A bottle of cabernet. Two wine glasses. A lie neither of them was brave enough to name.
Eira stared across the rooftop bar of Cielo V, the kind of place where broken people wore diamonds to feel whole. The skyline glittered behind Naomi Blaire's golden hair, but it was her smirk that outshone the city.
"God, you look flushed," Naomi said, swirling her glass. "Let me guess—morning sex?"
Eira's throat tightened around her wine.
"No," she said coolly. "Just a lot of cardio."
Naomi laughed. "Cardio that leaves hickeys?" She nodded toward the faint mark near Eira's collarbone.
Eira adjusted her scarf. Too slow. Too obvious.
Naomi caught it.
"You always were a terrible liar."
Naomi Blaire: former college roommate, now Eira's so-called best friend. Blonde, beautiful, and blessed with the art of weaponized charm. She'd flirt with the priest at a funeral, cry during orgasms, and swear loyalty with the same mouth that whispered betrayal. She was poison—sweet, addictive, slow-acting.
And Julian? Julian used to call her family.
That word made Eira want to laugh. Or scream.
Or pour her wine in Naomi's face.
Instead, she smiled. "I guess I'm out of practice."
"Maybe Julian should get back in," Naomi said, sipping. "He used to be insatiable. Remember that trip to Bali? You guys f*cked so loud I had to sleep by the pool."
Eira forced a chuckle.
But inside?
A scream was forming.
She knew. She knew everything.
The texts. The photos. The receipt from that boutique hotel in Makati—the one Naomi had claimed was "just a spa day."
It wasn't. The timestamp showed 3:12 A.M.
Julian's flight had been "delayed" that night.
Note: Eira's discovery of Naomi's affair was unintentional—an alert popped up on Julian's iPad while he was in the shower. A name. A location. A message that read: "Still wearing your shirt. Still not over last night."
—
"So," Naomi said, tapping her red nails against the stem of her glass. "How's the whole 'perfect marriage' thing going?"
The question hit like a slap.
But Eira didn't flinch.
"Perfect," she lied. "Absolutely… intoxicating."
Naomi leaned in, her voice low.
"Sometimes, I wonder how long we can pretend we're not all living double lives."
Eira locked eyes with her. "Some of us are better at pretending than others."
A beat of silence.
Then Naomi smiled.
The kind of smile that said I know that you know—but I don't care.
Eira matched it.
The kind of smile that said You don't know what I'm going to do about it.
They toasted.
To lies.
To wine.
To the destruction that comes dressed in friendship.
—
Later That Night – Back at the Penthouse
Julian was in the shower when Eira got home.
She stood in the doorway, staring at the blurred silhouette behind the frosted glass.
Strong shoulders.
Sharp jawline.
Hands that hadn't touched her in weeks—unless it was to hand her car keys or a document.
She walked into the bathroom, leaned against the counter.
"Rough day?" she asked, voice casual.
Julian didn't look back. "Meetings ran long."
"Naomi says hi."
A pause.
The water kept running.
But she saw it. The slight twitch in his shoulder.
The tremor of guilt.
"I thought she was in Tagaytay," he said.
"Apparently not."
Still no eye contact.
Just water. And silence.
So she dropped the nuke.
"She wore your cologne tonight."
This time, he froze.
A second too long.
Eira turned, walked away.
She didn't wait for denial.
She didn't need it.
Some truths you don't need to hear out loud.
1:00 A.M. — Callen's Studio
He wasn't expecting her.
But she showed up anyway.
Hair wet from the rain. Makeup ruined. Lips trembling—but not from cold.
Callen opened the door, shirtless, a camera hanging at his hip like a holster.
"You ran here?" he asked, stepping aside.
"No," she said, stepping inside. "I escaped here."
He didn't ask why.
He just pulled off her coat, slowly, reverently, like she was something sacred.
She didn't speak.
She kissed him.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
But hungry. Angry. Desperate.
He lifted her onto the table. Papers scattered. Lenses shifted.
Clothes vanished like lies in heat.
And then—
His mouth found her throat.
Her nails found his back.
Her moans echoed off brick walls.
And in that moment, she belonged to no one—not even herself.
Afterward, she lay naked in Callen's bed, his breath warm against her shoulder.
"Tell me something you've never told Julian," he whispered.
She didn't hesitate.
"I fake it."
Callen's grip tightened around her waist.
He didn't ask why.
He already knew.
Because the worst betrayal isn't the one someone does to you.
It's the one you do to yourself—over and over, for years, just to survive.
—
3:03 A.M. — Naomi's Condo
A phone buzzed.
Naomi blinked at the screen.
Julian Vaughn: "She knows."
Naomi didn't reply.
She just smirked.
And typed a new message.
Naomi: "Then let her. She was never built for war."