After my session with Adam, he left me in my bedroom where a small army was already waiting Clara’s chosen stylists, all sharp-eyed and buzzing with energy.
I could have told them to leave. I could have said I wasn’t going to the gala. But Adam’s words echoed in my head. What message would that send if I refused? That I was scared? That I had something to hide? That Kiara was guilty?
She’s not.
I repeated it to myself like a prayer. She’s not guilty.
I was halfway through hair and makeup when the door opened. Kiara slipped inside, her face blotchy, streaked with mascara. She’d been crying.
My heart jumped painfully in my chest.
She didn’t do anything wrong. She couldn’t have.
Kiara froze for a second, just long enough for me to notice the panic in her eyes. Then she rushed forward a
