Have you ever reached that point where you know—know—your entire future might depend on a single decision?
One of those moments where every choice feels like it carries the weight of all your past mistakes and all your future regrets?
That's exactly where I am now.
I've always seen myself as one of the brightest minds around. Talented. Ambitious. The kind of woman people would either admire or envy.
A genius with too much confidence and not enough sleep.
And yet, here I am—standing at what feels like the lowest point of my life, being forced to choose between chasing a dream that might already be dead or facing the reality I've spent years trying to outrun.
In my hand is a piece of paper I've read at least ten times, as if one of those times it might magically say something different. A loophole, a clause, a typo. Anything.
...
To:
Emma Agneson
Room 204
Résidence Universitaire Taxvard
New York, America
Date: April 16, 2025
Subject: Notice of Immediate Termination of Accommodation Contract
Dear Ms. Agneson,
Following the incident that occurred on April 13, 2025, in the common room of the Résidence Universitaire Taxvard, involving a physical altercation between yourself and another resident, we regret to inform you that a decision has been made to terminate your accommodation contract, effective immediately.
...
Expelled. From the dormitory. No appeal. No conversation. Just a neat little letter wrapped in administrative language that basically says: "Pack your things and don't let the door hit you on the way out."
I don't even know where I'm sleeping tonight. I have enough money for a night or two in a hostel, but after that?
Well, let's just say the future isn't looking too friendly right now. My savings will evaporate faster than my patience in a group project.
I scrolled through my contacts. Twice. Maybe three times.
Only two names really stood out—and both of them come with more pride-swallowing than I think I'm emotionally equipped to handle.
Because yes, I'm proud. Stubborn. Asking for help feels like failure. And let's be honest, nothing says 'success story in the making' like getting thrown out of your dorm for punching someone who probably deserved it.
I reached into the drawer and pulled out the last cigarette I had hidden for emergencies.
Well, this sure feels like one. I lit it with the kind of defiance only someone who's already been kicked out can afford. Screw the rules—I'm already a ghost in this building.
I've got to admit—despite my general distaste for smoking and the fact that I deeply regret ever picking it up just to seem 'cool' (ugh, the self-inflicted cringe), there's something poetic about it now.
Like a filthy ritual. Light up, inhale the poison, and suddenly the world quiets down for a few precious seconds. It's a disgusting little miracle.
My panic? Puff—gone. A temporary fix, sure, but an effective one.
So what if I'm getting kicked out of the dorms? Who needs four walls and a roof when you can rough it with the raccoons?
Honestly, the idea of sleeping under the stars, using my suitcase as a pillow and a jacket as a blanket, sounds kind of romantic… until it rains, or until I get stabbed by a bush-dwelling stranger who thinks I'm trespassing on their shrub.
But hey, at least that's one way to end the semester.
I could tell my mom, sure. She's got enough resourcefulness to solve international crises, let alone finding her idiot child a bed to crash on.
But no, I won't. Because the second I say 'I got expelled for fighting,' her blood pressure would hit escape velocity.
She'd start imagining I'm being bullied within an inch of my life or that I joined a gang of knife-wielding theater kids. It would be tragic. For her heart. And I like her heart. It still works.
And my uncles? Forget it. They'd rat me out faster than a narc at a house party. Loyalty is a foreign language in this family.
But let's not panic (again). There are options. Creative ones.
Plan A: Hide in the 24/7 library like some academic cryptid. I'll wear a hoodie, slouch beneath a table, and become part of the decor.
Students are too sleep-deprived to question it. I'll be the ghost of finals past. People will leave offerings of instant noodles and half-dead pens in my honor.
Plan B: A bit more scandalous—fire up a dating app, match with some poor soul, and hit him with the classic "Sooo… your place?"
Like a reverse Cinderella story, I vanish at dawn, leaving behind nothing but regret and maybe a sock. Risky, though—what if he doesn't appreciate my teasing and takes things seriously? I'm not trying to star in a homegrown horror film.
Plan C: Bar crawl with a purpose. Seduce a lonely guy, get him drunk, drag him to a hotel, knock him out, then vanish before sunrise like a femme fatale with a tight schedule.
