The Hottest Betrayal

Ash Michaelson

Morning comes slowly, the weight of exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. I push myself upright, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.

In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection.

I look tired.

The weight loss is evident—my collarbones are more pronounced, my cheeks slightly hollowed. My skin feels dull, my eyes heavy, the dark circles beneath them deeper than I remember.

I sigh, grabbing my toothbrush, letting the familiar motions ground me. The hot water from the shower soothes my stiff muscles, washing away the remnants of yesterday. By the time I step out, my hair is damp and wild.

I smooth it back, twisting it into a slick bun, keeping it neat, controlled with the girls out next to my ears..

Rummaging through the clothes Stacy sent, I pull out a white dress—thigh-length, soft, flowing down my arms like air. The stockings match my skin tone perfectly, blending seamlessly under white boots.

I sit at the mirror, hands steadying as I apply my makeup. Concealer first, sweeping away the exhaustion from beneath my eyes. A touch of blush, just enough to keep me from looking completely lifeless. Mascara darkens my lashes, making my big eyes stand out.

Lip gloss glides over my lips, soft and simple.

I stare at myself one last time.

I look put together. I don’t feel it.

But maybe that’s enough for today. I just have to look good since my aunt is trying so hard to give me a somewhat normal restart while I look for my parents.

I step out of the bathroom, my eyes immediately land on a box sitting near the dresser. I can’t help but to take a deep breath.

The thought that inside are my parents’ files—everything collected from the police station, the private detective, every piece of evidence tied to their disappearance. I run my fingers over the worn edges due to me going through them over and over to find if there is anything anyone missed, before laying them out on the wooden desk next to my laptop. I try not to open them. Not yet.

“Later”. I tell myself. I’ll go through them later.

I glance at myself in the mirror one last time before tossing my makeup into my purse. My fingers slide over the paper on the dresser—the Michaelson’ address—and I fold it and stuff it into my bag before heading toward the door.

As I step outside, the air feels crisp, almost refreshing, as if Boston itself is trying to convince me this will be different.

The drive to the Michaelson’ estate is smooth, but my nerves build with every mile. When the SUV pulls up to a massive gated mansion, my throat tightens slightly.

I roll down the window, giving my details to the security guard at the front. He nods, buzzes me in, and gestures for another guard near the house to escort me.

The estate is grand—spacious, modern yet warm, the kind of place that feels carefully lived in. A massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, catching the light just enough to make the entrance glow. The walls are a mix of gray, white, black, deep wood, and dark blue, blending seamlessly and not suffocating. Open windows let in natural light, keeping the house from feeling too heavy.

Then the scent hits me causing my stomach to growl—freshly cooked food, warm spices, something familiar.

I follow it into the kitchen, where a girl about my age is moving between counters, helping two chefs as they prepare dinner and set the table.

She’s confident, fluid in her movements, not intimidated by the professionals working alongside her.

Her gaze snaps to me.

"You must be Lotus!" She grins, and before I can even react, she adds, "Omg, you are so thin, but your body is so beautiful, and you are gorgeous! Your aunt has told us so much about you! "I feel like we’re practically best friends," she says, walking around me, looking me up and down.

I blink.

She’s forward. A little overwhelming.

I take her in—long, raven-black hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, blue eyes that practically sparkle under the kitchen lights, thick lashes framing her gaze. Her features are sharp yet soft, and she carries herself with effortless confidence.

She’s dressed in a fitted black top, gray sweatpants, and black house shoes—casual, comfortable.

I tug at the sides of my dress, suddenly feeling overdressed.

Ash notices immediately, her expression shifting as she waves a hand dismissively. "You look amazing. Seriously."

Then she holds up an apron, smirking. "Cooking helps calm my nerves. Want to help?"

I hesitate, unsure, still trying to process everything.

Ash laughs, shaking the apron in front of me. "Sorry, black is like my color, girl."

