I had spent the entire week telling myself I wasn’t going to Adrian’s stupid victory party. I had sworn to Isabella and Chloe that I would rather eat my own designer bag than let those sweaty hockey idiots think they could touch me.

But by Saturday evening, my pride — and that annoying, traitorous ache between my legs had other plans.

I was in my massive walk-in closet, surrounded by racks of clothes

“You’re actually going, aren’t you?” Isabella said, flopping onto my velvet chaise lounge.

Chloe was already raiding my makeup collection.

“Of course she is. Sophia Laurent doesn’t back down from a challenge. Especially not from a bunch...