Troublemaker

The first thing I feel is pain.

A slow, throbbing drum against the inside of my skull, pounding hard enough to make my eyelids twitch. My mouth tastes like regret and cheap vodka—though I’m ninety percent sure the vodka wasn’t cheap, because nothing at last night’s party was.

I shift, trying to escape the headache stabbing behind my eyes, and something warm brushes against my thigh.

I freeze.

A breath I don’t remember taking gets stuck somewhere in my throat. I open one eye, then the other, the way someone might peel open a cursed box. Light stabs through the curtains like it has a personal vendetta against me.

And that’s when I see him.

A man.

In the bed.

A very shirtless, very asleep, very unfamiliar man.

“What the hell?” I whisper—because screaming seems like it would make my skull implode.

I jolt upright so fast the room tilts sideways. Horizontal becomes diagonal. The ceiling rotates like it’s on a slow, drunk carousel. I grab the blanket, gripping it like a life raft, and force myself to breathe through the panic blooming in my chest.

Think, Heather. Think.

Except my brain feels like it’s been replaced with wet sand.

I remember the party.

Sort of.

Flashes, really—bright lights, bass vibrating through my ribs, someone handing me a shot I definitely didn’t need, laughter (mine), someone else’s voice saying, “Slow down,” and me absolutely not slowing down.

But after that?

Blank.

A big, terrifying, hangover-flavored void.

I glance down at myself, heart hammering.

Top? On.

Skirt? Also on.

Shoes? Gone—one of them is dangling off the lampshade for reasons I don’t even want to unpack right now.

Okay. Okay. Clothes on. That’s something.

That’s good.

That’s… survivable.

I slowly turn back to the stranger.

He’s face-down, one arm thrown over a pillow, dark hair messed up in a way that looks annoyingly good for someone unconscious. He’s breathing evenly, deeply, like he didn’t just ruin my morning by existing in my bed.

Who is he?

Why is he here?

Why am I here?

And why does he look like a Greek statue someone dragged out of a museum and dropped into my sheets?

My temples throb again.

I groan.

I need water.

I need answers.

I need to never attend another party again… at least until Friday.

Careful not to disturb him, I slide off the bed, wincing as my bare feet hit the cold floor. The room smells faintly of perfume, spilled wine, and something warm and masculine that I refuse to acknowledge.

Because acknowledging it would imply I noticed it.

And I did not.

I absolutely did not.

I rub my temples, squinting at the stranger in my bed.

“This is fine,” I whisper to myself.

“This is… manageable. Totally manageable. People wake up to weird stuff all the time. This is nothing.”

It is not nothing.

And the panic clawing up my spine knows it.

I inhale slowly, steadying myself, and grope blindly along the nightstand for my phone. My fingers brush against a glass, a crumpled receipt, something that feels suspiciously like glitter—and finally the smooth edge of my case.

My screen lights up like it’s personally offended by my existence.

07:12 AM.

God.

I scroll through my contacts, nausea rolling as I squint, and tap Marcy.

It rings once. Twice. I’m already imagining her asleep, drooling on her pillow, living a peaceful life free of strangers in her bed.

She picks up on the third ring.

“Babe,” she groans. “Why are you calling me at dawn? Did you die?”

“I think so,” I whisper.

There’s a pause. “Heather. Why do you sound like you’re hiding from a murderer?”

“Because I might be,” I hiss, lowering my voice and curling farther away from Mystery Man’s very broad shoulders. “I'm in bed with someone."

Silence. Then—“Oh my God.”

“I know.” My whisper turns into a strangled whine. "Who could I have possibly followed to their place?”

“You didn’t follow anyone home,” she says firmly. “You were too busy arguing with the bartender about astrology compatibility.”

“That tracks.” I rub my temple. “But then how—”

“Heather,” she interrupts, “I told you I was leaving early because I had work this morning. Before I left, you were dancing on that velvet couch with a glow stick and yelling about revolution. You did not leave with anybody.”

“Then who the hell is he?” I glance over my shoulder again. Still asleep. Thank every deity in existence.

“Maybe someone tried to help you get home?” she suggests. “You were… not okay, babe.”

“But I ended up in his bed instead. Great. I didn’t—Marcy, did I do anything stupid?”

“Define stupid.”

“Marcy.”

She sighs. “No. No making out, no grinding, no disappearing into dark corners. You were just loud. Very loud. But harmless.”

I sag with relief. “Okay. Okay. Great. Perfect.”

“So where are you?” she asks.

I look around. The room is unfamiliar—dark curtains, minimalist furniture, a framed photo of a city skyline on the wall. Definitely not my place.

“I don’t know. But I'm in his bedroom.”

“Oh my God.”

“Please come get me,” I whisper desperately. “Please. I’m begging. I’ll buy you coffee. I’ll buy you your next date. I’ll buy you your own funeral.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she mutters, but I hear the rustle of her getting out of bed. “I have your location on my phone. I'll try to find you.”

I check the time again. Panic sharpens. “Hurry.”

“I’ll be right there. Just keep your existential crisis quiet.”

