Treachery

Episode 8

After paying, we headed to our nail appointment down the street.

“You’re not picking nude again,” she warned as we stepped inside the salon. “I’m tired of your neutral era.”

“Nude goes with everything!”

“So does confidence.”

I gave her a look, but truth be told, I let her pick the color—something coral and glossy—and leaned back in my chair as the technician got to work.

“I missed this,” I said after a moment.

She didn’t say anything, but she reached over and squeezed my hand.

We stepped out of the salon with fresh sets and a camera roll full of finger-flexing boomerangs. The sunlight had dulled a little, casting a soft afternoon glow over the street, and London was already pulling out her phone for a spontaneous photoshoot.

“Okay, just one more. That coral is too good not to post,” she said, backing up a few steps with her camera held high.

“London, I swear, if we take one more—”

“Smile. Just act like you’re laughing. No, not like that—okay, better.”

I was mid eye-roll-laugh pose, brushing my hair behind my ear with my newly done nails on full display, when it happened.

I felt the solid force of someone brushing past me—not just brushing, but knocking me slightly off balance like a gust of wind in a suit.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” I stammered, my heel scuffing the sidewalk as I steadied myself.

The man had already half-turned, as if deciding whether to respond or keep moving, his sharp jawline tightening with a flicker of irritation. He had that look—clean-cut but not too polished, dark hair slightly tousled like he'd just run a hand through it, tailored black coat open enough to show a steel-grey dress shirt underneath.

He was handsome, sure. But not in a boyish, soft-featured way. More like—dangerous. Confident. Calculated.

And then there was the guy with him.

Towering beside him, dressed in all black, the other man looked more like a bodyguard than a friend. His eyes swept over me with a kind of silent warning, like he was assessing whether I was a threat for accidentally existing in their path.

The handsome one glanced at me briefly, his brows pulled slightly together—not rude, not kind. Just… distracted. Annoyed maybe. Like he had better things to do than deal with clumsy strangers.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, his voice low and clipped as he stepped around me, continuing down the sidewalk like the world was just background noise for his schedule.

I swallowed. London, for once, was speechless beside me.

I turned to watch them walk away. The big guy had that bouncer stride, alert and stiff. The other—he was just smooth. Like he belonged to another city entirely, a colder one, where people didn’t stop for photos or apologize for walking too fast.

“Who was that?” I breathed out, brushing my dress down as if it had been personally insulted by the encounter.

“No idea,” London whispered. “But that was a lot of man.”

I laughed a little, nerves still prickling my skin. “Yeah. And I think I just bumped into someone very... not average.”

“He was hot. Like ‘gets away with murder because the jury’s too distracted by his jawline’ hot.”

“Don’t make me laugh. I’m trying to pretend I wasn’t completely terrified.”

“Terrified?”

“That guy with him? He looked like he could throw me across a parking lot without blinking.”

Still, something about that moment stuck with me. His face. The tension in his shoulders. The silence.

And the way I couldn't tell if I was flustered… or warned.