The wine glasses didn’t stand a chance.
Blair poured straight from the bottle into mismatched tumblers she found in Rory’s cabinet—one had a chipped rim, the other said “#BossBitch” in gold glitter.
The couch was crowded.
Jace had one arm slung across the back of it like he wasn't radiating unresolved rage and residual bloodlust. TJ sat across from him, still rolling his bruised knuckles like he was deciding which bones he wouldn’t mind breaking again.
Rory?
Stuck in the middle.
With flushed cheeks, a half-empty vodka tonic in her hand, and a deep sense of “what the hell is my life” nesting in her chest cavity like a squatter with no plans to leave.
Jacob sat beside Blair on the love seat, watching the disaster unfold with the energy of someone who definitely had more questions than