“Noted.”

We hang up, and I sit there for a beat, hugging my arms around myself, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

He shifts again.

I jump like a startled cat, clutching my phone to my chest and staring at him. Still asleep. Thank God.

I slip out of the bed as silently as possible, wincing when the floor creaks beneath my bare feet. My clothes are all still on—my tank top slightly crooked, my jean skirt rumpled but intact. Huge relief.

I tiptoe toward the window where a wedge of morning sun is slicing through a gap in the curtains.

After a while, my phone buzzes.

Marcy: Outside. Please don't scream.

My heart leaps.

Freedom.

I cast one last glance at the sleeping stranger—tall, quiet, face turned away, one arm stretched across the pillow—and my breath catches in a strange, inexplicable way.

Nope. No time for that. No time for anything.

I slip out the bedroom door like I’m escaping a haunted house and rush down the hallway.

Moments later, I burst outside into crisp morning air—and Marcy’s tiny blue hatchback screeches to a stop in front of me.

She rolls down the window, eyes wide.

“You look like you survived an apocalypse,” she says.

“I might have,” I reply, climbing in.

Marcy pulls away from the curb, glancing at me like she half-expects me to combust in her passenger seat.

I flop back, exhaling through my teeth, and pull out my phone.

The screen lights up with a graveyard of notifications.

5 missed calls – Mom

3 missed calls – Dad

8 missed calls – Julian

My stomach twists so hard I swear I hear it groan.

Before I can process the family disaster waiting to happen, my phone vibrates again—Mom’s name flashing across the screen like some kind of punishment.

I flip the device onto my thigh, face down, and stare straight ahead.

Marcy’s eyes flick over.

“You’re…not answering?”

“Nope.” My voice cracks on the word, which feels humiliating. “Not today. I can’t handle the disappointed audiobook narration of my life right now.”

She doesn’t say anything, but her concern sits heavy in the air, warm and patient. She taps the steering wheel lightly, deciding not to pry, and I silently thank her for it.

The phone buzzes again. Then again.

I press my hand over it, like I can smother the noise and everything attached to it.

Mom’s voice echoes in my head anyway—measured, tight, and so painfully unimpressed. Dad’s, colder. And Julian…always trying to play mediator, like some well-meaning therapist no one asked for.

I sink lower in the seat.

“I just need a minute to exist before the Ashford Crime Tribunal holds an emergency meeting about my behavior.”

Marcy snorts. “You mean like they do after every party?”

“Exactly,” I mutter. “I can already hear it—‘Heather, we saw the photos online. Heather, why were you wearing that? Heather, why is there a video of you pouring tequila into a plant?’ ”

“Yeah, okay, but honestly…” She pauses. “What was that about?”

“The plant looked thirsty,” I mumbled.

She bursts out laughing, and the tension in my shoulders loosens by a fraction.

Another buzz.

I grip my phone tighter.

“I swear I’m one more notification away from yeeting this thing out the window.”

Marcy raises a brow. “Go for it. I support all forms of self-care.”

I allow myself a tiny smile, even though my chest still feels tight.

“Can you take me to your place?” I ask finally. “I’m not going home.”

She doesn’t need an explanation, but she waits for one anyway, her voice soft.

“Too early to face them?”

“Too early to face paparazzi,” I correct dryly. “My building is probably swarming with them already. They treat me like a zoo exhibit every time I so much as breathe in public. One blurry photo of me existing at a party and suddenly it’s ‘Ashford Heiress On Another Wild Night.’”

The bitterness rises sharp and familiar.

“Literally one night,” I mutter. “I could be quietly reading a book for six months and the moment I step outside, they materialize like demon gnats.”

“You did climb a statue once,” Marcy reminds gently.

“That was an artistic expression,” I say with dignity I absolutely do not possess this morning.

She laughs again, softer this time.

“Yeah, babe. I’ll take you to my place.”

I nod, sinking back into the seat as we glide through early-morning streets. The sunlight is way too bright, like the universe is judging me.

My phone falls silent at last.

It feels like a temporary blessing I don’t deserve.

I close my eyes.

I’m not ready to go home.

Not ready for the voices.

Not ready for the questions.

Not ready for the way everyone expects me to perform—perfect or wild, nothing in between.

Right now, all I want is a couch, a blanket, and the safety of Marcy’s small apartment where the world can’t reach me.

Just a little while.

Just long enough to breathe.

---

Marcy’s building is small and sun-warmed, the kind of place where plants crowd the balcony rails and neighbors actually smile at each other. A stark contrast to the cold glass towers I call home—where every smile feels rehearsed and every window is tinted to hide secrets.

I follow her up the narrow stairway, the railing cool beneath my fingertips. Every step makes my head throb in rhythm—like my headache is auditioning to be a drummer.

Marcy unlocks the door, and the moment it creaks open, a voice drifts from inside.

“Marce? That you?”

Oliver appears in the hallway, hair sticking up in eight different directions, wearing sweatpants and absolutely no shame. He blinks at me, groggy.

