Emily Blair rubbed her eyes, her voice muffled. “What are you talking about?”
Isabella Austin gritted her teeth. “Drop the act, Emily. You’re sober now, aren’t you? Stop pretending—it’s honestly disgusting.”
Emily’s annoyance flared. She raised her voice. “What is wrong with you? I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
Isabella stepped closer, grabbing Emily by the collar. “Emily Blair, you—”
“Isabella.”
Andrew Lane’s voice cut through the tension from behind. Isabella froze, her hand falling stiffly to her side.
Emily, still partly pulled upright, lost her balance as Isabella let go. She tumbled off the chair and landed hard on the floor, letting out a low groan.
A bead of sweat broke out on Isabella’s brow. She hurried over to help Emily up, her tone suddenly gentle. “Easy, Emily, slow down. Don’t hurt yourself.”
Emily rubbed her thigh, shooting Isabella a reproachful look. “What’s your problem? You were just—”
“Emily,” Isabella interrupted quickly, signaling to the bartender for a glass of water. She pressed the glass into Emily’s hands. “You’re not feeling well, right? Here, drink some water, take a minute.”
Still dazed, Emily accepted the glass and, with Isabella’s encouragement, sipped obediently several times.
“What happened to her?” Andrew’s voice sounded closer now as he approached.
Isabella gave a wry, apologetic smile. “I’ve been worried about her all night. It’s not safe for a girl to be drunk and unattended in a bar. As soon as I got out of the restroom, I came looking for her. She was just having a bit of a meltdown, and I was trying to calm her down.”
Andrew made a noncommittal sound, glancing at Emily from beneath lowered lashes.
Emily sat quietly in the corner, clutching her water glass, sipping in tiny, careful mouthfuls. Every now and then, she stole a nervous glance at Andrew, her face an open book of emotions.
Isabella hesitated. “She’s drunk and running around like that. Isn’t it dangerous?”
Andrew didn’t answer. He simply turned and walked away, looking for all the world as if he couldn’t care less about Emily Blair.
Isabella’s heart fluttered; she hurried after him.
As the night wore on, most of their friends in the private lounge had passed out, sprawled across the couches in various states of disarray. Even Alex White, usually the life of the party, was dozing off, his head thrown back and eyes closed.
Andrew, on the other hand, was holding his liquor better than anyone else; his gaze remained sharp, though his lips had taken on a reddish flush.
Only Isabella and Alex’s date, Cynthia, had managed to stay mostly sober, their minds still clear.
Isabella took the glass from Andrew’s hand. “Alright, that’s enough. Any more and you’ll have a headache in the morning.”

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