(Lara POV)
The hangover wasn't physical.
It lived somewhere worse.
In her chest. In the faint throb behind her eyes. In the absurd way her heart sped up every time yesterday replayed itself uninvited.
Saturday morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of her bedroom, casting soft gold over expensive furniture and untouched vanity trays. The room was immaculate, lovingly curated, undeniably Lara Chua.
And she felt completely ridiculous inside it.
She rolled onto her back with a groan, throwing her arm dramatically over her face.
"What is wrong with me," she muttered.
Her voice echoed lightly into silence.
--
(The Moment She Couldn't Forget)
Her mind — traitor that it was — dragged her straight back to last night.
Vince leaning closer.
Vince smiling down at her.
Vince asking if she was okay.
And worst of all…
Her voice, slightly blurred by alcohol and vulnerability:
Do you think I'm pretty?
God, could she just have a hole to hide in?
