Chapter 95 The Dissolve
The euphoria didn't fade; it mutated.
At first, the pleasant lightness in my limbs felt like the ultimate freedom, as if the gravity of Brooklyn had finally lost its grip on me and I was floating toward the life I had always dreamed of. But as I followed Scarlett toward the back of the lounge, the edges of the room began to fray and peel away like wet paper. The deep emerald curtains seemed to bleed into the dark wood of the walls, and the golden light from the chandeliers stretched into long, shimmering needles that pierced my vision with every pulse of my heart.
"Just through here, Mila," Scarlett’s voice drifted back to me. It sounded different now—hollowed out and distant, as if she were speaking through a long, metal pipe from the bottom of a well. "The board is eager to see the girl everyone is talking about. This is the moment where everything changes for you."
I tried to nod, to offer a smile of gratitude, but the simple movement sent the world spinning on a tilted, violent axis. My feet felt like they were made of lead, sinking into the marble, yet I couldn't feel the floor beneath them. It was a terrifying paradox: I was heavy enough to drown, but too disconnected from my own body to walk. I reached out a hand, trying to steady myself against one of the dark wood pillars, but my fingers passed through the air, missing the solid surface by several inches. My depth perception was vanishing, replaced by a flat, terrifying landscape of shifting colors.
"Scarlett?" I whispered, but my tongue felt three sizes too large for my mouth, a heavy, numb weight that refused to cooperate. The word came out as a thick, slurred mess of vowels that I barely recognized as my own voice.
The low, rhythmic hum of refined conversation that I had admired moments ago was suddenly gone, replaced by a distorted, mechanical roar that grew louder with every second. It sounded like the ocean trapped inside a turbine, a rhythmic thrumming that made my teeth ache. Every clink of a glass in the distance sounded like a gunshot; every ripple of laughter from the guests was a jagged shard of glass scraping against the inside of my skull.
The mahogany doors at the back of the lounge loomed ahead, growing larger and more imposing until they seemed to swallow the horizon. Scarlett didn't slow down. She kept her hand firmly on my elbow, her grip no longer the supportive touch of a friend, but the directive pressure of a captor. She was steering me, and I was a ship with a broken rudder, drifting helplessly into the dark.
"I... I feel dizzy," I managed to gasp. The floral scent of the lavender drink was suddenly nauseating, a cloying, chemical stench that burned the back of my throat and made my stomach churn. I tried to swallow, but my throat felt parched and constricted.
"It’s just the nerves, darling. The air is always thin at the top," Scarlett replied. She didn't look back at me. Her pace quickened, dragging me along.
We passed through the mahogany doors, but the transition wasn't into a prestigious boardroom. Instead, the air grew colder and damp, smelling of old concrete and stagnant rain. My vision blurred into neon streaks of gray and black, the opulent lounge replaced by a narrow, utilitarian service corridor. We were moving rapidly toward a heavy steel exit that groaned on its hinges as Scarlett pushed it open with a strength that surprised me.
Panic flared in my chest, sharp and cold, but it couldn't penetrate the heavy, drug-induced fog in my brain. I tried to pull away, to scream for Nate or even for Gavin, whom I’d seen across the room, but my muscles refused to obey the frantic commands of my mind. My knees buckled, the strength leaving them all at once. I felt myself slipping, the navy silk of my dress—the dress that was supposed to represent my new life—rustling harshly against the cold, grimy ground of a back room.
Through the haze and the double vision, I saw the space Scarlett had led me into. It was small, dimly lit by a single flickering bulb, and tucked away in a corner of the building where no one would hear a struggle. It wasn't an induction room. It was a stage, meticulously set for a tragedy. There was a camera on a tripod, its lens pointed toward a scarred wooden table. On that table sat a spilled bottle of high-proof grain alcohol and a pile of white powder arranged in neat, damning lines.
"She’s out," a voice said—a man’s voice, rough and unfamiliar, echoing off the cinderblock walls.
I felt a hand reach into my clutch. Scarlett’s face drifted into my line of sight, her golden gown shimmering like a cruel joke in the dim light. She pulled out my phone, her expression one of bored efficiency. Without a word, she walked over to a nearby pitcher of water sitting on a crate and dropped the device inside. I watched, paralyzed, as the screen flickered once and then went dark, sinking to the bottom. My connection to the outside world—to Nate, to Eliza, to the girls—was gone.
"The setup is perfect," Scarlett murmured, her voice finally losing its melodic lilt. It was flat and cold. "Make sure the glass is in her hand and her hair is messed up. By the time the 'anonymous' tip hits the Dean’s inbox and the photos are leaked to the campus blog, Mila Stone won't be a scholar. She'll be the girl who overdosed at an elite gala. The 'Evergreen' won't touch her with a ten-foot pole, and the Salvatores will drop her to save their own reputation."
I tried to lift my hand, to claw at her, but my arm felt like it belonged to someone else, miles away. The neon streaks in my eyes began to fade into a terrifying, velvet black. I was sliding down the wall, my cheek resting against the cold concrete.
"She’s a pretty little thing, isn't she?" a second man replied, his footsteps echoing as he stepped closer to me. "The boss just wanted the photos for the scandal, but he didn't say we couldn't have a little fun with her after the camera's put away."
Scarlett didn't protest. I heard the rustle of her silk gown as she moved toward the door. "Do what you want once the shots are clear. Just make sure she stays in this room until the photographers I hired show up to 'find' her. I have a gala to get back to."
"Don't worry," the first man chuckled, a low, guttural sound that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up despite the numbness. "She’s not going anywhere. We’re going to have ourselves a very long night."
The door clicked shut, the sound of the lock engaging echoing like a final heartbeat. I tried one last time to form a word, to pray, to scream, but the world finally dissolved into a crushing, absolute darkness.