[Elle's Condo]
There was no going back.
Not after Elle's phone betrayed her with a mass text that read: "I'm hosting a breakup party. Dress code: hotter than my ex's future."
Luna replied within seconds with six fire emojis and a GIF of a stripper doing the splits.
The betrayal? It was Luna who sent the text.
Elle sat curled on her couch like a retired Victorian widow, clutching her iced coffee like a crucifix. "This is reckless. Irresponsible. Possibly illegal."
"You're not being drafted into war," Luna replied, breezing past her with a Sephora bag in one hand and sin in her eyes. "You're just going to wear sequins and emotionally recover to loud music."
"I don't even know if I remember how to talk to people anymore," Elle groaned, burying her face into a cushion. "What if I forget how to blink mid-conversation? What if I make dolphin noises again?"
"You don't need to talk," Luna said, dropping her bags with the force of a makeover montage incoming. "You just need to exist... and have fun, babe."
Elle whimpered. "This feels like a trap."
"No," Luna said sweetly, grabbing her by the shoulders. "It's a resurrection."
Then, with the grace of a woman possessed by both RuPaul and the ghost of Hot Girl Summers past, she shoved Elle off the couch. "Now, stop sighing like a sad Victorian ghost and go put on one of the dresses I bought you."
Elle glanced at the intimidating pile of glitter, mesh, and bodycon fabric sprawled on her bed.
"These aren't dresses. These are threats."
"Exactly," Luna grinned. "Pick the one that says 'I cry in therapy but I look like a goddess doing it.'"
Elle blinked. "That's… oddly specific."
"So is revenge," Luna said, crossing her arms. "Now pick something before I duct tape you into the red one."
"Not the red one—my navel isn't emotionally ready."
Luna cackled like a villainess in stilettos. "Then pick the black one and summon your inner chaos. We leave in thirty."
Elle sighed.
Again.
Luna leaned against the doorframe. "One more sigh and I'm calling your ex and telling him you miss his weird podcast voice."
Elle gasped. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
And that's how Elle ended up in six-inch heels, smoky eyeliner, and a dress so tight it legally classified as a second skin, stumbling into Club with glitter on her collarbone and doom in her eyes.
***
[Club Caelum]
The neon light kissed her skin like she was born to glow.
Elle stood at the center of Club Caelum, bathed in electric pink and violet hues, her silhouette slicing through the haze like a hot knife through heartbreak. She didn't wear a crown — but make no mistake — she owned the night.
On the LED wall behind the DJ, bold letters pulsed in time with the bass drop:
"Bye, Calen. Hello, Freedom."#BreakupGlowUp#ElleIsBack
Somewhere in the crowd, a random guy slow-clapped. Another tried to hand her his number written on a napkin — which was impressive, considering she hadn't even made it to the bar yet.
Penny showed up in rave goggles so enormous they doubled as alien cosplay. "Do I look unapproachable?" she shouted over the music.
"You look like you hacked into NASA," Ava yelled back. "Incredible."
Lauren, dressed like a villain from a luxury heist movie, clinked glasses with them as she claimed their private booth. "Drinks are on me. And by drinks, I mean everything the bartender threatened to cut me off from last weekend."
The private room was the kind of space that screamed VIP, bad decisions welcome. The music was sinful. The lighting was forgiving. And everyone pretended not to care while secretly evaluating each other's outfits like they were judging a Met Gala-themed Post-Traumatic Ex Disorder.
Elle stepped in — and the beat dropped.Or maybe that was just the sound of her dignity detonating.
That's when Ava burst in with a champagne bottle in each hand and screamed,"CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION TO CEO OF SINGLE LIFE!"
Elle blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Effective immediately," Ava nodded solemnly. "You've been promoted from Chief Girlfriend Officer to Hot Mess in Charge."
"Oh God," Elle muttered.
"Don't 'oh God' me!" Ava said, twirling dramatically. "You dumped the trash, babe! Now it's time to recycle yourself into a goddess."
Elle still looked dazed when Luna swooped in, already tipsy and wearing sunglasses indoors like a hungover celebrity. "This isn't just a breakup party. This is a rebirth. You died as Calen's girlfriend and rose from the ashes as… ELLEVIRA: QUEEN OF PETTY & POWERFUL."
"Ellevira?" Elle echoed weakly.
"Yup," Luna smirked. "Now shut up and sparkle, Your Majesty."
Then Luna raised her glass high like she was summoning a spirit. "LET'S HAVE FUNNNNNNNN!!!"
The rest of the crew joined in like a cult with glitter in their veins.
"Drink! Drink! Drink!" they started chanting like unhinged cheerleaders at a glittery intervention.
