Phoebe doesn’t hide it.

That’s the worst part.

She laughs too loudly at someone else’s joke. Touches their arm just a second longer than necessary. Leans in close, whispering things that make them blush and straighten their posture like they’ve just won something.

You see all of it.

She makes sure you do.

From across the room, her eyes flick to you—quick, calculating—before she turns her attention back to her new companion. The message is clear: Are you watching?

Someone near you murmurs, “She’s having fun tonight.”

You don’t respond.

When Phoebe finally approaches you, it’s like nothing happened. Same radiant smile. Same easy confidence.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says sweetly. “Everything alright?”

“You seem busy,” you reply.

She tilts her head. “Jealous?”

The word lands between you, light as a joke—but her eyes sharpen, waiting.

“I didn’t say that.”

Phoebe smiles wider. “You didn’t have to.”

She steps closer, voice low enough that no one else can hear. “It’s interesting,” she murmurs, “how quickly people react when they think they’re being replaced.”

“Is that what this is?” you ask. “A test?”

She considers that. “Maybe.”

The music swells. Laughter surrounds you. Phoebe’s attention drifts again—just briefly—toward the person she was flirting with before.

Then she looks back at you.

“But here’s the real question,” she says softly. “Do you hate the game… or do you hate that it’s working?”