Morally gray? Absolutely. Legally questionable? Probably. But desperate times call for creative crimes. I'll leave a thank-you note. Maybe a mint.
And why am I in this mess to begin with? Oh, right. Because I'm beautiful. No, really. That's not vanity—that's literally part of the problem.
My looks sparked the drama that got me booted. Jealousy is an ugly thing, and apparently, it punches first and files complaints later. So yeah, I'm confident when it comes to seducing someone.
It didn't take long for me to make a decision. I first packed up my most important things before going to a hostel and storing my luggage.
I lied to the guy at reception—said I had a reservation for tonight. He didn't check. Five euros later, my suitcase was tucked into a storage cage beside a guy's guitar and someone's duffel bag.
I didn't choose this hostel randomly—not only do they allow you to store bags for a small fee even if you're not a guest, but also because it was pretty close to a small bar that I'd researched. Yup, I chose Plan C.
...
...
...
Dead End Bar
Dead End Bar was one of those places that had somehow earned a spot on nearly every 'Top 20 Bars in New York list that mattered—especially the ones that focused less on flashy cocktails and more on the kind of atmosphere where people came to forget their problems for a night.
If you wanted somewhere to unwind, sip a strong drink, and pretend the world outside didn't exist for a few hours, this was the place.
Word around the city was that the bar's mysterious charm had a lot to do with its owner—a rich, second-generation heir who supposedly had no real responsibilities and opened the place just for the fun of it.
He was the type with too much time and money on his hands, the kind who thought, why not open a bar and play bartender on weekends?
And so he did, often showing up behind the counter with his stunning girlfriend Didi, pulling drinks and playing the part like it was all just an elaborate game.
Tonight, like most nights, the vibe was relaxed and cool, with dim lights, soft music, and strangers casually hooking up without much hesitation or second thoughts.
Amid the lively crowd, a group of five managed to stand out—not because they were loud or rowdy, but because they simply drew the eye.
Three guys and two girls, gathered around a corner booth with drinks in hand and an energy that suggested something interesting was going on.
"Hey Tracy, come on! Tonight's all about you, remember? Don't let us down," one of the guys, Samuel said with a grin, raising his glass.
"Yup. None of us are leaving until you hook up with someone," added Lynda, one of the women in the group. Her voice was playful, but there was fire in her eyes—a kind of unshakeable determination to see her friend cross some invisible threshold tonight.
The Tracy they were talking about was the youngest of the bunch.
She'd just turned twenty-one last week, and tonight was her very first time stepping foot inside a bar. Honestly, it wasn't her scene.
Not really. But the group had all but dragged her here under the banner of ncelebrating adulthood,n and Tracy—sweet, reluctant Tracy—hadn't had the heart to refuse.
It wasn't that she wasn't attractive. Far from it. Tracy was the kind of effortlessly pretty that made people stare for just a second too long.
And maybe that was part of why the group was drawing attention—five attractive people, clearly close, with one shy little redhead being cheerfully bullied into finding a fling.
Tracy, for her part, looked like she wanted to melt into the booth and disappear.
At the mention of 'hooking up,' her cheeks turned a bright shade of crimson.
She buried her face in her hands and muttered, "Oh my God, no," like she couldn't believe this was her life right now.
Now, in a different group of friends, someone might have called her out for being fake shy or playing innocent. But these people? They knew the truth. Tracy's hesitation wasn't about nerves or modesty.
It was about something more personal.
Tracy—brilliant, quiet, violin-playing Tracy—was gay. Or at least, she thought she was.
She hadn't exactly had a relationship yet to confirm it, but when she thought about romance, it wasn't guys who came to mind. It had always been women.
Still, she carried that uncertainty with her like a secret badge. Was it just a phase? Had she never met the right man? Or was it something more real, something solid and true?
Her best friend and roommate, Lynda, was very much done with the tiptoeing. She leaned forward with a smirk, her voice a little louder now as she looked Tracy dead in the eye.
"Oh yes, girl. You're way too pretty to be this hopeless. I've literally seen you make grown violinists cry with your Bach solos—now it's time you made some girl in this bar feel weak in the knees. Go out there and make some magic."
