The rooftop doors opened with a soft hiss. Jazz hummed low beneath the clink of glassware. No velvet ropes. No blaring bass. Just smooth lighting, chilled perfume, and the scent of old money.
Maya's mother moved through it like she belonged there. Tailored black dress. Heels that clicked with precision. Every inch of her said control—except the eyes. The eyes gave her away.
She shouldn't have come.
But she had. For appearances. For peace. For some kind of silence.
At the bar, she ordered whiskey. Neat. No garnish.
The first glass warmed her stomach.
The second numbed the edges.
The third arrived without request.
"Compliments of the house," the bartender said with a smile too smooth to question.
She hesitated. A flicker of something. But the drink looked clean. Familiar brand. Rich amber color.
She lifted the glass. Took a slow sip.
It burned hotter. Sharper. A bite that bloomed behind her eyes.
She frowned. Rubbed her temple. The glass stayed in her hand like an anchor.
Ten minutes. Maybe less.
And then the world tilted.
Jazz dissolved into static. Voices melted into fog. Light smeared into ribbons. Her limbs felt distant—like they were drifting just behind her.
The floor felt farther away than it should have. The air tasted like metal. Her name—her real one—slipped just out of reach.
She pressed a palm to the bar. Blinked. Tried to ground herself.
And that's when she saw him.
In the mirror. At the far side of the rooftop.
Not dressed like the others.
Not blending in.
Vic.
The name hit her chest like a hammer.
He shouldn't have been here.
He couldn't have been here.
This was a place for power, for people who hid their sins behind wealth and custom suits. Not for high school boys who circled her daughter like vultures.
But he was there. Staring straight through her.
Her knees buckled.
She turned too fast—heel snagging on the edge of the stool. The world flipped sideways.
She fell into someone's arms. Familiar scent. Wrong familiarity. Steady grip.
"Shh," he murmured, voice too close, too calm. "You're alright."
Vic.
Not a boy. Not a man. Something worse. Something calculated. The smile on his face wasn't kindness—it was ownership.
She tried to speak. Push him off. But her hands wouldn't listen. Her mouth stayed dry, tongue heavy.
The room spiraled.
Then everything went dark.
She woke to silk sheets.
Cool air on bare skin. Mouth like sand. Head throbbing. The dull pressure of something wrong before her eyes even opened.
She turned her head.
And saw him.
Lying beside her. Shirtless. Smiling.
"Morning," he said, voice low and sticky.
Panic bloomed. She shot up, dragging the sheet to her chest. "What the—what did you—?"
Vic stretched like he was waking from a nap. "You don't remember?"
"No. No, I didn't—this didn't happen."
"You were wild," he whispered. "Told me you felt alive. Told me not to stop."
Her stomach turned.
"Shut up."
"You kissed me first," he added, like it was some twisted form of praise. "You begged."
She scrambled. Looked for her phone. Purse. Anything.
Gone.
"I'm calling the police."
Vic's laugh was soft. Pitying. "You sure? You really wanna open that door?"
She froze.
"You're just a child," she choked, as if saying it could make it all untrue.
His eyes darkened. "Doesn't matter what I am. Only what it looks like."
He reached for the nightstand.
Pulled out his phone.
Opened the gallery.
Her blood stopped cold.
Photos. Dozens.
Her. In bed. Lips smudged. Eyes half-lidded. Skin exposed. Him beside her, smiling. One hand on her cheek. Another dangerously low on her back.
She recoiled.
"Keep screaming," he said softly, "and I'll post them."
"You're disgusting."
The days after bled together in shades of gray.
She tried to act normal. Show up to meetings. Smile at Maya. Pretend. But the mask was heavy, and her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The messages started almost immediately.
"I know what happened."
"Don't pretend it didn't."
"You looked beautiful that night."
She blocked one number. Another popped up. He always found a way.
And she couldn't stop seeing him. In mirrors. In crowds. On the street. Whether he was really there or not didn't matter—he was in her now. Like poison.
She wanted to go to the police. Tell someone.
But how do you report a crime—
When the photos say you smiled?
That night, her phone buzzed.
"Halston Mall. Back of Maison Belle. Come alone. 9 PM. You owe me that much." — V
The smell of cinnamon pretzels drifted from the food court, tangled with the sharp scent of mall-grade perfume. Zeke was laughing about something stupid. Luna was texting someone. Eddie had his arm around Maya, fingers tracing lazy circles over her shoulder like he didn't even know he was doing it.
She was smiling. Not because of the joke. Not because of the mall. Because of him.
Eddie made her forget things.
Then her eyes flicked up. Past him. Beyond the glass wall of the restaurant.
And her world stopped breathing.
Outside. Just a few feet beyond the shimmering barrier of Maison Belle, under the soft light of a corner booth—her mother.
And across from her, holding her hand like they were something permanent—Vic.
Not a hallucination.
Not a mistake.
Vic.The reason she didn't sleep right anymore. The boy who whispered with venom in his voice and wore cruelty like cologne.
Maya's legs moved before her mind did. Shoved through the restaurant door, Eddie calling after her. The music and silverware clatter muted under the storm rising behind her ribs.
She reached their table.
Her mother froze, fingers still resting on Vic's hand like guilt hadn't registered yet.
"What the hell is this?" Maya's voice cracked, sharp enough to slice.
Her mother blinked. Composed herself. "Maya, calm down—"
"No. No, you don't get to do that. You don't get to sit here and smile with him like it's normal."
Vic sipped his drink like this was a movie.
"Maya," her mother tried again, voice low. "He's changed. He's helping me—"
"Helping you?" She laughed, dry and jagged. "He hurt me. You know what he did. You know."
"I thought you moved on," she whispered. "I thought we could all—"
"You thought what? That I'd be okay seeing my mother playing footsie with the person who nearly killed me?"
Vic tilted his head, amused. "You always were dramatic."
That did it.
She leaned forward, hands trembling. "You think I won't burn this whole place down with you inside it?"
"Maya!" Her mother stood so fast the chair screeched back. "That's enough."
The hand came out of nowhere. Sharp. Hot. Sudden.
It cracked across her cheek with the sting of betrayal. A gasp erupted from a nearby table.
Time paused.
Vic's smirk grew like poison flowering in sunlight.
Maya didn't cry.
She didn't flinch.
She just stared.
At her mother. At Vic. At what love was supposed to be and what it had become.
Eddie reached her then. Gently. Like approaching a wounded animal. "Come on," he said.
She let him pull her back.
Didn't say a word.