Lena’s POV
The phone vibrates like a possessed bee on the nightstand, shattering the fragile silence of my hangover. My head throbs in protest, a dull hammer behind my eyes, the room tilting slightly as I roll over in the tangle of sheets. I slept late last night because I cried my eyes out all night—ugly, heaving sobs that left my pillowcase soaked and my throat raw like I’d swallowed sandpaper. The cab ride home from Central Park blurred into tequila shots from the emergency bottle under the sink, then half a bottle of cheap red wine, then passing out fully clothed with mascara streaked down my cheeks. Jet-lagged? No. Just emotionally annihilated.
I squint at the screen through crusty lashes: a video call from Avery. Of course. Her custom ringtone—a ridiculous remix of some 2010s pop a
