"Who put you on my lap?" Ford laughed, voice loud in the cramped bathroom stall.
"Get off me," Isabella spat, palms flat against his chest as she shoved him back. He stumbled into the mirror. Makeup smeared across his grin.
"Relax, baby. You're mine tonight." He grinned too wide, fingers tracing her jaw.
"Wrong body, wrong night," she said. Her voice felt wrong to her ears—thick, foreign. She scraped at the heavy foundation on her face. It came off in dark strips under her nails.
Ford laughed again. "Cute. You play hard to get."
"Take it somewhere else," she snapped. Hot anger rose quick and clear. She slapped him. Hard.
"Oof!" Ford's laugh cut off. He touched his cheek, eyes wide like a man surprised at a broken mirror.
"Did you just—" a voice from the next stall called, then trailed off into murmurs.
"Watch it," Ford said, voice clipped. He straightened his shirt like he could rearrange the scene.
Isabella pushed past him toward the sink. Her reflection was a stranger. Plastered lashes, red lipstick gone ragged, glitter in the seams of her hair. She scrubbed with paper towels until her hands shook.
"They're saying you're the ex-lover, right?" Ford leaned on the sink. "Grayson Evans' ex? Wild."
"I'm not anyone's property," she said, but she heard the doubt in her voice. A memory drifted—cold water, a crowd, a hospital light—then a cut like a film snapping. Death had
