I barely cross the threshold of our apartment before Cleo pounces, appearing in the living room doorway like she's been lying in wait for hours.
Her hair is still messy from sleep, and she's wearing the oversized NYU t-shirt that serves as her unofficial interrogation uniform.
"Where the hell were you last night?"
She demands, hands on her hips in full best friend prosecution mode.
"And don't you dare say 'studying' because you're wearing yesterday's clothes and have that freshly-fucked glow that no amount of textbook reading could possibly produce."
I collapse onto our familiar couch, suddenly exhausted by the weight of everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours.
"At Adrian's," I admit, running a hand through my still-damp hair. "We... we fucked again."
"You WHAT?" Cleo's voice hits a pitch that probably violates several noise ordinances and definitely alerts our neighbors to the fact that drama is unfolding. "Sophie Elizabeth Hale, are you completely out of your goddamn mind?"
I wince at the use of my full name, a sure sign that Cleo has moved beyond casual concern into full-blown best friend panic mode.
"It's complicated."
"Complicated?"
She throws herself into the armchair across from me with enough force to make the springs creak in protest, fixing me with the kind of stare that could melt steel.
"The man is involved in a public scandal, there are photos of you two all over the internet being dissected by complete strangers, and you decided the best response was to sleep with him again?"
"It wasn't exactly planned," I say defensively, pulling my legs up under me and wrapping my arms around my knees. "Things just... happened."
I explain about waking up in his actual bedroom instead of the red room, about making breakfast together like we were normal people instead of whatever twisted dynamic we usually inhabit.
About the playful chase through his house, how he'd dragged me fully clothed into his ridiculous shower, the way everything felt different somehow—lighter, more genuine than anything we'd shared before.
"So far this sounds almost healthy," Cleo interrupts. "What's the catch?"
"I used my safe word," I admit quietly, the confession feeling like a stone dropping into still water.
Her eyebrows shoot up so fast they practically disappear into her hairline. "Why? What was he doing?"
"Nothing. That's just it—he wasn't doing anything wrong. We were in the middle of... and suddenly Cassian's face popped into my mind, and I couldn't handle it, couldn't handle thinking about him while I was with Adrian…"
The admission hangs between us like a confession of some deeper sin. Because that's what it feels like—a betrayal of both men, evidence of my own emotional confusion that I can't seem to untangle no matter how hard I try.
“Wait, wait.” Cleo stares at me for a long moment, her expression cycling through surprise, concern, and something that looks suspiciously like frustrated affection. “You mean to tell me you still haven't made up your mind?!"
My silence is answer enough, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she processes this information.
"Sophie! I thought you'd figured this out by now! You can't keep ping-ponging between them forever like some kind of emotional pinball machine!"
"I know, but—"
"But nothing! And honestly, it's like everyone around me is losing their minds slowly, and I'm the only sane person left standing!"
She's on her feet now, pacing the small space between our coffee table and the window with the kind of manic energy that means she's about to deliver a lecture I'm not prepared for.
"Dr. Vaughn freaks me out lately, and Ayden's been acting weird about something he won't tell me about, and now you're having some kind of sexual identity crisis in the middle of a public scandal—"
"Wait, wait, wait, hold on," I say, sitting up straighter as her words register fully. Something in her tone sends alarm bells ringing in my head. "What do you mean about Dr. Vaughn? What happened?"
"Yesterday in class, she had a complete meltdown over broken chalk. Like, hysteria-level screaming about how nothing works properly anymore, how everything falls apart when you need it most, how people always disappoint you in the end.”
Cleo stops pacing and turns to face me, her expression shifting from exasperation to genuine unease.
“Then she suddenly stopped mid-sentence, apologized very calmly like nothing had happened, and walked out of the classroom."
My stomach starts to twist into knots, a cold dread settling in my chest like ice forming over still water.
“Then she came back acting like absolutely nothing had happened, picked up her lecture exactly where she'd left it. Shall I say we all collectively shit our pants and didn't move until class was officially dismissed."
The description sends ice water through my veins. The classroom breakdown, the sudden shifts between hysteria and eerie calm—it matches perfectly with what I witnessed last night, with the dangerous instability I'd seen in her eyes.
"Cleo," I say quietly, my voice suddenly urgent in a way that makes her stop moving entirely. "There's something I need to tell you. Something that happened last night before... before everything else."
She must hear something in my tone because she immediately sits back down, giving me her full attention with the intensity she usually reserves for crisis situations.
I tell her everything—about Lisette showing up at Adrian's house with a knife, pressing it to her own throat while threatening both of us, the blood, the way Adrian had shielded me with his own body when she'd turned her attention to me.
"Jesus Christ, Sophie." Cleo's face has gone pale, all the color draining out until she looks almost gray. "You're in real danger here. This woman is clearly having some kind of complete psychotic break."
"I know," I whisper. "I should have told you immediately, but with everything else that happened afterward..."
"Well, we can’t let this slide, and the decision needs to be made quickly. Smart, but quickly. We have to..."
“Don’t you have a date with Ayden?” I change the subject quickly. “The one you planned for weeks.”
Cleo looks at me with that strange, tenacious gaze that tries to catch you in a lie. “...Yes, but don’t you think we have more important stuff to discuss right now?”
“Maybe let’s leave it for another time? I’d love to help you choose the perfect dress for Ayden instead. Something to make him want rip it off you immediately.”
Cleo frowned. She didn't share my enthusiasm for her date. "Sophie, what's wrong? What are you up to?"
“Nothing.”
“Sophie…” Cleo's tone sounds threatening.
“It’s nothing, I swear. I’m just…” sigh. Another wave of nausea makes me swallow. Damn it, what's wrong with me lately? “I'm just really not in a position right now to come up with a plan to eliminate the crazy woman. I'm sure it can wait. Okay?
I see how much she wants to argue, but just sighs in agreement. I watch as she disappears into her bedroom, and I can hear her moving around, opening drawers and muttering to herself about options.
She emerges a few minutes later in a floral sundress that makes her look like spring personified, all soft colors and flowing fabric that moves beautifully when she walks.
"Too cute?" she asks, doing a little twirl in the middle of our living room. "I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard, but I also want to look like I made an effort, you know?"
But as she spins around again, something unexpected happens. Nausea hits me like a freight train, sudden and overwhelming, making the room tilt dangerously and my vision blur at the edges.
I bolt for the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I'm retching violently, my entire body convulsing as I empty what little is in my stomach. The taste is awful, acidic and bitter, and my hands shake as I grip the porcelain rim.
"Okay girl, this dress isn't THAT ugly," Cleo calls from the doorway, but her joking tone is undercut by genuine concern.
I grip the toilet rim as another wave of sickness washes over me, my hands shaking and my skin clammy with cold sweat.
This isn't normal nausea—this is something else entirely, something that makes my blood run cold with a possibility I'm not ready to consider.