Stacey told her about the party on Tuesday, three days after Jessie had kissed Steve in his office and let his hand move over her body like she was something to be claimed. "Internal sales holiday mixer," Stacey had said, stirring sugar into her coffee. "Friday night. Department thing. You should come."

Jessie had nodded, thinking about the black silk dress hanging in her closet, the one Steve had given her, the one she'd worn with nothing underneath. "I'll be there."

Now it's Friday, and she stands in front of her mirror in the apartment, the dress a dark shimmer against her pale skin, the hem riding high on her thighs. She's wearing it again—the same dress, the same nothing underneath—and she watches herself in the glass, the girl she used to be staring back with wide blue eyes that don't blink.

Her hand finds her hip, traces the curve of the silk. She looks like someone who knows things now. She looks like someone who's been touched.

Stacey's already dressed, a red fitted dress that hugs her curves, her brown bob freshly curled, her lipstick bright as a warning. She comes up behind Jessie and stops, her reflection catching.

"You're wearing that?"

"Is that a problem?" Jessie's voice is softer than she meant it to be.

Stacey's jaw tightens. "It's an internal sales party, Jess. Not a—" She stops, shakes her head. "You know what? Fine. It's fine. Let's go."

The party is held in a rented event room at a steakhouse off the Strip, all dark wood and dim lighting and a bar that's been open since the first guest arrived. The internal sales team is already well into their third round by the time Jessie and Stacey walk in, the room humming with the loose, loud energy of people who've been drinking on the company card for two hours.

Jessie feels the shift the moment she steps through the door. Heads turn. Conversations falter and resume at a different pitch. She's used to being looked at—she's tall, she's blonde, she's always been the one men's eyes find first in a room—but this is different. She knows what to do with the looking now.

She smiles, slow and warm, and lets her gaze drift across the room like she's choosing.

A man breaks from the cluster near the bar, mid-thirties, sandy hair, an expensive watch catching the light. He's already walking toward her before she's taken three steps inside.

"You must be Stacey's friend," he says, his voice a little too eager. "I'm Derek. I handle the Nevada territory."

"Jessie." She offers her hand, and he takes it, his grip a beat too long, his thumb pressing against her palm. She doesn't pull away. She lets the contact sit, lets him feel the warmth of her skin, the silk of her wrist, and watches his eyes darken.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"I'd like that."

He's at the bar before she can name what she wants, and she lets him bring her a glass of white wine she doesn't touch for the next ten minutes while he talks about quarterly projections and commission structures. She nods, she smiles, she touches his arm when he makes a joke, her fingers light on his sleeve, and she watches him lose the thread of his sentence twice.

It's so easy. It's terrifying how easy it is.

Stacey is across the room, talking to a cluster of women from her department, but Jessie catches her looking. Stacey's eyes are sharp, tracking every touch, every smile, every man who drifts toward Jessie like she's the only source of heat in the room.

Jessie looks away first.

She moves through the party like a current. She meets a man named Tom from logistics, a man named Raj from procurement, a man whose name she forgets the instant he says it but whose hand she holds a beat too long, whose shoulder she brushes when she leans past him to set down her empty wine glass. Each encounter is a small, perfect performance—the right angle of her body, the right pause before she laughs, the right way to look up through her lashes and let her lips part just barely, like she's about to say something she shouldn't.

She learned this from Steve. She learned it from Victor on his boat, from the way Victor's hands had moved on her back, slow and deliberate and full of intention. She learned it from the weight of Steve's palm on her hip, from the dark hunger that had risen in her throat when he kissed her.

She's learning what she can become, and the men at this party are helping her practice.

By ten o'clock, she's had two glasses of wine and a half-dozen men have found excuses to stand too close, to touch her arm, to offer to refill her glass. She's collected three business cards and a phone number written on a cocktail napkin, and she's sitting on a velvet couch near the back of the room, a man on either side of her, both of them laughing too hard at her jokes, both of them leaning in like she's gravity.

Stacey appears in front of her, arms crossed, her red dress tight across her chest, her jaw set.

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

Jessie smiles up at her, sweet and easy. "Of course." She turns to the men, touches one of them on the knee. "Excuse me, gentlemen. Don't go anywhere."

Stacey grabs her wrist and pulls her toward the hallway by the restrooms, her grip tight enough to leave a mark. The door swings shut behind them, muffling the noise of the party, and Stacey rounds on her, her brown eyes blazing.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm being social. You invited me."

"Don't." Stacey's voice is sharp, cutting. "Don't give me that. You're out there working those guys like—" She stops, her hands flying up, her curls bouncing with the force of her frustration. "Like you're running a con. Like they're marks."

Jessie tilts her head, her smile staying in place. "Isn't that what sales is? Making people want what you're selling?"

"That's not what you're selling, Jess." Stacey steps closer, her voice dropping. "You're not selling imaging platforms. You're selling—" She gestures at Jessie's body, at the black silk, at the bare legs, at everything the dress reveals. "This. You're selling this. And they're buying."

"So I'm good at my job."

