The morning light stings my eyes as I trace the lipstick stain on my collarbone—cherry red, not mine. Last night bleeds in fragments: champagne, William’s hands, whispers against my neck. My phone buzzes. A photo from Lila: her in my favorite robe, captioned, 'Morning, sister. He said I smelled like forever.'

My stomach drops. That’s my scent she’s wearing—the jasmine-and-amber blend only I use. Only I should carry it.

I rush to the mirror. No marks, no proof. Just the lingering warmth of his touch and a sinking dread. When I call William, he laughs. 'You’re being paranoid, Soph. It’s just Lila being sweet.'

Sweet? She never liked him. Never.

Then why does his voice hesitate? Why did he cancel our meeting?

I stand at her door that evening, heart pounding. Behind it, laughter. His laugh. Her giggle. And then—his voice, low and raw: 'I’ve never known anyone who smells so... right.'

I clutch the vial Elias gave me—Truth Serum, grade three. One drop reveals hidden scents. Do I spike her drink and risk everything? Or walk away and lose him forever?