"You don't sell your friend out because a girl ghosted you. You don't throw them under the bus just to score pity points from someone who barely remembers your name."
Moren twitched.
But Damien wasn't looking at him anymore.
His eyes locked on the girl who'd spoken first—still standing like she was the moral compass of the moment. He held her gaze, then the next one's, then the third.
"And as for you three…"
His lips curved—not in a smile. Something colder. Dry. Like dust.
"That rule doesn't apply to you."
A beat.
"Because your version of friendship," he said, "is showing up with your best lipstick when your friend's boyfriend is in the room."
A flicker. That was all it took. A breath held just a little too long. A shoulder stiffening before the brain could stop it.
"And we all know why."
He let the silence bloom. Let the implications hang there like perfume—sickly sweet, suffocating.
"To me?" He tilted his head slightly. "That's disgusting."