“Heather?”

His tone is a blend of concern and oh God, what happened this time—which is fair.

I attempt a smile but it probably looks like pain.

“Morning,” I croak.

“Oh boy.” He steps aside, letting us in. “Okay. I’ll put on coffee. And…uh, get the emergency blanket.”

“I don’t need a blanket,” I mutter.

Marcy pats my shoulder. “Yes, you do.”

The living room is small but comforting—soft colors, mismatched cushions, a pile of books on the floor, the faint scent of vanilla drifting from a candle someone forgot to blow out. It’s lived-in. Safe.

I drop onto the couch like it’s been waiting for me since last night.

Oliver ducks into the kitchen, already rattling around.

Marcy tosses me a pillow. I hug it instantly, burying my face into the soft fabric.

“So,” she says, sitting beside me. “Any more disaster on your phone?”

“I refuse to check.”

I flop sideways, letting my hair spill across the armrest. “My family’s probably planning to exile me as we speak.”

“That dramatic?” Marcy asks.

“I embarrassed them in public again. It’s their favorite recurring trauma.”

She leans back. “Well, until they calm down, you’re staying here.”

Oliver pokes his head out. “Yeah. We’ve already accepted your fate. You live here now. Rent is due on the first.”

I throw a pillow at him with zero strength behind it.

He laughs and returns to the kitchen.

For a moment, the quiet settles over us, gentle and reassuring.

Then the smallest, ugliest truth leaks out of me.

“I don’t want to go home,” I whisper, surprising myself.

Marcy’s hand finds mine, squeezing lightly.

“You don’t have to. Not today.”

I swallow, my throat tight.

It’s easier to breathe here—where no one’s watching for a mistake, waiting for proof I’m not enough.

Oliver returns with a steaming mug and sets it in front of me.

“Drink. It won’t fix your life, but it’ll fix your blood pressure.”

I let out a small laugh—tiny, but real.

Marcy nudges my knee. “Okay. Tell us everything you remember.”

I open my mouth, close it, and groan into the pillow instead.

“Absolutely nothing.”

They exchange a glance.

And I can practically hear tomorrow already rushing toward me—the consequences, the headlines, the phone calls.

But right now, in this cramped apartment with mismatched cushions and the smell of vanilla…

I can pretend I’m not the Ashford Heiress.

Just a girl with a headache, a mystery hangover, and two people who aren’t waiting for me to fail.

Oliver shifts the mug closer to me, “You don’t have to remember everything right now,” he says, low and calm, the kind of voice that doesn’t argue, doesn’t nag. Just… steady. “Focus on resting. That’s enough.”

Marcy leans in, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “He’s right. We’ll be around if you need us, but you don’t have to talk or explain or—” she gestures vaguely, “whatever.”

I manage a tired, lopsided grin. “Thanks. I… I appreciate it.”

They exchange a glance and quietly retreat, leaving me alone in the living room, the faint hum of city noise outside the window filling the space. I lean back into the couch cushions, slowly sipping the coffee Oliver made.

Curiosity—or maybe dread—nudges me toward the TV. I flick it on. The volume’s low at first, but the anchor’s voice quickly becomes undeniable:

“—last night’s party antics… Heather Elin Ashford found at the center of the chaos, spilling drinks, dancing on tables, and leaving guests and staff shocked…”

I grimace, but only just. My eyes drift over the footage: me, hair wild, laughing too loud, gesturing dramatically with a red Solo cup. The clip pauses for slow-motion effect, and my own face stares back at me, amber eyes flashing with mischief I barely remember.

I should feel embarrassed. I should feel mortified. I should probably hide under a blanket until the earth swallows me whole.

Instead… I feel nothing.

Not shock. Not panic. Not even the faintest ripple of guilt.

I hate that there’s no privacy. Hate that my every move can be broadcast, dissected, meme’d, and judged. Hate that someone—anyone—thinks they have the right to call me reckless, spoiled, or attention-seeking because I choose to exist loudly.

But I loved last night.

Loved the way the music thumped through my ribs, loved the chaos, the glitter, the way my laughter bounced off the walls like proof that I exist for myself and no one else. Loved the way I could finally release everything—the frustration, the tension, the constant need to perform for my parents, for Julian, for the world.

The TV keeps playing, footage looping. My family would be furious. They’d probably lecture, maybe even punish me in ways only Ashfords know how. And… honestly? I don’t care.

I set the mug down, crossing one leg over the other.

Yeah, it’s going to be a mess. Yes, the calls will come. The texts, the emails, the polite-but-murderous voicemails. But that’s tomorrow.

For now, for this one glorious, unapologetic morning, I just lean back. Let the caffeine warm my veins. Let the sunlight slide over me. Let the world watch and judge and gossip.

I had fun last night.

And no one—not my parents, not the paparazzi, not the endless scrolling of strangers online—can take that away from me.

I let my head sink into the couch again, eyes closing, as a small, satisfied grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. Chaotic, maybe. Reckless, sure. But alive? Absolutely.

And right now, that’s enough.