Clarisse’s eyes locked onto you with a sharpness that cut through the haze of the party, the flashing neon lights catching in the stormy depths of her gaze. It was like she could see right through you, past the carefully composed mask you’d put on, past the drink in your hand, past the people around you. Her message was clear. She didn’t need words. She never did.

She sat on a leather chair, sprawled out like she owned the whole damn place, legs spread lazily, confidence oozing from every inch of her. Two Aphrodite girls draped themselves over her, giggling, running their manicured fingers along her arms, her shoulders, her jaw. And yet—she didn’t even glance at them. Didn’t acknowledge their existence. They were props, nothing more. She wasn’t here for them.

She was here for you.

Your fight from earlier still burned in your mind, the image of her lips on a different girls seared into your memory like a brand.

Now, this was her answer.

The party raged around you, drowning in flashing lights and pulsing music. The bass throbbed through the walls, through your ribs, through your very bones. The air was thick with sweat, with the sickly-sweet scent of spilled alcohol, with the haze of smoke curling from half-lit joints. Laughter rang out from every direction, sharp and slurred, bodies tangled together on the dance floor, moving in a chaotic, feverish rhythm and the only thing you could focus on was her.

Clarisse, sitting there like she was daring you to do something. To say something. To react.

And gods, you wanted to.