Lucas goading his fans into attacking me anew was for votes on a dance competition show. Using me to stay relevant, to increase his odds of winning. He was in a relationship with Dani for so much longer than he was in a relationship with me, their breakup fresher, but I suppose their split wasn’t sensational enough for a whole dance number. How must Dani feel, watching this?

“Oh, this little twat,” Dad snarls, watching him. He never met Lucas, but he knew we dated, since the media documented every minute of our relationship with almost frightening obsession. My parents came by my house once when the paparazzi were hanging around, snapping pictures of me whenever I opened the door. A six-figure payout would go to whoever got the first clear shot of me wearing an engagement ring, so there were strangers with cameras outside my house day and night. One of their vans backed into Dad’s car when we left to drive to a restaurant, busting his taillight, and he climbed out of the car to holler at them. After our relationship ended, my parents were relieved. I told them Lucas “didn’t treat me right,” so they likely deduced that he cheated. If Dad really knew what Lucas was like, he’d be in jail right now.

“Let’s turn it off,” suggests Mom, but we’re all riveted. Nobody moves, except for Kaia, who turns around on the couch and rests her chin atop it, checking up on me. Worry sparks in her eyes.

You okay? she mouths.

I nod.

She extends an arm, hand squeezing mine. She yanks me closer, then whispers, “I’ve got a hex on him.”

When she turns around again, Hall leans in. “You want to go bake some cookies?”

“No. I want you to have Lucas roll around on the floor like he’s on fire.”

Hall glances from me to the television. Thinks better of asking me if I’m sure. And then Lucas is dropping to his knees, onto his back, rolling around on the floor, just like he’s on fire.

Power surges through my veins, blazing hot overtaking that horrible, eerie cold until it’s burned away, until it’s gone. I am the Goddess of Revenge, masterful, unstoppable.

Athena snorts. “What is he doing?”

“Interpretive dancing,” her husband mansplains. “Very popular nowadays, on these sorts of shows. I don’t like it.”

Around and around he rolls, for long enough that his dancing partner, Jenna, starts to get concerned. She bends forward, whispering to him. I hear whispering, too—that of my fifth-grade language arts teacher: Your only limit is your imagination!

“Jump up,” I murmur, staring at my weasel of an ex-boyfriend without blinking. Lucas jumps up.

“Macarena.”

Lucas breaks into the Macarena. To save face, Jenna also does the Macarena. “What in the ever-loving hell,” one of the judges can be heard saying.

Evil woman, indeed. “Pick her up,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth. My befuddled little puppet picks Jenna up. “Hold her high.”