????????~ ?.?

                                                                                 ˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙—

                                                                   ─── ‧˚₊⋅ ୨୧ ⋅₊˚‧───

Arabella twisted the tie at her shoulder for the third time, trying to get it to sit perfectly even. The dress clung in all the right places—the deep red fabric catching the soft hotel light like it had something to prove. It wasn't too formal, not black-tie or anything, but it was definitely not casual. It made a statement.

And maybe tonight, she wanted to make one.
Something along the lines of: I'm good. I'm glowing. And I'm not thinking about him.

Freya spun in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, giggling at the way the hem of her blue tulle dress puffed slightly with every turn. It was sparkly in a soft, ethereal way—age-appropriate, but still pretty.

"Okay, but like..." Freya turned to Arabella, clutching her heart. "Why do you look like someone who just stepped off the Met Gala carpet to ruin her ex's life?"

Arabella laughed under her breath, smoothing the skirt down. "Because maybe I did."

Freya squealed. "YES. We're channeling vengeance. We love that. I'm here for the silent stares across the rooftop while romantic music plays in the background. Very 'start-of-act-one tension.'"

Arabella arched an eyebrow in the mirror. "You've been hanging out with Chandler too much."

Freya grinned, brushing a little shimmer onto her collarbone. "Guilty. But seriously, you look insane. In the best way. That dress was made for you."

Arabella didn't say thank you right away. She just looked at herself for a beat longer.
Noticed the way the red played off her skin.
The way the neckline dared anyone to look away.
The way she looked... older.

She turned to Freya. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Freya said, tossing her lip gloss into her clutch. "I'm literally surviving off three hours of plane sleep and a banana, but we move."

Arabella smiled, grabbing her small bag and keys.

She didn't know what tonight would be.
She didn't know if Malachi would be there already, or if he'd even look at her.

But she knew this:
She didn't come here to relive the past.
She came to do her job. To be Alexandria.
To show everyone—and him—that she wasn't the same girl who fell too hard for someone who couldn't catch her.

Tonight, she wasn't going to shrink.
She was going to own it.

And if Malachi had something to say with his eyes?
He could speak up.

Otherwise, he could sit in the back row and watch.

                                                                   ─── ‧˚₊⋅ ୨୧ ⋅₊˚‧───

The elevator was too slow.
Arabella leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loosely, watching the numbers tick down like they had all the time in the world.

Freya bounced on her heels next to her, clutching her tiny purse like it had state secrets in it.

"You think we're early or late?" she asked, peering at her phone.

Arabella glanced at her own lock screen—7:29. "On time. Which means we'll be fashionably late because everyone else is going to be intentionally late."