My hair's wet. It's sticking to my neck and my shoulders, and I can feel the alcohol buzzing in my head. My lipstick's still there though — cherry red, somehow surviving whatever happened at the club. I'm sitting in the back of my Rolls-Royce with three of my friends as I'm too drunk to drive, and we're all way too drunk to be in a moving vehicle.
The music's loud, windows down, and the girl driving is laughing like she's in a movie. I keep shouting, "Slow down!" but she just laughs harder and presses the gas. The wind hits my face, my stomach twists a little, and then suddenly I see the headlights.
A bus.
I don't even think. "Oh my God, brake!"
The car jerks hard, my head hits the seat, someone screams, someone's drink spills, and everything starts spinning. For a second I can't tell what's up or down. Tires screech. My heart's pounding so fast I think I might throw up. Then, somehow, the car stops.
Silence.
We all just sit there breathing. I'm staring at the bus in front of us, my hands still gripping the seat. Then one of my friends starts laughing. A small laugh at first, then louder, and soon all of us are laughing like idiots.
"We almost hit a bus!" someone says."Yeah," I say, still catching my breath. "Let's not do that again."
We drop everyone off one by one, the car quieter each time. By the time I'm alone, my head's clear but my hair's still dripping down my back. I pull into my street, the gates to my house sliding open slowly. The lights come on by themselves, you know.....rich people stuff.
I drive in, past the garden that looks too perfect to be real. The house is glowing, big and quiet. I stop in front, and before I can even open the door, one of the workers comes out to take the car. I grab my purse and step out, heels clicking against the floor with my short black silk dress, the kind that looks simple until you check the price tag.
I pushed the door wide open and I stop, all the lights are on. There are random people standing in my living room. My Dad, his bestfriend—Eric, and some total strangers. One of them is holding a wine glass. Another looks like he's mid-argument.
I blink at them. "Uh… hi? Did I just walk into a wrong house or is there a conference I forgot about?" I said being half drunk.
Everyone stared at me like I had just fallen out of the sky. A few of them whispered, their eyes dragging from my wet hair to my short black dress. I could tell exactly what they were thinking — rich girl wasted again.
My dad sat there, looking like he wished the floor would swallow him. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed anywhere but on me. Beside him, his best friend Eric sat comfortably, sipping wine like he was watching a late-night comedy show. He didn't say a word, just raised his glass slowly, amused.
I folded my arms, trying to stay steady even though the room tilted slightly. "What's going on here? Why are there strangers in my house? It's late."
Dad finally looked up. "It's only ten, Rose."
I blinked, lifted my wrist, and stared at my Cartier Ballon Bleu. The numbers wouldn't stay still for a second, but I managed to focus long enough. "Ten? Then why does my head feel like three a.m.?"
Then Maria stood up. My big sister. Tall, fiery red hair, green eyes that always looked too calm for their own good. She crossed the room and rested a hand on my shoulder.
"Come on, Rose," she said. "Let's get you to bed before you say something you'll regret in the morning."
"I'm fine," I said, shrugging her hand off. "I'm not even drunk."
She raised a brow. That look alone screamed, you absolutely are.
I tried to prove her wrong. Took a few confident steps forward. The third step didn't cooperate and my heel caught on the rug, and suddenly I was falling. I grabbed the nearest chair for balance, nearly dragging the poor man sitting in it down with me.
one of the cleaners watching from the kitchen gasped. I straightened up immediately, threw my hands up. "See? Totally fine."
Maria covered her face. Dad sighed so deeply I thought he might deflate. Thomas laughed quietly, shaking his head. Thomas was the second son of Eric. He was in his early twenties, tall, a bit dark tone, black curly hair with ginger highlights at the tip of his hair, dead eyes and was the goofiest son or the one that smiles at least.
I fixed my dress, flipped my hair back, and grinned at everyone. "Relax. Nobody died."
I reached for a half-filled wine glass on the table, raised it slightly, and said, "To surviving traffic and embarrassing entrances." Then I drank it all in one go.
I heard someone sigh.
Eric smiled. My father's voice came next, strict and cutting through the air. "This shouldn't be the behavior of the future Adjivo daughter. Compose yourself!"
I froze. My eyes widened, like maybe if I blinked hard enough, the alcohol would drain out of me and this would start making sense. But it didn't. Everyone just stared.
I looked at Maria. Then at Eric. Then at everyone else sitting there pretending to mind their business. Finally, my eyes went up to my mother's painting on the wall. Even she looked disappointed.
"What now?" I asked, but my father didn't even flinch. "You heard me, you're getting married in a two days" he said.
I laughed, half in disbelief. "What the f.....this must not be real," I muttered, touching my face like I could wake myself up. "It's like I died in that car crash. There's no way I can marry Thomas"
Suddenly, the room tilted. Everything felt heavy, blurry, and then everything started becoming dark. I passed out right there in the living room.
***
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the ceiling's soft cream with faint gold lines, glimmering faintly in the morning light. For a second, I didn't even know where I was. Then the dull throb in my head reminded me. My room.
I groaned, dragging my hand to my forehead. The headache was brutal. I blinked a few times, staring up at the silk canopy above my bed, the kind that draped down like curtains, thick and elegant, pale beige with gold trimming. My bed was massive, buried in too many pillows, and everything smelled faintly of jasmine and money.
The room looked like something straight out of a luxury magazine. The floors were marble, smooth and cold even through the fluffy rug beside my bed. One whole wall was glass, opening out to the garden, where I could see trimmed hedges and a fountain that probably cost more than most people's cars. My vanity sparkled from the sunlight sneaking through the curtains, bottles of perfume and jewelry glinting like treasure.
The door creaked open.