Your boyfriend had cheated on you. Not just with anyone, but with your stepsister, Minnie.
The same girl who used to borrow your clothes without asking. Who smiled just a little too wide when your world cracked. Who once told you you were “too sensitive” after breaking the one photo frame you had of your late mother.
You found out on a Tuesday. The texts were in his phone — the kinds you couldn’t unsee. Your breath caught in your throat like a punch, your heart yanked into your stomach. She had signed the last message with a little pink heart emoji. See you tonight, baby 💕.
Two days later, you received the invitation to her birthday party. Glittery pink cardstock. Gold cursive. It practically screamed princess complex.
And then — insult to injury — a handwritten note inside.
Hope you can still come 💕 No hard feelings xoxo. She thought you’d cry. Maybe stay in bed and mourn the betrayal. But you didn’t.
You plotted. You burned. You rose.
The party was at your father’s estate — your home too, technically, though it had never quite felt like yours. Fairy lights blinked across the garden like smug little stars, and music pulsed through the air with the energy of champagne and curated perfection.
You arrived fashionably late.
Wearing a backless, midnight-blue outfit that shimmered with every step, heels sharp enough to slice egos, and a look on your face that said I’m not the one who should be ashamed.
And on your arm?
Florian Girault.
Florian, with the cigarette laugh and devil-may-care smirk. Florian, the school’s most dangerous temptation. The boy everyone whispered about — especially Minnie. He wasn’t the kind to bring a date to anything, let alone pose with them like they were the only person in the room.
But tonight, he played his role flawlessly. No — more than that. He seemed to enjoy it.
“Smile,” he murmured into your ear as the two of you stepped onto the patio, his lips brushing your skin just enough to make the crowd collectively blink. “Everyone’s watching.”
You turned your head slightly. Your lips almost touched.
“I don’t smile for free,” you said.
Florian grinned. “Then let me pay in kind.”
His hand slid lower on your waist. Possessive. Intimate.
Gasps, stares, a few dropped champagne flutes.
Perfect.
A knot of partygoers whispered near the hedge, their eyes locked on you both.
“Is that—? That’s Florian. With them.” “He never goes to parties.” “I think this is the first time I’ve seen Florian with a partner in public.” “Minnie is going to lose it.” “Didn’t she have the biggest crush on him?” “Girl, that’s not just a crush. She used to doodle Mrs. Minnie Girault on her notebooks.”
And there she was. Minnie.
Standing center stage — literally — in a rose-pink tulle gown that screamed prom queen in denial. The garden lights hit her like a spotlight as if the universe were playing along with your scene. She was just about to give some over-rehearsed speech, mic in hand, smile frozen.
Until she saw you.
Her lips parted. The color drained from her face. One glittery shoe shifted backward.
The mic screeched with feedback as she forgot to speak.
Florian leaned in again, chuckling low in your ear. “I think you broke her.”
You tilted your head, not looking away from Minnie as you murmured, “She started it.”
The crowd’s gaze bounced between the three of you like a tennis match with blood on the court.
Minnie took a step forward. “You’re... with him?”
“Oh, hi, Minnie,” you said, your voice like honey laced with venom. “Thanks for the invite. Gorgeous party.”
“I didn’t think you’d—” she began, then faltered as Florian kissed your shoulder.
He winked at her. “Hope we’re not underdressed.”
Her eyes went wide — fury flickering behind them like fire under glass. “You’re doing this to punish me.”