𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 [18+]

- 32 -

It's been a week since that evening as I held on to Pen and sobbed on her shoulders, feeling the world weigh me down. I've felt numb ever since.

As the speed of the treadmill increases, I push myself harder, trying to drown myself out with the "Gansta" by Kehlani blasting my headphones. I love running. I used to hate it. But ever since I've dropped pounds, running has been my adrenaline.

The gym is practically empty, just a few people scattered across the machines, minding their own business. I close my eyes momentarily, letting the adrenaline course through me, pushing me further. The over-fluorescent lights hum above, blending with the steady buzz of the treadmill, creating a monotonous white noise that drowns everything else out.

I try not to think of Val.

Who, by the way, has not contacted me in any way ever since.

I mean, not that I'm complaining. My mind has been peaceful like a saint ever since.

When the treadmill finally slows down, I step off, my legs like jelly. I grab my water bottle and take a long gulp, staring blankly at the reflection in the mirror across the room.

I barely recognise myself. The physical changes are obvious, sure, but it's the numbness in my eyes and the vacant expression that catches me off guard.

Just as I look away, my phone chimes.

It's a text from Mom. More like the list of over thirty designers she send me, asking me to choose from.

Zara: I already said I'm not coming, Mom.

I sign, wrapping the towel around my shoulders.

The reply comes instantly.

Mom: Your dad wants you to be there. No choice, baby.

The Maximillian Ball—a swirling pit of people who speak in careful phrases and wield smiles like weapons. The thought of being there, dressed up and pretending everything's normal is the last thing anyone would want.

I exhale sharply, rubbing the back of my neck. There's no avoiding it.

I fucking end up there every year like clockwork. That old man can't get a grip.

The Maximillian Ball isn't just any event; it's where the powerful mingle and sealing deals with a simple nod or a raised glass. And, of course, for our family, appearances mean everything.

Zara: Fine. But I'm not staying the whole night.

Mom's response is immediate, as if she was waiting on standby.

Mom: That's my girl. Now, choose the bloody designer.

Can I just scream? 

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