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ADRIANA'S POV
The music pulsed low in the living room, a steady thump beneath my skin—like a second heartbeat. The bass curled through the air like smoke, mingling with the scent of cheap alcohol, sharp perfume, and something vaguely burnt from the kitchen. My cheeks were flushed—more from the liquor than the warmth—and my body swayed slightly as I leaned back into the couch cushions, legs folded beneath me.
I was laughing. I couldn't even remember why.
Bruno had said something. Or maybe it was Lucas. Something stupid. Carla was curled up in the armchair, hugging a pillow to her chest. Sol was sprawled out near the stereo, trying to get it to play something "darker," whatever that meant. Diego stood by the bar cart, glass in hand, half-smiling, half-listening.
It felt good. Too good.
Like floating. Like nothing could touch me tonight.
The vodka had taken the edge off—blunted the panic still coiled under my ribs. Catalina's voice echoed faintly at the back of my mind, the way she'd looked at me earlier behind the dunes—cold and sharp as glass. She hated me right now. Or maybe she always had. Maybe she was just better at hiding it.
But she wouldn't really turn on me.
Right?
Catalina was my best friend. Or she had been. I could still feel her hand in mine from those late walks home, still hear her laugh—warm, reckless, real. We had history. Tangled, stupid, beautiful history. And somewhere, buried beneath the steel and cruelty, I knew she cared.
She had to.
"Adri," Lucas said, nudging my shoulder. "You okay?"
I smiled too wide. "Fine. Great, actually."
And I meant it. Or I wanted to. For a few short minutes, it worked. The warmth of the room, the music, the comfort of being surrounded by people who didn't care what happened last week—or what we'd buried in the dark.
Then everything cracked open.
The sound was sharp—glass shattering, followed by a thud that jolted through the floor.
I blinked.
The room tilted. Someone screamed.
Diego was on the ground.
His drink lay beside him, shards glinting in the dim light like scattered teeth. His arm was twisted beneath him, his body unnaturally still. No twitch. No breath. Nothing.
"Diego?" Bruno stepped forward—but I was already moving.
I didn't remember standing.
Only the sound my knees made hitting the floor. The sickening silence that followed. The panic clawing its way up my throat.
