Victoria and Nastya knew that. Counted on it. On the twins' inability to cause a scene without it reflecting on their family.
Checkmate before the first piece moved.
Six girls filed past Paige and Brielle next.
College girls. Victoria and Nastya's inner circle—the ones they'd arrived with, each carrying the specific energy of women who'd been briefed on exactly one task tonight and took it seriously.
They moved in a loose, deliberate formation that blocked every sightline between the Heavenchild twins and the couch—a living wall of designer dresses, cold eyes, and the unspoken message: the approach is closed. Go find somewhere else to be wet and disappointed.
One of them—a redhead with cheekbones that could've been carved by a Renaissance sculptor on a particularly vindictive bender—looked back at Paige and sneered.
Small. Precise. The kind of sneer that said we know what you were planning, and we planned better, and isn't that just the saddest little thing.