And just like that, the night began.
...
Just like that, Emma walked into the famous Dead End Bar, thinking she was the hunter tonight.
But what she didn't realize was that the moment she crossed that threshold, she instantly became the prey.
Four sharp-eyed lions lurking inside immediately locked onto her, already imagining how she'd be perfect to feed their shy, timid lionesses.
Honestly, it was hard not to notice her.
That blonde hair of hers was practically glowing under the bar's dim, smoky lights—too bright, too golden, too perfect not to draw attention.
And let's not even get started on her outfit. She went all out, no question about it.
The sleeveless high-neck shirt she picked was made of this smooth, slightly shiny material that clung to her curves like it had been custom-made just for her.
It didn't scream for attention, but it whispered seductively enough to pull eyes her way.
Emma didn't just walk into the bar—she made an entrance. You know the kind. Proof? One poor guy standing near the entrance literally choked on his drink when he saw her. Yeah, she had that kind of presence.
But inside? She was a bundle of nerves, even if she didn't show it. Emma's personality had always been… let's say complicated.
If you asked her to describe herself, she might shrug and say she was an extrovert who got bullied into being an introvert by life.
Once upon a time, she used to love talking, sharing, meeting people—but somewhere along the way, it all started to feel like too much.
She spent more and more time holed up in her room or her dorm, chasing her dreams of becoming a writer, getting lost in her own stories like a proper Otaku.
Friends? She had a few, maybe. But not many she could really count on. Most of the people she met felt fake to her, like they were all wearing masks.
Conversations turned into performances, and she hated that. She wanted honesty—real thoughts, unfiltered feelings—but most of the time, it felt like no one had the guts to speak their truth anymore.
Still, even with all that weight on her shoulders, Emma knew how to shine when she needed to. And tonight? She definitely caught some attention.
All it would take was a little boldness—approach the right table, flash a flirty smile, maybe tease a bit—and she could easily reel someone in.
Right as she was thinking that, her gaze landed on a particular group sitting together—five people, all clustered around a table like they owned the place.
But two of them stood out to her immediately: a striking red-haired woman, and a young man sitting beside her.
The redhead caught her eye because, well, Emma had always had a thing for the color red—something about it just spoke to her. It was bold, passionate, wild.
But the guy? He wasn't anything special at first glance—until she saw that watch on his wrist. Her brain clicked instantly.
She had just seen that exact model earlier in a YouTube video titled something ridiculous like 'How to Spot a Rich Guy Before You Waste Your Time at the Bar.' And now here it was, gleaming on the wrist of a guy who might just be her golden ticket tonight.
...
Lynda's POV (The Overtinker)
I swear, I almost choked on my drink when she walked through the door.
Blonde. Radiant. Oozing confidence like it was perfume.
She was dressed like she'd just stepped off the pages of a high-end fashion magazine—except there was this smirk tugging at her lips, the kind that said she knew exactly the kind of attention she was pulling and was absolutely reveling in it.
For a brief second, I genuinely questioned my own orientation. I mean, I know what team I bat for, but damn—she made me hesitate.
That's how good she looked. And then, just to add fuel to the fire, her gaze swept across and landed on our table. She paused for a second—just long enough to stir up a whole mess of confusion—then her eyes locked onto Tracy.
And then, weirdly enough, she seemed to realize something, like she'd made a mistake by looking too long.
Instantly, she shifted her attention to Samuel, pretending to glance at his watch like she was suddenly interested in what kind of luxury accessories he was wearing. Subtle, if you weren't paying attention—but I was.
I turned to Tracy and raised a brow, silently asking, Are you seeing this?
And oh yeah, she was. Tracy looked like she'd been hit by lightning. Full-body zap.
Her face was turning pink fast, her eyes were wide like saucers, and from where I was sitting, I could see her hands twitching underneath the table like she was fighting the urge to do something—reach out, run away, I couldn't tell.
I glanced over at Samuel. The guy had that familiar look of confusion—half startled, half flattered. And when he caught me staring, he gave me a subtle nod, like you saw that too, right?
