Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, carved with angel-soft beauty, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection. But Renna knows perfection is nothing but a golden prison, coated in pretty lies that k...
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When I woke up, it felt like the universe had been replaced with a fever dream.
The world was syrupy, all dipped in gold like someone had accidentally spilled the sun through a jar of honey. The kind of glow influencers chase but never catch. For a solid ten seconds, I couldn’t decide whether I’d been kidnapped by angels or dumped in an antique shop that smelt faintly of pine and expensive regret.
The ceiling above me wasn’t mine—it was all uneven timber, heavy beams crossing like they were arguing about geometry. Somewhere to the left, a window creaked, and cold air slipped through, brushing my cheek like an uninvited ghost. It carried that smell—pine, melted wax, and him. That musky Aadam scent that clung to the air like a bad decision.
Brilliant. Either I’m dead, or I’ve been relocated to one of Aadam’s “let’s live like woodland people” fantasies.
I blinked, the room slowly shifting into focus. Soft fairy lights looped along the wall, tangled and drooping like they’d been strung up mid-chaos. Polaroids dangled from the wire—me and him, caught mid-laughter, mid-eye-roll, mid-something. My face in every picture was an over-caffeinated smile disaster, and beside me, there was Aadam—smug, annoyed, unfairly photogenic.
Then my brain clicked. Right. Glencoe. Cabin. Three-day escape from actual civilization.
I yawned so wide I could’ve swallowed a constellation, arms stretching until my sad joints made a small orchestra of cracks. My hair felt like something had nested in it—probably did. The duvet was wrapped around me like a python.
After an unnecessarily violent battle, I kicked, rolled, and nearly face-planted into the wooden floor. The candlelight flickered across the room, all soft and whispery, like it had been watching the chaos unfold with judgment.
My phone was facedown beside the candles. Suspicious.
Dragging myself up was a process. My limbs weren’t cooperating; they were rebelling. I shuffled over to the mirror, praying I didn’t look like an extra from a zombie apocalypse.
No such luck.
The mirror gifted me a reflection that looked like she’d been through a hurricane and lost. Mascara smudged into gothic art, hair pretending to be modern sculpture, cheek dented from the pillow.
“Ten out of ten, Lancaster. Perfect for a horror movie poster,” I said under my breath.
I picked up my phone, thumbed the screen, and froze.
21:27.
My stomach dropped. “No way.”
I blinked, rubbed my eyes, blinked again. Still the same.
