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❧ what happens in vegas stays in vegas ❧
≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫
The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room, but Amalie hardly noticed. She leaned heavily against the bathroom counter, her hands gripping the edges as though the cool marble could anchor her to reality. Her tangled hair clung to her damp skin, a stark contrast to the hollow, pale reflection staring back at her in the mirror. Her eyes were sunken, dark shadows lingering beneath them—ghosts of sleepless nights.
Katherine hadn't come home. No surprise there. Amalie knew exactly where Katherine was: wrapped around Mason Lockwood, playing him with the effortless ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. Katherine was always out, always manipulating, seducing, and controlling whoever happened to be useful at the moment.
Amalie was used to her absence. But last night...last night had been different.
She splashed cold water onto her face, hoping it might shock her back into some kind of clarity. Droplets fell from her chin into the sink, breaking the quiet in tiny, repetitive echoes. But the fog in her head didn't lift. The exhaustion clung to her, deep in her bones, a heaviness from last night's torment. The voices—the ghosts—they had been relentless.
She swallowed hard, leaning forward again, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the counter. She felt fragile, like if she let go for even a second, she'd break apart.
From the reflection, she saw movement behind her
Ana stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, that perpetual air of teenage nonchalance hanging off her, though there was something else in her expression today. Concern, maybe. It was subtle—Ana wasn't the sentimental type—but Amalie knew her well enough to catch it. The ghost leaned against the doorframe, messy curls framing her face.
"You look like shit," Ana said, blunt as ever, though there was no malice in her voice. Just observation.
From the corner of the bathroom, Max appeared, lounging against the wall. His leather jacket hung off his shoulders casually, as if he had just wandered in from some '90s alt-rock gig, always too cool to care but too restless to leave. He was flipping a coin between his fingers, a habit that always surfaced when he was uneasy. Max rarely showed emotion—at least, not in the way that seemed genuine but there was an unspoken tension in the way he stood now.
