Sofia had spent the rest of the week burying herself in work. Deadlines, layouts, follow-ups with PR teams. Anything to keep her mind off the embarrassing truth her roommates wouldn’t shut up about: Tristan Jacinto had carried her to bed.
They kept replaying it like a cinematic masterpiece, each retelling more dramatic than the last. Damien claimed Tristan lifted her “like a damsel in a Regency novel,” while Lani insisted he looked “possessive in a way that should honestly be illegal.” Sofia had nearly thrown a pillow at all of them.
She avoided the news, avoided scrolling, avoided anything that smelled remotely of scandal. Even the blue icon of X on her phone made her stomach turn. One trending cycle had been enough for a lifetime. Her name in that digital firestorm felt like standing u