Now, Sam's no rookie. He's been around the block more than a few times and has seen his fair share of gold diggers and attention-seekers.
Normally, he'd clock someone like that in a heartbeat. But even he looked thrown off.
Because here's the thing—gold diggers don't look at their 'target' like that.
And that's when it hit me. Like, full-force realization: this woman, this walking runway model with the movie-star face and the killer strut—she's not into Samuel.
She's into Tracy. I'm talking 90% sure she's a lesbian—or at least very, very curious—and probably hasn't figured out what to do with that just yet.
She was looking at Tracy like she wanted to devour her, but then masked it with a well-rehearsed act of feigned interest in Samuel.
If I was right—and I usually am—then the next move would be simple. She'd walk over, start talking to Samuel to keep up the illusion, but somewhere in the conversation, she'd throw out little compliments toward Tracy.
Not obvious ones. No, they'd be disguised as casual, off-hand remarks. Testing the waters. Seeing if Tracy would bite.
And—surprise, surprise—right on cue, the blonde made her move. She walked toward us like she owned the entire damn room, each click of her heels on the polished floor perfectly timed, like a countdown to chaos.
Her eyes found Samuel first, all polite smiles and friendly energy, but just a second later—almost as if she couldn't help it—her gaze flickered toward Tracy's unmistakable red hair.
Just like I predicted. Hey, being too intelligent to the point of predicting the future, I'm just that good.
...
Emma's POV
Everything had been going smoothly—until, of course, it wasn't.
The guy with the expensive-looking watch—let's call him 'Watch Guy' for simplicity—had been staring at me with that unmistakable, dazed expression men get when they're already halfway through crafting some elaborate fantasy where they're the hero and I'm the prize at the end of their story. Classic. Predictable. Useful.
But then—his eyes shifted.
They flicked toward the brunette sitting beside him. Sharp eyes. Sharper smirk. The kind of woman you take one look at and just know she's been through some things.
There's only one word to describe her, Wise.
Unbothered. She had the kind of presence that made you second-guess your whole approach.
My stomach sank a little.
'Wait… is she his girlfriend?'
Because if she was, then this was about to spiral into awkward territory fast. I wasn't trying to be that person, you know? The homewrecker type.
I wasn't here looking for drama—I was just a woman down on her luck, chasing the possibility of a roof over her head and maybe a hot shower.
But by the time that thought hit me, it was already too late.
I was at their table, standing right in front of them.
The guy blinked, snapping out of his little fantasy, which honestly just confirmed my earlier read on him. Not that I minded—at least my charm hadn't completely failed me.
Also when I arrived at their table, I couldn't help but look towards that red haired woman again.
Her hair was even more beautiful and eye catching and beautiful from near, but what surprised me is why does she seem nervous and didn't dare to look at me, it can't be that I'm so beautiful that I have bended her?
"Can we help you with something?"
The guy's voice caught me off guard. It was smooth—too smooth, mark my words, if he was a singer, then this man would be a celebrity someday.
I forced my own smile, tilting my head just enough to seem harmless. "Actually, yes. Can I sit here?"
Honestly, I had no idea how bars worked in this part of town. I was a total rookie. But I figured if I faked the confidence hard enough, no one would notice. Just play it cool. Act like I do this all the time.
"Yes of course if it doesn't bother you, come there's a place her." The wise woman replied gesturing casually, I was very surprised.
And I just… stared for a moment.
She welcomed me? Wasn't she supposed to be giving me the death glare? Wasn't this the part where she got all territorial and passive-aggressive? Or was I just letting all those romance novels mess with my head again?
Maybe real life wasn't so black and white, but then, isn't it the reason I was expelled from the dormitory in the first place?
Or was I wrong from the very beginning and that she wasn't 'watch' guy's girlfriend but that they are just in a normal friendship relationship?
In an attempt to figure out whether she was just being friendly out of politeness or actually being genuine, I decided to test the waters a little.
With a small smile, I extended my hand toward her and introduced myself in the most pleasant tone I could muster. "Hey, I'm Emma. Really nice to meet you all."
Smooth, right? Totally flawless introduction. A+ social skills.
