Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection.
But Renna knows her life is nothing but a golden prison coated in pretty lies that keep her muted and small.
Her day...
“What is love, if not the ache of needing someone when they’re already beside you?”
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The Hive was already throbbing like a beast—neon purples flickering like lightning against its brick skin, electric blues rolling over the crowd like ocean waves in a storm. From across the street, it looked less like a club and more like a living, breathing animal about to swallow us whole.
The queue was a whole movie—lined up behind metallic barriers, bodies pressed too close, like nobody believed in personal space anymore. Girl with lashes that fluttered like butterflies. Boys with shirts open to their navels, like their pecs were dying to breathe. Everyone was drenched in cologne and heat and energy.
This place is feral. Like actual jungle feral. Am I... excited? Yeah. Terrified? Also yes. But mostly—I’m ready.
The air reeked of sweet vodka fumes and something citrusy—I think it was body spray or maybe just anxiety.
Near the barrier, two girls in cropped uni hoodies were manning a wristband booth, yelling, “RED FOR DRINKERS, BLUE FOR SOBER BABIES!”
“I’d rather die than be blue,” Freya muttered, already eyeing the wristband booth with murder in her eyes.
I swapped my clutch from one hand to the other. The gold chain left a faint red mark across my wrist, but I wasn’t about to let anyone see me wince. Not tonight.
Pain is hot girl tax. I’ll pay it in full.
Isla clutched my wrist tighter, her icy rings pressing into my skin as she raised her phone. “Cam, I swear to God, it’s psychotic out here. I’m sweating and no one’s even touched me yet.”
Freya spun toward me, already pulling out her phone. “Renna, look here. Slightly left. Tilt the chin. Yes. Yes. Hold it. You look like luxury.”
Because I am, duh.
I tilted my head, smirked, let the light hit. Flash.
Another angle. Another flash. A pout. A bite of my bottom lip.
God, is this what it feels like to be watched? No wonder these girls eat this up. It’s addictive.
Isla hung up, already beaming. “Alright. Plan B. Side entrance. Cam says go left—the staff door crew know him. He said he’ll get us in through the back like the royalty we are.”
And just like that, she dragged us into the thick of the crowd.
We passed a boy wearing angel wings and nothing else—literal bum cheeks out—and a girl in a fishnet catsuit sucking on a lollipop like she was being paid for it. The air was loud and sticky and a cloud of vape cloud smacked me straight in the face.
I choked. My mascara probably just curled itself backwards.
Is that bubblegum? Or poison? Do people actually enjoy this or are we just pretending we do?