Elle hesitated, clutching her phone like it was a safety rope. "Okay. One drink," she said, holding up a manicured finger.
"The gateway lie," Penny smirked. "That's how tequila got me to text my dentist."
"One. Glass," Elle insisted, accepting a swirling neon blue cocktail that looked like a potion from a villain's starter pack.
"This looks illegal," Elle said, sniffing it suspiciously.
"That's how you know it's good," Lauren grinned. "It's called Liquid Closure."
Elle raised the glass like a sacrificial offering. "To freedom. And probable liver damage."
She drank.
It tasted like bubblegum and vengeance. The second glass came with glitter. The third came with a sparkler. By the fourth, Elle had declared herself "emotionally stable but hot," and by the fifth, she was lecturing a fern about self-worth.
Then came the bottle.
Elle didn't even question it. She just opened her arms like she was welcoming an old friend.
Liquid Closure had officially claimed her soul.
She stood up with all the grace of a baby giraffe on stilts and announced in a whisper,"Mission… critical."
"Where are you going?" Luna asked, blinking through her lashes like she was trying to flirt with the ceiling.
Elle blinked back, gulped, leaned in, and whispered, "Piss."
"Huh?" Luna squinted. "Speak up, babe. The music's in my brain now."
"Piss!" Elle hissed, louder.
"What?" Luna leaned closer, her sequins flashing like a disco ball in distress.
"I SAID I'M GONNA PIIIIIIISSSSS!!"
Silence. Absolute, eerie, DJ-even-paused-the-track-for-dramatic-effect silence.
Everyone in the VIP room froze mid-sip like they'd just heard a war horn.
Luna gave a solemn thumbs-up. "Good. Go. Godspeed."
Penny raised her glass like a farewell salute. "May the odds be ever in your bladder's favor."
Elle nodded like a hero going off to war, then dramatically spun on her heel—and almost took out a decorative plant.
She staggered out of the VIP room, wobbling like a drunk potato in heels three inches too brave. Her arms flailed slightly for balance, as if she were in a very interpretive ballet called The Fall of Dignity.
She made it to the middle of the hallway, stopped, turned in a circle, and squinted.
"That way… or this way…" she mumbled, pointing both directions and spinning like a malfunctioning GPS. Her heels wobbled dangerously, like they were trying to file for divorce from her feet. "Okay. Let's do… Ringa Ringa Roses…"
And then — she did it.
Elle, in all her drunken glory, began spinning in the hallway, arms out, softly singing:
"Ringa ringa roses…Pocket full of—of—uh… vodka?Ashes, ashes—"
She twirled like a chaotic ballerina on her last brain cell—
"We all fall—NOPE!"
She caught herself on the wall, nearly face-planting into it, then pointed in the direction she was now facing like it was a divine revelation.
"Destiny has spoken," she whispered dramatically. "We go this way."
And with that, she marched off like a woman on a very important mission, muttering something about "bladder justice" and "the prophecy of the neon signs," completely unaware that fate — and a dangerously hot man — were waiting just around the corner.
After what felt like an eternity (and a suspiciously long chat with a bathroom mirror), Elle finally emerged from the restroom, her heels still doing the cha-cha of rebellion under her feet. A kind waitress pointed her down the hallway with the patience of a woman who'd seen it all.
"Thank you, kind civilian," Elle saluted dramatically, nearly poking herself in the eye.
She shuffled forward like a majestic drunk flamingo, mumbling, "Back to the homeland… friends… cocktails… possibly floor naps…"
She opened the VIP door — or what she thought was the VIP door — and blinked.
"Huh?"
The room was empty. No Penny doing keg stands. No Lauren pole-dancing on the coat rack. No, Luna is threatening to marry a disco ball.
"Where is everyone?" Elle slurred, stepping in like she'd just walked into a plot twist.
And then she saw him.
A man. No. A sculpture was sitting alone on a red velvet couch like sin had just taken human form and decided to vibe for a while. Legs casually spread, one arm draped across the backrest, and a crystal glass of something suspiciously expensive in hand.
Black silk shirt clinging to a sinfully toned body, buttons undone like he'd just rolled out of a Calvin Klein dream. Tousled black hair, piercing blue eyes, and cheekbones sharp enough to murder her self-esteem.
His brows were furrowed, jaw clenched like he was fighting the urge to set the whole world on fire — or maybe just brood sexily about capitalism.
Elle gasped like she'd just seen a spoiler for a show she didn't know she was in.
Then pointed a very offended finger at him.
"You…"
She pointed a wobbly finger at him.
"You…"
He raised a brow.
"Who…" She took a half-step closer, nearly tripping over her own dignity. "Who the hell gave you permission to exist?"
The man blinked. "Pardon?"
And just like that, the room held its breath.