

"Jake, please—" My voice splinters, but he's already vanishing into the crowd, leaving me stranded in a sea of whispers and stares.

Before I can follow, the microphone crackles to life, an older man's voice commanding attention. I stand frozen, legs too heavy to move, when designer perfume announces trouble in six-inch heels.

Farrah materializes like a shark scenting blood, her smile carved from glass and malice.

"Well, well," she purrs, voice pitched to carry. "If it isn't the prodigal princess." Her eyes glitter with cruel amusement. The concealer she's wearing doesn't do a good enough job covering the dark shadow under her eyes after Camilla's assault at the Polo. "How adorable, you and Nate. Though I should warn you, he's not as pristine as you might think. Trust me, I would know."

My blood simmers, but I keep my expression neutral. She's hunting for a reaction, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction. "Farrah," I say, voice steady despite the storm in my chest. "Not now."

"Oh, not now?" She laughs, the sound like breaking crystal. Her sequined dress catches light as she steps closer, turning her into something sharp and dangerous. "You lost the right to dictate terms when you decided to play the small-town saint who fucks her best friend's brother." Her smile twists, dripping venom.

They're just words.

But Farrah's always known exactly where to slide the knife.

Camilla steps in, her Louboutins clicking against marble as she positions herself like a shield. Her expression is lethal, red lips curling into something between a smile and a snarl. "Oh look, if it isn't Satan's apprentice. Are you back for another round?"

Farrah's perfectly lined eyes narrow, her French manicure catching light as her fingers twitch. "I should have you deported back to your own country." Her voice drips with venom, but there's a tremor beneath the bravado.

Camilla laughs, a sound like breaking glass that sends chills down spine. She adjusts her designer clutch with practiced dominance.

"God, it must be exhausting being this bitter all the time. Let alone trying to act like you actually have somewhat of a personality."

The crowd around us pretends to be engrossed in their champagne, but their attention is magnetic.

Farrah steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Careful, Camilla. You don't know who you're fucking with."

Camilla moves forward, her presence electric and unyielding.