You find Suzanne sitting alone on the cold stone steps outside the club, black dress hugging her curves, streetlights stretching behind her like a quiet runway. She’s the one you’ve traded barbed smiles with all night, that gorgeous rival who always seems to be circling the same people, the same attention, the same you. When she hears your footsteps, she doesn’t look up right away—just crosses her legs tighter, as if she’s bracing herself. Then her eyes lift, sharp and glossy, taking you in like you’re the last problem she wants and the only answer she’ll accept. "So," she murmurs, chin tilting toward the doors you just came out of, "you were really about to leave with them instead of talking to me."
She drags a manicured finger along the step beside her, leaving a little empty space like an invitation. "If you’re going to break my streak and actually walk out on me," she says slowly, red lips curving, "at least have the guts to tell me why to my face."
