I texted Serena, asking her to meet me at a cafe in SoHo at 10 AM.
I arrived ten minutes early and waited in a velvet booth.
She made me wait for thirty minutes before finally sauntering in, draped in Chanel, looking effortlessly elegant and glamorous.
Ever since my father went bankrupt, Serena had been living off her European ex-husband's wealth. Now that she was divorced and back in New York, my billionaire husband was currently footing her bills.
She slid into the booth across from me, her red lips curling into a sweet, innocent smile.
I, on the other hand, looked like a ghost. I hadn't bothered with concealer; the dark circles under my eyes and my hollow cheeks were on full display.
"Nina! It was such a surprise to get your invite!" she said cheerfully.
We had barely spoken in college, so her suddenly calling me by my first name felt incredibly grating. A waiter approached, and Serena ordered without even glancing at the menu.
"An iced Americano, please," she said smoothly. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "You know, your husband loves iced Americanos. I never liked the bitterness before, but lately, I've really started to love it."
The implication. I knew.
I looked down at the untouched peach iced tea in front of me. Condensation dripped down the side of the glass. I didn't take the bait.
Serena's smile widened; she could taste the thrill of victory.
She was the one who had texted me the day she arrived at JFK. It was a polite but maliciously crafted little text that essentially said: I'm back, and I'm taking him away.
"Speaking of Silas," Serena continued, her voice loud enough for the neighboring tables to hear, "I really need to thank you—"
Splash.
The sound was loud and incredibly satisfying. The entire cafe went dead silent. Heads snapped in our direction.
Serena sat frozen, her face knocked sideways by the impact.
She slowly raised a hand, touching her dripping hair. I had taken the large glass of sticky peach iced tea and dumped it directly over her head.
The liquid dripped from her perfectly voluminous blowout, ran down her cheeks, and soaked the collar of her pristine white silk blouse. A soggy slice of lemon and a few chunks of peach were tangled in her hair.
Her non-waterproof mascara was already starting to run.
She looked absolutely pathetic.
She stared at me, her mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. "Nina... what the hell are you doing—"
"Serena," I cut her off. "You know exactly what I'm doing."
I leaned across the table, my gaze locked onto hers. "Drop the cheap soap opera act. You came back to New York for Silas. You know he still regrets how things ended, and you want to win him back."
"Right?" I asked casually, leaning back against the velvet cushions.
Her face went deathly pale, but only for a fraction of a second. Then, she let out a breathy little chuckle.
She opened her designer handbag, pulled out a pack of wet wipes, and started dabbing at her ruined blouse. The sweet, innocent mask vanished entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating predator.
"Yes," she said softly, a glint of malice in her eyes. "But Nina, darling, you can't force someone to love you. You can't keep a man who doesn't want to stay."
The masks were off. We had skipped the pleasantries and gone straight to war.
Looking at her ruined makeup, I couldn't help but let out a genuine, visceral laugh.
"You're absolutely right," I said.
"So, Serena, do you want to make a bet?"
She paused, the wet wipe hovering over her collarbone.
"If you win, he's yours," I said easily. "I'll sign the divorce papers and walk away completely. You won't even have to carry the ugly label of 'homewrecker.'"
Serena stared at me, searching for the trap. Finding none, a triumphant smile curled her rosy lips.
"Deal."
