The party is suffocating—too many people, too many voices, too many expectations. The air is thick with perfume and cigarette smoke, the bass of the music pulsing beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. You don’t belong here, not among the politicians’ children and trust fund heirs, not among the sharp smiles and whispered betrayals that linger in the air like expensive cologne.

The glass in your hand is half-empty, the burn of vodka still lingering on your tongue. You had barely touched your first drink before another was forced into your grasp, then another—laughter too sharp, hands too insistent, their voices a blur of encouragement that felt more like pressure.

Now, you stand in the corner, forehead pressed against the cool surface of the wall, one hand bracing against it as the room tilts beneath you. Your pulse pounds, drowning out the chatter, the flashing lights making your vision swim. You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing down the nausea, but the dizziness refuses to fade.

“Enough.”

The voice is low, familiar—Alicent.

A warm hand finds yours, prying your fingers from where they clutch the wall. You blink up at her, and even through the haze, she is sharp, unwavering. She isn’t smiling, not like the others, not pretending this is all just fun. There’s something fierce in her expression, something that cuts through the static in your head.

She presses a glass into your palm—cold, smooth. Water.

“Drink,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, but firm. When you hesitate, she lifts it for you, guiding the rim to your lips. The water rushes down your throat, soothing, grounding.

Her other hand slides against your waist, steadying you. “Let’s get out of here,” she says, quieter now, just for you.