The elegant wise woman—who definitely had this confident, older-woman-who-knows-stuff vibe—reached out and shook my hand.
Her grip was firm but warm. "I'm Lynda," she said, her voice as composed as her outfit. "And these are my friends—Samuel, Jackson, Adriano, and the birthday girl, Tracy."
Then she added with a playful grin, "We're out tonight celebrating Tracy's official step into adulthood. So, welcome to the party."
She'd called them her friends, which immediately made my brain go on a side quest.
That means she and the guy with the fancy watch—Samuel, was it?—weren't a couple. Probably. Maybe. I mean, even if they were secretly pining for each other, they clearly hadn't made anything official. Right?
The vibe among the group was warm and easy—everyone seemed relaxed, laughing, occasionally teasing each other with a kind of familiarity that only came from knowing someone for a while.
There was a real sense of harmony in the air, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting a little. No one had ever really thrown me a celebration like that.
When I turned 21, the closest thing to a party was my mom's heartfelt phone call and treating myself a good big good drink.
Still, I didn't let it show. Instead, I turned to Tracy—the clear center of attention—and offered a polite smile. "Well then, welcome to the chaotic world of adulthood, Miss Tracy."
She didn't say anything right away. In fact, she barely glanced in my direction.
Her gaze flicked away the second it met mine, and her cheeks had the faintest pink tint. That shy energy? Confirmed. Definitely the introvert of the group.
I couldn't help the small laugh that bubbled up. Something about her awkward charm activated my inner troublemaker. Just a little. "Also," I said, turning slightly toward her, "you have such beautiful red hair. Is it natural?"
And just like that, the temperature in the room dropped a degree.
I wasn't imagining it. The moment those words left my mouth, a weird chill danced up my spine, like someone had cracked a window behind me.
I glanced around instinctively—and that's when I noticed Lynda watching me with this... look. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes? They said something like 'I see what you're doing.'
Which left me... genuinely confused. I mean, seriously? It was just one woman complimenting another woman's hair. Since when did that warrant the red flag glare? Was the world working under different rules now?
While I was still mentally sorting through that social puzzle, Lynda suddenly turned the attention back to me.
"So, Emma," she began, tilting her head slightly, "what brings you here tonight?"
There was a pause—one that almost made it seem like she realized how that could sound.
"I mean, it's not every day we see a beauty like you casually show up at a bar. Are you, like, a celebrity or something?"
I let out a breathy laugh, already prepared for that one. I'd practiced the answer in my head a dozen times before walking through the door.
"I'll take that as a compliment, thank you," I said, grinning. "But nah, I'm not famous. Just your average struggling art student—lacking inspiration, getting bullied by life a little too hard, and figured... why not come out for a drink and maybe reset the vibes a bit?"
I mean, it wasn't exactly a lie—I did come here mainly to unwind, maybe flirt a little, hopefully catch the attention of some guy generous enough to offer me a place to crash for the night.
Just something temporary while I start seriously figuring out where the hell I'm actually going to live long-term. Priorities, right?
Still, something shifted when I mentioned being an art student.
I caught the way their expressions subtly changed, the way a few of them lit up like they'd just recognized a long-lost cousin or something.
That look of instant kinship was kind of hard to miss, which naturally made me curious. So I tilted my head and asked, half-smiling, "What about you guys? You seem like a group of students too—am I right?"
This time, one of the other guys chimed in—the one Lynda had introduced earlier as Jackson.
He was Black, but not the athletic, gym-obsessed type you might first picture.
Instead, he had this thoughtful, almost scholarly vibe to him. He answered with a calm sort of pride in his voice, "We're conservatory students. Noble Academy of Music."
Ah. That explained a lot.
I could see it then—the pride in his eyes, that sense of identity they all carried. And suddenly their earlier reaction to me made perfect sense.
When I'd said I was an art student, they'd probably seen me as someone who ngets it.' You know, the whole starving-for-your-craft, obsessing-over-details, chasing-beauty-in-chaos kind of thing.
Classical music and fine arts do share a pretty intimate connection, after all. Different mediums, maybe, but same tortured souls underneath.
The Noble Academy of Music—just hearing the name feels like it's wrapped in silk and gold leaf. It's not just some fancy private school.
