Chapter 4 - The House Rules
By late October, the leaves had turned a bruised shade of crimson and gold, fluttering down onto the damp sidewalks of Columbus. Ethan and I were hosting a couples-and-singles mixer at Tyler’s spacious loft downtown.
Tyler was an easygoing graphic designer who loved throwing parties, but he had one strict rule for this particular event: Bring a partner or come ready to mingle. No uninvited plus-ones.
I had personally designed and sent out the digital invitations. The rule was printed in bold, italicized lettering at the bottom of every single graphic: Strictly No Uninvited Plus-Ones.
At 8:30 PM, the loft was packed with thirty people milling around the kitchen island and the sprawling leather sectional. The bass from the speakers thrummed through the floorboards. I was wearing a fitted black wrap dress that made me feel grounded, sharp, and entirely unassailable.
Ethan was standing near the kitchen counter talking to Marcus about a recent software update when the heavy oak front door swung open.
It was Brianna.
She was overdressed, wearing a metallic silver mini-dress that looked like it belonged in a nightclub rather than a casual loft mixer. Her hair was blown out to voluminous perfection, and her eyes immediately scanned the room like a radar system locking onto a target.
They landed instantly on Ethan.
She didn't look at Tyler, who was standing right by the door greeting guests. She didn't look at me. She marched straight across the hardwood floor with that familiar, predatory swagger, her eyes fixed entirely on the space occupied by my boyfriend.
For a full year, I knew the exact choreography of what was supposed to happen next.
She would walk up to Ethan, slide between us, wrap her arm around his waist, and say something loudly about how she "just had to come because she was in the neighborhood," and Ethan would awkwardly step aside, giving her the middle cushion on the sofa while I retreated into silence.
Except this time, the choreography broke.
As Brianna approached the couch and moved to slide her body directly into the empty space between Ethan and me, Ethan didn't move.
In fact, his arm—which had been resting casually along the back of the sofa—dropped lower, wrapping firmly around my waist and pulling me an inch closer to him.
Brianna stopped dead in her tracks. Her left foot hovered over the carpet, suspended in mid-air like a glitching video game character.
She blinked once, twice, her professional smile stretching so wide it looked painful.
"Oh," she laughed, a brittle, high-pitched sound that didn't reach her eyes. "Guess I'll grab a drink then. I'll make Ethan's usual."
She pivoted on her stiletto heel and headed toward the kitchen island, where Owen was currently pouring himself a sparkling water.
"I’ve got drinks covered," Owen said smoothly, stepping directly in front of the liquor bottles before Brianna could touch the gin. "Can I get you a tap water, Brianna? You look a little flushed."
Brianna’s smile tightened until her jaw muscles strained visibly. "I'm fine, Owen. Some of us actually know how to pace ourselves."
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Owen raised an eyebrow, took a slow sip of his water, and walked away without another word.
Across the room, I watched the entire interaction unfold. For the first time, I saw the cracks in Brianna’s armor. She was losing control of her environment, and panic was beginning to seep through the polished veneer of her manufactured charm.
