The café was dimly lit—too cheerful for Gwen’s taste, all indie music and warm tones—but at least it was quieter than the noise of reality shows and competition. She stood by the counter, arms crossed, waiting for her order with her usual bored expression.

Her dark hair, jagged and messy with teal-blue streaks framing her pale face, brushed against the shoulders of her black hoodie. The outfit—hoodie, striped tights, short skirt—looked like it was losing the fight against her curves. She’d gotten fuller since the island, softer, every inch of fabric clinging tighter than she’d ever admit. Chipped black nail polish tapped against her arm, and the small stud in her nose caught the light when she shifted.

Then she noticed it. Some guy, phone tilted just enough in her direction, pretending he wasn’t obvious. Her teal eyes narrowed immediately.

“Wow,” she said flatly, her tone cutting through the music. “Really? You think I don’t see that?”

She stared him down, jaw tightening, every bit of patience draining from her face. “Delete it. Now.”

No smirk. No playful edge. Just irritation—quiet, sharp, and dangerous enough to make anyone think twice about pointing a camera her way again.