Chapter 6 - The Pink Splash
Paige didn't slap me. She didn't shout.
She took a half-step back, let out a loud, theatrical shriek of fake laughter that caught the attention of the guests through the glass terrace doors, and yelled:
“Oops! A toast to the happy couple!”
With a violent, snapping flick of her wrists, she hurled the entire heavy crystal goblet of shimmering pink liquid directly into my face.
Through the glass doors, twenty people turned and gasped, assuming it was a petty, dramatic champagne splash—the kind of trashy socialite spat that made for good gossip over Sunday brunch.
For half a second, the liquid felt cold. It smelled faintly of artificial strawberries, masking a sharp, chemical undertone that tickled the back of my sinuses like bleach.
Then, the cold vanished.
What replaced it was an agony beyond human language.
It didn't burn like hot water. It didn't sting like alcohol. It felt as if a blowtorch had been placed against the skin of my forehead, my cheeks, and my throat, instantly liquefying the flesh.
A high, whistling scream tore out of my lungs—a sound I didn't recognize as my own.
I fell to my knees on the freezing flagstones, my hands flying to my face, but the moment my bare fingers touched the liquid on my cheeks, the tips of my fingers erupted in blistering, white-hot fire.
Acrid, foul-smelling white steam began to hiss off my skin.
“NORA!”
Liam’s roar shook the very glass of the terrace.
He didn't hesitate. He launched himself across the stone, his fist driving into Connor’s jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. Connor’s head snapped back, his body crashing through a display table of crystal glassware, sending thousands of dollars of glass shattering across the patio.
Paige stood frozen, her eyes wide, staring down at me not with petty amusement, but with a horrifying, manic triumph.
“Liam!” I choked out, but the chemical was already attacking my throat, my vision blurring into a milky, agonizing red haze. “Liam, it’s burning! It’s burning through!”
The silk of my emerald dress began to dissolve where the pink droplets had splashed onto my collarbones, the fabric melting into sticky, blackened threads against my blistering flesh.
The terrace doors violently slid open as guests spilled outside, drawn by the sound of shattering glass, only to freeze in sheer horror. Women began to shriek. Men backed away in terror.
Liam was on his knees beside me, his hands frantically stripping off his tuxedo jacket. He plunged the heavy wool directly into the ice-cold fountain water and slammed the dripping fabric against my face, trying desperately to douse the flames that had no fire.
The agony was absolute. It felt as though millions of microscopic needles coated in acid were burrowing through my epidermis, chewing through muscle, eating toward the bone.
“Call 911!” Liam screamed at the paralyzed crowd, his voice breaking with raw, primal panic. “CALL AN AMBULANCE! IT’S NOT WINE! IT’S A CHEMICAL! CALL FOR HELP!”
Through my one functioning eye, before the swelling completely sealed my vision in darkness, I looked up.
Paige was backing away toward the shadows of the garden wall, her expensive lace dress untouched, her face a pale mask. As our eyes locked for the final fraction of a second, she didn't look remorseful.
She touched her lips, smiled faintly, and mouthed two silent words:
*Happy birthday.*
May you like
Then, the world folded into darkness, and the scream trapped in my throat died beneath a wave of black, suffocating shock.
***
