Blair
I lose myself in smoke and strobe lights.
That's the goal.
This party's just like the last ten—loud, gold-tinted, full of trust fund babies trying to sin their daddy issues away. I glide through it like a ghost wearing lipstick and leather. Smirks, stares, sweat. It's all background noise.
I shouldn't be thinking about him.
But I am.
Atlas Reed.
The boy with hands that probably shake when he buttons a shirt but could ruin a soul with a sentence. The boy I nearly killed today.
Almost.
Regrettably, not quite.
He looked up at me like I wasn't real. Like he was trying to decide whether I was a hallucination or a hazard.
Newsflash, baby: I'm both.
Some guy's pressing into me now. A senior, maybe. Maybe pre-law. Maybe pre-something-I-don't-give-a-damn-about. He's saying my name like it's a ticket. Like he's earned me because he brought me a drink.
I drink vodka like it's water and kiss boys like it's war. But tonight?
I'm bored.
"Blair," he purrs, leaning close. "You look—"
"Expensive," I interrupt. "I know."
He laughs. I don't.
I flick my ash into his drink and walk off.
My heels click across marble floors. My hair—thick, ink-dark, and down to my damn knees—swishes behind me like a black flag. My body's a statement. My eyes are a dare. I built this girl from ash and anger. She doesn't feel things.
Except…
Atlas.
Not the way he looked at me—judging. No. It was worse than that.
He looked like he understood. Like he recognized something.
Like he saw the mess I hide under glitter and gasoline.
And I hate it.
I hate him.
I shouldn't have turned back when I almost hit him. Should've left him sprawled on the concrete with his law books and moral compass. But I stopped. Gave him my hand. Not to help, no.
To test him.
He didn't flinch. Didn't thank me.
Didn't even say my name.
I light another cigarette outside, alone now. Streetlight halo. Smoke crown.
I should be flying, high on chaos like always. But I feel…
Unsettled.
Like I cracked open something I wasn't meant to.
And Atlas Reed is on the other side of it.