I exhale, letting out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad but i can’t help think about how my dad would be cracking jokes about how it would small better if he could add some random spice he found on a trip to got knows where. As we start chopping vegetables, I realize that Ash doesn't just talk—she performs. Every sentence is laced with exaggerated expressions, dramatic hand movements, and the kind of energy that makes it impossible not to laugh.

"So, you’re going to Miller Prep High, right?" she asks, tossing a handful of bell peppers into the pan.

"Yeah," I nod, stirring the sauce.

She gasps, gripping her chest like she’s been personally attacked. "Oh, you’re in for it. The math teachers there? They don’t teach—they assault you with numbers and just expect you to understand. Like, ma’am, I am NOT a calculator."

I laugh despite myself.

"But the social scene?" she continues. "Now that is entertainment. If you think high school drama is bad, wait until you see rich people drama. It’s like ‘Gossip Girl’ but if everyone had emotional support Teslas."

I arch an eyebrow. "Emotional support Teslas?"

"Oh, absolutely. Nothing says I’m having a crisis like aggressively revving your $80,000 car in the school parking lot."

I shake my head, smirking as I pour the sauce into the pan.

"Oh! And don’t even get me started on the school cafeteria," she groans. "Last year, they tried to be ‘healthy’ and introduced kale smoothies. I swear, it tasted like depression and bad life choices."

"That bad?"

"Lotus, it tasted like someone blended up sadness and disappointment with a side of gym socks."

I snort, shaking my head.

Ash grins, nudging my arm. "See? You’re loosening up. Admit it, I’m hilarious."

"You have your moments," I tease.

"Excuse me, I am a comedic icon," she declares. "One day, when I become famous, you’ll be like, ‘I knew her before the Netflix special.’"

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile pulling at my lips.

The tension in my chest lightens a little.

Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

As I stir the sauce, my mind drifts.

"Wait—your brother, Salem? I haven’t even seen your parents yet," I say, raising an eyebrow.

Ash rolls her eyes dramatically. "Yeah, because Salem does whatever he wants. He was supposed to be here for the meeting today, but let’s be real—he’s probably out with Juan, Luka, Mikea, and Brandon." She shakes her head, tossing chopped herbs into the pan. "They’re always together, like some kind of unholy brotherhood of bad decisions."

I smirk. "So, what’s his deal?"

"Oh, he’s calculated. Smart as hell, but also stubborn. My parents say he’s difficult, but honestly? He just likes doing things his own way. That includes completely ignoring their expectations whenever possible." She sighs, then grins mischievously. "Also, reputation-wise? Total man-whore."

I snort. "Wow, what an endorsement."

"I’m just saying—Salem and his friends? They all have their reputations. Juan’s the smooth talker, Luka’s the reckless one, Brandon’s annoyingly charming, and Mikea?" She lets out a dramatic sigh, pressing a hand to her chest. "Mikea is tall, dark, and ridiculously handsome. And his eyes? Hypnotizing. The kind of blue that makes you forget what you were saying mid-sentence."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "You sound like you’re obsessed."

"Me? Please," Ash scoffs. "I’m just appreciating the view."

That’s when I catch the scent of something off—

"Wait—the sauce!" I yell, panicked.

Ash jumps, eyes wide before scrambling to mix it.

"Lotus, you almost gave me a heart attack!" she shrieks, stirring furiously.

I let out a relieved breath, but Ash grins suddenly, tossing me a look. "Honestly? Mikea could stir my sauce anytime."

I groan. "Stop."

"Never."

She checks the time, wiping her hands on a towel. "My parents should be home soon. Mom always stops to pick up flowers for the house."

Just as she says that, loud voices echo from the entryway.

Laughter. Shoving. Jokes flying back and forth.

I glance up as the boys walk in, effortlessly owning the space—Salem leading the pack, his expression unreadable.

Then they see me.

Conversation slows.

The energy shifts.

Salem’s gaze lingers. My breathing hitches staring as all of them. They look straight out of a fantasy... a male stripper one night stand that you think about for the rest of your life type of fantasy.

Ash smirks beside me, whispering just loud enough for me to hear—

"Showtime."

Showtime?