"Your job is outside sales. Med-tech. You sell to hospital administrators." Stacey's voice cracks. "You're supposed to be in boardrooms, not—" She waves toward the party. "Not sitting on a couch with two guys who are undressing you with their eyes."

Jessie's smile finally falters. "I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Stacey's face is flushed, her lipstick smudged at the corner from where she's been biting her lip. "Because I'm watching you turn into someone I don't recognize, and I don't know how to stop it."

The words hang between them, heavy and raw. Jessie feels something twist in her chest, something that might be shame, but she pushes it down, pushes it deep where she's been storing all the things she doesn't want to feel.

"You don't get to decide who I become," Jessie says, her voice quiet but steady. "I'm figuring that out myself."

She turns and walks back into the party, leaving Stacey in the hallway.

The party has shifted—the alcohol has settled into the kind of looseness that makes people bold. The music is louder, the laughter more frequent. Jessie finds herself standing near the bar, and then she finds herself sitting on the arm of a chair, and then she finds herself in the lap of Stacey's boss.

His name is Mark, and he's the director of internal sales, a man in his late forties with silver at his temples and a wedding ring he keeps turning on his finger. He's been watching her all night, and when she drifts close enough, his hand finds her hip, steadying her as she sits.

"You're Stacey's friend," he says, his voice low, his breath warm with whiskey.

"I am." She settles against him, feels the solid weight of his thighs beneath her, the warmth of his chest at her back. His hand stays on her hip, his fingers pressing just slightly into the curve of her waist.

"She didn't tell me you were so..." He trails off, his eyes dropping to where the silk stretches across her thigh.

"So what?" she asks, her voice soft, her hand finding his on her hip and lacing her fingers through his.

He clears his throat. "So memorable."

She laughs, low and warm, and leans back against him, feeling the quickening of his breath, the way his body tenses beneath her. She's aware of the room watching—the glances, the whispers, Stacey's stare burning a hole in the back of her head—and she doesn't care. She's warm, she's wanted, and for the first time in her life, she's the one in control.

Stacey appears beside them, her face a mask of controlled fury. "Mark, I need to borrow Jessie for a moment."

Mark looks up, a flush creeping up his neck. "Of course, Stacey. She's all yours."

Jessie doesn't move immediately. She turns to Mark, her hand still in his, and leans close, her lips brushing his ear. "I had a lovely time tonight. If you ever want to talk—about work, or anything else—call me." She presses a folded napkin into his palm, her number written on it in the lipstick she borrowed from Stacey's bathroom.

His fingers close around it. "I will."

She rises, smoothing the silk down her thighs, and lets Stacey pull her toward the coat check, toward the door, toward the cold air of the Las Vegas night. The valet brings Stacey's car, a beat-up Honda she's had since college, and they climb into the back of a cab instead, Stacey giving the driver her address in a clipped voice that doesn't invite conversation.

The cab pulls away from the curb, the Strip sliding past the windows in a blur of neon and headlights. Stacey sits rigid against the far door, her arms crossed, her face turned toward the glass.

Silence stretches between them, thick and brittle.

"You gave him your number." Stacey's voice is flat. "My boss. You gave him your number."

"He seemed interested."

"He's married, Jessie."

"I know."

Stacey turns, her face catching the streetlight, her eyes wet. "That doesn't bother you?"

Jessie looks at her hands, at the faint trace of someone else's lipstick on her fingers. "I don't know what bothers me anymore."

The cab hits a pothole, and they both lurch, the seatbelt catching Jessie across the chest. Stacey doesn't look away.

"You kissed Steve."

"Yes."

"You let him touch you."

"Yes."

"And now you're—" Stacey's voice breaks, and she presses the heel of her hand against her mouth, breathing hard. "You're becoming something I don't know how to save."

Jessie feels the words like a physical blow, the air leaving her lungs. She reaches for Stacey's hand, pulls it away from her mouth, and Stacey lets her, her fingers trembling in Jessie's grip.

"I don't want to be saved," Jessie says, her voice barely a whisper.

"Then what do you want?"

Jessie looks at her best friend—her tan skin, her brown eyes wet and furious, her red lipstick smudged, her curls wild from running her hands through them all night. Stacey is the only person who's ever told her the truth, the only person who's ever tried to protect her from herself, and Jessie loves her for it, loves her in a way that has nothing to do with the party or the men or the silk dress or any of it.

She wants Stacey to understand. She wants Stacey to stop looking at her like she's already lost.

She leans across the seat, her hand still holding Stacey's, and kisses her.

Stacey's lips part in shock, and Jessie feels them, feels the warmth, the softness, the faint taste of the wine Stacey drank hours ago. She doesn't deepen it, doesn't push—she just presses her mouth against Stacey's and holds there, a question, a confession, a door she's opening without knowing what's on the other side.

Stacey doesn't pull away. Her hand tightens on Jessie's, her breath catching, and for one long, suspended moment, they are two girls in the back of a cab on the Las Vegas Strip, neither of them the same as they were when the night began.

Jessie pulls back, her heart pounding, her lips tingling. Stacey's eyes are wide, her mouth still parted, her face unreadable in the shifting light of the street.

The cab keeps moving. The city keeps shining. And between them, something has broken open that neither of them knows how to close.