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...
"You took my heart, turned me insane, by love, with love in love, for love."
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The rain had completely lost its mind. Forget that romantic drizzle where girls stare out the window all moody with a cup of tea—Glasgow wasn’t built for film aesthetics. This was sky-on-a-bender type of rain. Aggressive. Erratic. Like the clouds were smacking themselves against the dorm windows just to spite us. If I stepped outside right now, my hair would go straight from “styled” to “drowned seaweed” in thirty seconds flat.
So, I did what any girl with the bare minimum of common sense would do. I burrowed.
Specifically, into Isla Kerr’s bed, which at this point had upgraded itself into my personal war bunker. I was wrapped in her ridiculous oatmeal blanket like it was armour plated, heat pad clamped down on my stomach like I was trying to wrestle my uterus into submission. Whoever had the audacity to call periods “mild discomfort” in health class pamphlets? Jail. No parole. Because mine was a medieval torture chamber.
And honestly, Eve had the lot of us in a chokehold. One dodgy apple, and here I was, curled up like a half-dead shrimp, bargaining with every saint I could think of to let this cycle pass quickly.
Meanwhile, Isla was having her own fashion week.
Her room looked like a bomb had gone off inside a boutique. Tissue paper, shoeboxes, dresses flung across the carpet, lingerie spilling out like contraband. And Isla herself? Strutting around in lingerie that could probably get her arrested if she so much as sneezed near an open window. Neon bras, lace thongs thinner than a hair tie, and right now, she was halfway into a black satin dress so tight it might as well have been poured onto her body. The straps slipped as she tugged them up, her reflection pouting back at her in the mirror.
“I swear to God,” she announced, wriggling and tugging until one boob surrendered into place, “if I don’t give that man a fucking heart attack when I walk in next week, I’m suing the boutique.”
From my little cocoon, I poked my head out, smirking through the pain that felt like a marching band stomping inside my stomach. “Oh, you absolutely will. That slit alone could have its own crime scene report. Cameron’s going to combust.”
She did a spin, checking herself in the mirror, and honestly? I wasn’t exaggerating. The dress caught the light like it was trying to seduce it. Her hips, her legs, her everything screamed disaster for Cameron.
“Good,” she said, smug as anything. “Smug bastard’s been far too cocky lately. Needs punishing.”
My laugh came out strangled thanks to the war happening inside me, but it was still a laugh. I propped myself up slightly. “How did you two even meet again? You keep saying it was through Aadam, but you never give me the actual story.”
And Isla—fearless, feral Isla—actually blushed. Pink, right there on her cheeks, like she wasn’t the same girl who could walk into a club and have grown men forgetting their wives’ names, the blush was… suspicious.
