The sun was out.
Unsettling.
It was one of those rare, bright mornings that made the city look almost… bearable. I sat on the terrace of Cameron's penthouse, blazer off, sleeves rolled, an untouched glass of whiskey sweating on the table beside me.
Cameron had insisted on a "proper day off." Said if the girls were getting a spa day, we deserved a break too.
I wasn't sold on the logic, but here I am.
"You know she called me a tragedy," Cameron was saying, pacing in front of me like a man halfway through a Shakespearean monologue. "A tragedy, Adrien. That's not even casual insult—that's Greek-level."
I didn't look up from my phone. "Aria?"
"Yes, Aria. Your girlfriend's feisty little best friend with the murder glare."
I gave him a look. "And you're surprised?"
"I was charming. Effortlessly likable. Even wore real pants. And she—" He stopped, arms flailing. "She looked at me like I had murdered her cat."
I didn't respond.
