For a moment, it almost looked normal.
Two couples sharing a table at a Christmas party. Drinks, lights, soft music playing somewhere behind us. Nothing about it screamed "disaster waiting to happen." But then again, things never do, until they do.
Tasha was the last person I expected to see that night. Yet there she was, seating across from us, dressed to kill and smiling like she was auditioning for sainthood.
The guy—Devon, as I later learned—looked every inch the man who knew his worth. Confident posture, tailored suit, that quiet kind of ease people mistake for charm. The type who didn't just walk into a room, he assumed it would adjust around him.
Val crossed one leg over the other, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes. I could already tell this wouldn't end quietly.
Tasha started it simple, but the kind of simple that's meant to make a point.
