Cayla POV
The party finally bled out at 3 AM.
I was curled up in the guest room, shivering violently beneath the thin sheets.
The fever from the rain and the shock from the alcohol were warring in my body, leaving me trembling and weak.
The door banged open, shattering the silence.
Grafton stood there, impatiently loosening his tie.
"Get up. Cherrelle needs an escort to her car. She doesn't trust the drivers."
"Grafton, please," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm sick."
"You're hungover," he corrected coldly. "Get up."
I dragged myself off the bed, fighting the dizziness that threatened to topple me.
We went down to the lobby.
The hotel lobby had a massive decorative fountain in the center, filled with coins and water kept at a near-freezing temperature to discourage guests from touching it.
Cherrelle was waiting there, looking pristine and untouched by the night's excesses.
She saw me stumbling behind Grafton.
She smiled, a wicked glint lighting up her eyes.
"Oops," she said softly.
She threw herself backward, right over the low wall of the fountain.
Splash.
She screamed, thrashing in the shallow water like she was drowning.
"Help! She pushed me! Cayla pushed me!"
I was ten feet away.
But Grafton didn't care about physics or distance.
He turned on me, his face twisted into a snarl.
"I warned you."
He grabbed my arm and hauled me to the fountain.
"You want her in the water? Then you go in the water."
He shoved me.
I hit the water hard.
It was paralyzing.
I gasped, inhaling water, choking as the icy shock seized my lungs.
"Stay there," Grafton ordered the guards, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Don't let her out until morning. Let her cool off that jealousy."
He helped Cherrelle out, wrapping his coat around her shivering shoulders.
"My poor baby," he cooed.
I sat in the fountain, the water soaking my clothes, chilling me to the bone.
The guards looked away, embarrassed but too afraid to disobey the man who signed their paychecks.
I sat there until sunrise.
When I finally walked back up to the penthouse, I was numb. My legs felt like blocks of ice, and my clothes were a heavy, sodden weight dragging me down.
I went to the guest room to change.
Grafton was there, waiting.
He was holding my phone.
It had been on the table, charging.
The screen was lit up.
It was the photo of Justen.
He was smiling, wearing a leather jacket, standing by his motorcycle.
Grafton and Justen looked like twins, except for the eyes.
Justen's eyes were warm. Grafton's were ice.
Grafton stared at the photo, his brow furrowed.
"Is this... is this me?" he asked, his voice strange.
He looked closer.
"No. That jacket. I never owned that jacket."
He looked at me, disgust curling his lip.
"You Photoshopped me? You edited a picture of me to make me look... happier? To fit your fantasy?"
"It's not you," I said hoarsely, my throat raw.
"Don't lie!" He threw the phone onto the bed. "You are sick, Cayla. You collect photos of me, you attack my girlfriend, you drink yourself into a stupor."
He walked to the door.
"You're planning Cherrelle's birthday Gala next week. Make it perfect. Or you're done."
He slammed the door.
I picked up the phone.
I touched Justen's face on the screen.
"He doesn't even recognize you anymore," I whispered to the ghost in the picture. "He's forgotten you."
