"Oh my God! *Oh my God!*"
The words tore from Clara's throat in a high-pitched squeak as she violently spun around. Her hands flew up, palms slamming over her tortoise-shell glasses as if she could physically push the image out of her brain. Beneath her fingertips, a furious, agonizing heat flooded her cheeks, crawling all the way to the tips of her ears.
Her shoulders instantly caved inward, her posture shrinking as profound embarrassment swallowed her whole. She felt utterly ridiculous. She was entirely overdressed for the occasion, encased in a shimmering, lavender sequined dress that caught the bright overhead lights like a disco ball. The pearl-embellished belt cinched around her waist suddenly felt suffocating.
"You know," a deep, velvet-smooth voice echoed through the warm, steam-filled room, thick with amusement. "Usually, people knock."
Unable to help herself, Clara's fingers parted just a fraction. Through the narrow gap, her wide, horrified eyes locked onto the scene she had just stumbled into.
He was standing there, completely unfazed. Rivulets of water cascaded down his slicked-back, dark hair, trailing over the broad, golden expanse of his bare chest. Every muscle seemed meticulously carved, glistening under the warm bathroom lights. But it wasn't just his absurdly perfect physique that made Clara's breath hitch—it was the lazy, confident smirk playing on his lips.
Her brain finally short-circuited past the shock, supplying a name.
*Miles. Miles Carson.*
The realization hit her like a physical blow. Of all the doors she could have accidentally opened in this sprawling house, she had to walk in on the host's notoriously arrogant, dangerously charming brother.
Clara slowly lowered her hands, her fingers trembling as she clasped them tightly in front of her stomach. The profound embarrassment on her face twisted into a painfully awkward, forced smile. She kept her gaze meticulously trained on the wall beside his head, desperately avoiding the fact that he was wearing nothing but a low-slung white towel.
"I—I am so sorry," Clara stammered, her hands gesturing emphatically, a frantic, bird-like flutter of movement. "I thought this was the guest coatroom. I'm just going to… I'm leaving. Right now. I'm walking backward and pretending this never happened."
Miles didn't move to cover up. Instead, he lazily ran a large hand through his damp hair, pushing the dark strands back from his forehead. His smirk deepened, his eyes sparkling with an irritating amount of entertainment.
As Clara took a clumsy step back, a masculine hand suddenly reached out, warm, damp fingers gently wrapping around her left shoulder.
Clara gasped, her head snapping up. She hadn't realized he had closed the distance between them so quickly. Miles stood towering over her, the faint scent of cedar and expensive soap clouding her senses. Beyond his shoulder, the reflection of a dark TV screen and a minimalist framed picture mocked her from the adjacent bedroom.
"A word of advice, Clara," Miles murmured, his voice dropping a fraction, the teasing lilt replaced by something strangely serious. "I wouldn't go out into the living room right now if I were you."
The warning caught her off guard, but her defensive instincts flared faster than her curiosity. She was already humiliated enough. Her spine stiffened, the sequins of her dress catching the light as she squared her shoulders.
She thrust a stern, trembling finger directly at his chest, stopping just an inch shy of his wet skin. "I don't need advice from a man wearing a bath towel," she declared, her voice laced with a bravado she absolutely did not feel.
Without waiting for his response, Clara pivoted sharply on her heels, marching toward the heavy wooden door. As she reached for the handle, she caught a glimpse of Miles out of the corner of her eye. He was still smiling, offering a slow, mocking wave goodbye.
She practically threw herself through the doorway, pulling the door shut behind her with a sharp *click*.
The hallway was quiet, a stark contrast to the pounding of her heart. Clara leaned heavily against the cool plaster wall, squeezing her eyes shut. *Stupid, stupid, stupid,* she chanted internally. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the cool air of the corridor finally clearing the cedarwood scent from her lungs.
When she opened her eyes, a fiery determination had replaced her panic. She had to find Liam. She had to find her boyfriend, make an excuse about a headache, and get out of this house party before she embarrassed herself any further.
With a resolved exhale, Clara reached for the handle of the main living room doors, pushing them open.
The transition was jarring. The interior blurred for a fraction of a second before her eyes adjusted to the bright, natural sunlight flooding in through the massive windows, framed by sheer, light green curtains.
Then, the world snapped into agonizingly sharp focus.
Sitting on the plush blue sofa in the center of the room was a woman with long, perfectly styled blonde hair, wearing a vibrant purple top and a sparkly silver skirt. But it wasn't the woman's outfit that anchored Clara's feet to the floor. It was the fact that the blonde's hands were tangled in the hair of the man sitting beside her.
A man wearing a familiar grey t-shirt and ripped jeans.
*Liam.*
They were kissing. Not a brief, drunken party peck, but a deep, passionate, desperate kiss that spoke of intense familiarity.
Clara's eyes widened to an extreme, the irises practically swallowed by the whites. The ambient noise of the house faded into a loud, ringing static in her ears. Both of her hands flew up, clapping violently over her mouth to trap the agonizing sob that tore upward from her chest.
For a second, the light around her seemed to shimmer and distort, the edges of her vision darkening. The solid ground beneath her feet vanished, leaving her in a free-fall of utter disbelief.
She was frozen. A glittering statue in a lavender dress, standing paralyzed in the doorway as the life she had known, the trust she had built, shattered into a million irreparable, jagged pieces upon the living room floor.