Cellie's POV
The clock on my nightstand blinked 7:15 PM in accusatory red numbers. Saturday night. DeLeon estate. My stomach churned like a washing machine full of rocks. Hair up or hair down. That was the question tormenting me as I stared at my reflection in the old, blurry mirror of my vanity, the cheap glass warping my features like a funhouse version of myself.
Thirty minutes. Thirty goddamn minutes I'd been debating this trivial decision while my life circled the drain. My brain usually operated with surgical precision, but tonight it had turned to soup. All organization, all logic had abandoned me, replaced by this restless energy crawling under my skin like fire ants.
The event. The one I'd been dreading all week. It lodged in my throat like a fish bone, sat heavy in my stomach