It's the elite institution where only the crème de la crème of musical prodigies from all over the world are admitted. Every single student there? Certified genius. No exaggeration.
Which… honestly made me feel a little out of place. I mean, sure, I'm technically an art student, but my tastes lean toward the dark and weird.
I'm into the kind of stuff that would make even the most hardcore rock fans beg for silence. Not exactly Mozart's crowd, you know? But of course, I wasn't about to let that little detail show. Not tonight.
So I did what any socially savvy girl would do: I played into it. Let them feel a little more impressive.
I widened my eyes, gave a soft little laugh, and said, "Wow, I wasn't expecting to meet students from the Noble Academy of Music here of all places. That's honestly kind of amazing."
Then, with just the right amount of self-deprecating charm, I added, "Actually, I was one of the poor souls who tried to pass the entrance exam once. But, well… apparently, I was just too innovative. They didn't quite know what to do with me."
Which, if I'm being honest, wasn't completely false. But yeah… only partially true.
...
Lynda's POV
Sometimes, I genuinely scare myself with how sharp I am. I mean, seriously—everything was unfolding exactly the way I predicted it would, down to the tiniest detail. It's kind of terrifying.
Emma—that's the name she gave us when she walked over—was like a scene straight out of a movie.
She made a beeline for our group, struck up a conversation with Samuel like it was the most natural thing in the world, and then, as if by accident, turned her attention to Tracy with a perfectly timed compliment. But I knew better. That little detour was no accident.
When Emma told Tracy her hair looked beautiful, I caught a glimpse of something real in her eyes—something soft, honest, a little nervous even.
It was completely different from the over-the-top interest she showed in Samuel, which felt... well, let's just say it was exaggerated to the point of parody.
If I hadn't been paying attention, I might've missed the difference. But the wise me was watching closely. Very closely.
And then there was Tracy. Sweet, shy Tracy. The way she reacted to Emma's compliment? The way her cheeks flushed just a little and her eyes lit up?
Yeah. She was definitely interested. I've known her long enough to recognize the signs.
As her best friend, there's only one thing I can do now—support her however I can and maybe even give her a little nudge in the right direction. These things don't fall into your lap every day.
When Emma mentioned she had once tried to get into the Noble Academy of Music but got rejected for being too innovative, my opinion of her skyrocketed.
Like, instant respect. That kind of boldness? That kind of creativity? Yes, please. Honestly, I think Tracy felt the same. It's rare to meet someone who owns their uniqueness like that.
I swear, it felt like the universe—or maybe even God themselves—was working overtime to give Tracy a soulmate today.
Like, what are the chances? Tracy likes women. Emma is a woman who, at first glance, clearly likes women too—otherwise, why all this theatrical interest in Samuel as a distraction? Emma approached us directly, and her attention landed right where it needed to: on Tracy.
And here's the kicker—Tracy once confessed to me, in one of her rare vulnerable moments, that she's into bold, confident women.
She said she admires people who walk into a room and own it without hesitation. And now, boom, here comes Emma, practically radiating charisma and confidence.
Plus, there's this weirdly perfect overlap in their lives. Tracy's family forced her into classical music, but deep down, she's this wildly creative soul.
She writes electronic music in secret and posts it online under an alias because she's afraid of how people might react.
Meanwhile, Emma is someone who got rejected by the academy for being too creative, too different. Tell me that's not fate doing her thing.
I couldn't help myself—I jumped in.
"So Emma,"I asked with my brightest, most curious smile, "what exactly are you studying? Just so you know, I happen to be one of the best pianists in the academy. I nearly won the Noble Academy Music Award last year for best composition. No big deal."
At the same time, I causally glanced at the poor Samuel. He looked completely blindsided by everything that was happening.
I thought he was pretty smart, but I guess I gave him too much credit. He didn't pick up on any of the signals flying around the table.
Or maybe he did, and he just didn't want to admit them because he was already falling under Emma's spell. Either way, he was totally missing the point.
The real story tonight wasn't him. It was Tracy and Emma.
And I was here for it.
...
The atmosphere in the small group instantly brightened with Emma's arrival.
