“That was almost immediately after…” I exhale. “That incident.”
She narrows her eyes. “Remind me which incident? There seems to be many.”
“Greyson had her blow me,” Steele says from behind her.
She whirls around, then makes a face at me.
“It was hot,” Steele says.
I glare at him until he raises his hands in surrender. “And never to be repeated,” he hastily adds. “I’ll leave you girls to it…”
He disappears around the corner, and Willow gapes at me. She switches seats and plops down next to me.
“You could’ve told me Greyson had gone off the deep end.”
“That was just the start,” I whisper. “But I think I’m just as fucked up, because I enjoy what he comes up with.”
She laughs. “Okay, fair enough. Match made in Heaven.”
“Or Hell.”
“Did he tell someone? Or Steele maybe? It could’ve been a tipping point.”
I don’t know. But now that I think about it, anyone could’ve seen me go into the locker room. They would’ve seen Steele leave, then Greyson. Then me, much less put together than when I went in.
Thinking back, I doubt I even looked around. I just got out of there as fast as I could.
“The photo they used was taken from my room,” I point out.
She frowns.
“What’re you guys doing?” Greyson enters the room, dropping his gym bag on the floor by the doorway. He flops on the couch on my other side.
“Creating a theory,” Willow says carefully.
“Don’t let me stop you.” He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.
The move is unexpectedly sweet, and butterflies flutter in my chest.
Willow sniggers when he keeps my hand. “Okay, so. Someone’s been following Violet’s ballet career. Enter: Greyson Devereux and the car crash.” She side-eyes him. “Violet is taken to the hospital, presumably, and Greyson goes on his merry way—”
“Until he’s arrested,” Greyson grumbles.
“Until he’s arrested,” Willow agrees. “Let’s say whoever was following her career was already interested in her personal life. Maybe Violet posts something on social media about being in the hospital, or an accident.Something.”
“I did,” I pipe up.
Greyson makes a noise of contention. “Did you delete it? I don’t remember seeing it on your Instagram.”
My face heats. “Actually, yeah. It was pretty negative. I think I was still coming down off the anesthesia when I posted… I was really upset.”
I grab my phone and scroll through my archive of private posts. I find it relatively quickly—there are just a few that I’ve been annoyed with and taken off my public feed.
The picture is black and white. It’s clear I took it myself. It’s just of my leg, in a cast and propped up on pillows, in my hospital bed. My other leg is under the blankets.
I wrote:I will probably never dance again. Pray for my leg. And let’s not even talk about the shape my car is in…
Greyson reads it and winces. He passes the phone to Willow, who frowns.