Mikaela’s POV

I stumble out of the Valemont like someone fleeing a crime scene, which—let’s be real—isn’t far off.

My body’s on autopilot while my brain blue-screens, rebooting every five seconds with flashes of last night: Caleb’s hands, my embarrassing noises, the way he looked at me like I was something precious instead of damaged goods.

“Good morning, miss,” the doorman says, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Does he know? Can he tell I’m walking differently? That I’ve been thoroughly deflowered by a man twice my age who happens to be my father’s best friend?

He hails a cab, bless him, and I collapse into the backseat, mumbling my address on autopilot.

The leather feels wrong against my skin—everything feels wrong, too sensitive, like I’ve been turned inside out. I press my thighs together against the ache, physical evidence that last night wasn’t some elaborate fantasy my repressed brain cooked up.

Manhattan blurs past the window—normal people with normal lives who didn’t just auction their virginity to spite Daddy.

A construction worker bites into a bagel. A woman walks three identical Pomeranians.

The universe keeps spinning while I sit here fundamentally altered, wearing yesterday’s clothes and another man’s fingerprints like some fucked-up promise ring.

My phone buzzes. Josie, 11:47 PM: How’s the headache babe? Drink water!

Her concern feels like sandpaper against my raw conscience. I type back: Passed out early. Better now. The lie flows easily—I’m becoming quite the expert. Must be genetic.

Anthony’s name sits in my notifications too, but my stomach lurches at the thought of dealing with my fake fiancé when I can still taste Caleb on my lips. Hard pass.

The driver catches my eye in the rearview mirror, and I shrink into the seat. Can he smell the sex and shame radiating off me? I count blocks until home, desperate for the sanctuary of my shower.

Said shower becomes both refuge and torture chamber. Hot water sluices over skin that feels foreign now—awakened, sensitized, treacherous.

I scrub until I’m pink, but Caleb’s phantom touch persists, an invisible map of everywhere his hands have been. Which is, inconveniently, everywhere.

Every muscle protests, announcing exactly how my virginity was lost. I catch my reflection through the steam: same face, same body, but everything’s different.

The girl who left this bathroom yesterday morning doesn’t exist anymore.

“Get it together,” I hiss at my reflection, yanking on the armor of cashmere and designer jeans. The Wallace Daughter costume still fits, even if the girl wearing it has been replaced by someone she doesn’t recognize.

The dining room tableau is achingly normal: Father behind his Financial Times fortress, Mother dissecting a grapefruit with the precision of a neurosurgeon.

I slide into my chair at 8:59, smile locked in place like it’s been welded there.

“You’re glowing this morning,” Mother observes, and my heart stops mid-beat. Oh god, she knows. They both know. I’m about to be exiled to a convent in Switzerland.

“Must be the extra sleep,” she adds, and I remember how to breathe. Right. Sleep. That thing I didn’t get last night because I was too busy having the orgasm courtesy of Caleb O’Brien.

Father lowers his paper, eyes targeting me over designer reading glasses. “How was Harris?”

The question lands like a sucker punch. How was Harris compared to your business partner who I fucked eight hours ago? Fantastic question, Father.

“Just like any first date,” I manage, voice carefully neutral. “Nothing special.”

My parents’ faces tighten—disappointment masquerading as concern. Before they can dig deeper, I add quickly: “But he messaged.”

Mother perks up like a bloodhound catching scent. “Oh?”

I scroll to Anthony’s text: I was an ass. Let me make it up to you? Preview of Alessandra Wirth’s new exhibit Thursday. Very exclusive. Very us.

“He invited me to an art exhibition Thursday,” I say, reading just enough aloud. “Some European feminist artist—Alessandra Wirth. Very exclusive.”

I pocket my phone before they can demand screenshots. My parents exchange satisfied looks—the merger is back on track. Crisis averted.

“Good,” Father pronounces, returning to his paper. “Second chances show character.”

I swallow my bitter laugh. If second chances show character, what does selling your virginity online show? Asking for a friend.

My phone buzzes again, this time with a lifeline: What are we doing today? Josie, blessed savior from further parental interrogation.

My body screams for rest, for time to process the earthquake of last night. Come for lunch? Too dead for real plans.

Josie arrives with her usual hurricane energy, somehow making my mausoleum of a house feel marginally more alive.

I spend the time before she gets here rehearsing normal facial expressions in my bathroom mirror, like an actress prepping for a role I used to know by heart. Functioning human being: take 47.

The script feels foreign in my mouth, my body still an unfamiliar landscape mapped by someone else’s hands.

Maybe if I pretend hard enough, I can convince myself last night was just another romance novel fantasy instead of the nuclear bomb I voluntarily set off in the middle of my life.

The house staff sets us up with iced teas on the terrace—neutral territory where I can attempt normalcy. But the universe has other plans.

Mother appears with her yoga squad, all Lululemon and enlightenment, cooing over Josie like she’s an exotic bird that flew into their sanctuary.

“You should’ve joined us for breakfast!” Mother chirps, as if Josie regularly brunches with women three decades her senior who discuss colonics as appetizer conversation.

Josie’s bullshit radar pings immediately, but she plays along, smooth as butter: “You know me, Mrs. Wallace. Mikaela kept me up all night gossiping. Needed my beauty sleep.”

The moment the yoga brigade disappears inside, Josie’s mask drops like it’s been spring-loaded. Her eyes narrow, scanning me like a detective at a crime scene.

“Okay,” she says slowly, settling into her chair with predatory grace. “What exactly did I miss in the last twenty-four hours? Because you look like someone who either won the lottery or committed murder, and honestly, I can’t tell which.”

I grip my glass, ice rattling against my trembling fingers. The truth sits heavy on my tongue—I auctioned my virginity, fucked my father’s best friend, and liked it so much I’m terrified—but what comes out is nervous laughter.

Josie leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you fuck Anthony?”

“What? No!”

“Then why do you look like you’ve been thoroughly railed?” She narrows her eyes. “And don’t lie to me. I’ve seen you after spin class and this is not ‘I worked out too hard’ face. This is ‘someone worked me over’ face.”

My cheeks burn hotter than the surface of the sun. I open my mouth to deny it, but nothing comes out.

“Holy shit,” Josie breathes, eyes widening. “You did have sex. But not with Anthony. Who was it?”

The terrace suddenly feels like it’s closing in on me, the pristine white furniture and meticulously trimmed hedges morphing into the witness stand at my own trial.