She slipped into their dynamic effortlessly, as if she had always been part of their circle. The conversation, which had been flowing steadily before, now flowed with even more energy, laughter rising and falling like waves.
There's an old saying that goes something like, "Only in times of crisis do you discover what you're truly made of." Well, the same could be said for Emma—except her "crisis" was social, not life-threatening.
She had always considered herself something of a genius when it came to fitting in, that the only reason she didn't have her small group of friends was because she didn't want.
Confidence was her strong suit, and she prided herself on being able to charm her way into any group, no matter how tight-knit.
But even she was surprised by how 'easily' she clicked with them. It wasn't just surface-level small talk—within minutes, she was laughing at their inside jokes, adding her own commentary, and feeling like she belonged.
As the night went on, she learned more about them. Turns out, all five of them were prodigies in their own right.
The red-haired woman, Tracy, was especially impressive—an internationally recognized genius in her field. Emma couldn't help but be intrigued.
What really caught her off guard, though, was how quickly Tracy warmed up to her.
At first, Tracy had been a little reserved, observing Emma with quiet curiosity. But as the drinks flowed and the conversation deepened, Tracy began opening up, sharing her thoughts, her dreams, even her frustrations.
They discovered they had more in common than Emma ever expected.
At some point, Emma completely forgot her original goal—to seduce some guy and secure a place to crash for the night. Instead, she found herself genuinely enjoying the company, especially Tracy's.
"Hey, I didn't expect you to be into similar situations to mine !" Emma blurted out, her words slightly slurred from one too many drinks. "I've always wanted to be a big-name writer—you know, see my ideas turned into comics, anime, maybe even movies."
"But here I am, studying art instead. Not that I regret it, though. The way my mom smiled when I got accepted… that's something I'll never forget."
Maybe it was the alcohol loosening her tongue, or maybe she'd just been carrying too much weight on her shoulders lately, but Emma found herself venting more than she intended.
She didn't even notice the silent battle raging beneath the table among the other five.
Lynda, in particular, was subtly kicking the others under the table, shooting them meaningful glances. 'This was their cue.'
They had planned this beforehand—invite a few women out, spend a little money if necessary, and then do their best to set Tracy up with one of them.
Once the chemistry was there, they'd make up some excuse to leave, giving Tracy the perfect opportunity to seal the deal.
But the reality? They barely had to lift a finger. Tracy had already found her perfect match—a slightly drunk, emotionally vulnerable woman who clearly needed some comfort. All they had to do now was make themselves scarce.
'Tracy's got this,' Lynda thought, smirking. 'Right?'
But the problem was Samuel.
'Man, this guy just doesn't know when to quit.'
He was completely, utterly mesmerized by Emma—her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about writing, even the way she absentmindedly twirled her drink between her fingers.
And because of that, he was 'refusing' to stick to the plan.
And that? That was a 'big' problem.
Lynda's foot connected with his shin under the table—hard.
"Ow! What the hell—?" Samuel jerked in his seat, shooting her a glare that could melt steel.
Lynda didn't even flinch. Instead, she flicked her eyes toward Tracy, then back to him, her expression screaming, 'Back. Off.'
Samuel clenched his jaw. He knew the plan.
Hell, this wasn't even his first rodeo—he and his friends had pulled this exact move countless times before.
Find a girl, get her comfortable, then subtly steer her toward whichever one of them was too shy to make the first move.
Once the chemistry was there, the rest would magically "remember" urgent errands and vanish into the night, leaving the lucky guy to work his magic.
But this time? Samuel didn't 'want' to follow the script.
He cleared his throat, forcing a grin as he leaned forward. "So, uh—Emma, you mentioned wanting to be a writer earlier, right?" His voice was a little too eager. "What kind of stories do you usually go for?"
Emma blinked, turning toward him with a slow, tipsy smile. "Oh! I love anything with dark humor, you know? The kind where you wouldn't dare to read with water in your mouth because—"
"We were just talking about that, actually," Lynda smoothly cut in, shifting her body just enough to block Samuel's line of sight.
Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. "Emma's got a brilliant mind for storytelling. I was just telling her she should swing by Tracy's place sometime—our little genius here has this insane collection of rare books. First editions, signed copies, the whole deal. Right, Tracy?"
Tracy, who had been quietly nursing her drink, perked up at that. "Oh—yeah. Yeah, I do. If you're into that kind of thing."
Lynda didn't give Samuel a chance to jump back in. Instead, she turned to him with a smile so sweet it could've given him cavities.
"By the way, Samuel," she said, tilting her head. "Didn't you say you had, like, an *insanely* early morning tomorrow? Something about… what was it again?"
The unspoken command hung in the air: Get. Lost.
To make things even worse for Samuel—really rubbing salt into his already wide-open wound—Adriano, the quiet Latino guy who hadn't said much the whole night, suddenly spoke up.
His eyes had been scanning the room like a sniper searching for a target, but now they finally settled long enough to drop a bomb.
"Yeah… Aren't Alina and Rebecca coming tomorrow? How are you gonna receive them if you're all worn out from tonight?" he said casually, like he hadn't just lit a match and tossed it into a puddle of gasoline.
The moment those words left Adriano's mouth, Samuel, who had been gearing up to say something—maybe to keep flirting, maybe to make excuses—choked on his own breath. Just froze. They didn't even need to guess why.
Alina was his current girlfriend. The one his mom had pretty much handpicked and slapped onto him like a fancy accessory. And Rebecca? Rebecca was the girl he was actively trying to win over, the one he was low-key obsessed with.
In fact, Emma had been right about him all along. Samuel, rich second-generation playboy, the kind who dabbled in fasting and meditation because he liked the aesthetic of ndiscipline.' Usually, he was the picture of cool—calm, composed, untouchable.
But tonight? He'd clearly had a few drinks too many, and Emma's flirting—bold, unfiltered, and borderline reckless—had shaken his usual balance. For a moment, he had genuinely started to act like a fool in love.
But then Adriano dropped the names—Alina—and just like that, the spell broke.
Reality came crashing down on Samuel like a cold bucket of ice water. The name alone was enough to sober him up completely. That girlfriend of his, the one arranged by his mother, wasn't someone he could afford to mess around behind.
If she ever got the slightest hint of tonight's antics and decided to rat him out? The fallout at home would be nuclear. And what would follow… yeah, definitely not kid-friendly.
Before the still-tipsy Emma could even register what was happening, Samuel made a clean escape—thanks to a little push from Lynda's sugary-sweet warning and Adriano's smug, knowing grin. Her 'target' had slipped right out of her grasp.
And he wasn't the only one. Adriano, who seemed to have locked eyes with his own 'mission' for the evening, turned on his heel and walked off toward a woman across the room. Just like that, he was gone too.
Just like that, Lynda clapped her hands and turned to Samuel with fake excitement. "Hey, since everyone's leaving, let's go finish our match. I'm totally beating you tonight."
Samuel who should be the calm and composed, turned into the one no to back down from a challenge. "In your dreams. I never lose, no matter how tough the game is."
And so, the two of them vanished, full of competitive energy, leaving Emma and Tracy behind like forgotten props on an empty stage.
Emma stood there, swaying ever so slightly, her buzzed brain still catching up to what had just unfolded.
One second, she'd had Samuel completely under her thumb—she could've sworn she was in control. The next, he was gone. And not just him, but everyone had dispersed like it was the end of a scene in a movie.
She blinked, confused and slightly hurt. Was tonight cursed or something? Had she walked under a ladder earlier without realizing it? Maybe her luck really was that bad. It felt like even the universe had decided to ghost her tonight.
She looked a little lost, a little defeated.
And to Tracy—who had been quietly watching this whole chaotic little drama unfold—Emma looked heartbreakingly pitiful.
Of course, Tracy had no idea about Emma's real reason for being sad. She assumed Emma's sad expression was the result of stress, pressure, and way too many drinks. She figured maybe Emma was just having a bit of a breakdown.
And then came the question that quietly echoed in Tracy's head:
Didn't people say alcohol was supposed to drown your problems? So why did it seem like Emma's problems were swimming just fine?
....
Don't forget to vote