Page 10 of My Accidental Valentine

“Nice,” I say, adjusting my grip as we head upstairs.

We walk in silence until we reach her and Peter’s room. The second the door closes behind us, Emilia doesn’t waste a second—she spins around, alert, like me and Adam being under the same roof is the real reason we’re all here today.

For ten minutes straight, I unload everything—every single disaster from today, culminating in the part where I saw Adam naked. The entire time, Emilia stands frozen, her hands covering her mouth and nose as she mumbles, “Oh my God,” on a ten-second loop.

I leave out the part about Adam being hard—I don’t even want to let my mind go there. If I start overthinking it, my imagination will spiral, and dealing with reality when it turns out to be nothing would be unbearable.

“Why didn’t you tell me he’d be here?” I finally ask, desperate to shove the thought out of my head.

“You think I knew?” Emilia snorts, finally lowering her hands. “Peter just told me on the way here.”

“He didn’t say why?” I ask, still bewildered.

“Nope,” Emilia says, shaking her head. “I asked, but he just brushed it off. But I know he’s hiding something. Peter only keeps secrets for Adam, and he’s annoyingly good at it.”

“I hate him for that,” I sigh. “And respect him too, but mostly hate.”

Emilia laughs, then smiles at me with determination. “I swear, by the end of tonight, we’re going to figure out what happened that night.”

I laugh at her over-the-top confidence. “Oh, really?” I raise an eyebrow. “And what’s your genius plan for that?”

Emilia waggles her eyebrows. “Cringy party games. And alcohol.”

Laughter bubbles out of me again, and I shake my head in disbelief. “I love you, Millie, but your level of delusion sometimes makes mine look like a shy little schoolboy.”

Millie grins, clearly amused. “We’ll see, pumpkin. We’ll see.”

Chapter 4. Truth or Dare

Forty minutes later, after Millie finishes gushing over the decorations and catering, we each hand her our gifts and bouquets. With plates piled high with snacks, we gather around the coffee table—some of us on the sofa and armchairs, others sitting cross-legged on the carpet.

Millie keeps her word and announces that we’re playing a game—not UNO or any of the board games Chara and Tina set out, butNever Have I Ever.

Millie personally pours wine into everyone’s cups—except mine, which she fills with cherry juice because I don’t drink. Then, we form a semi-circle: Millie and Peter on the sofa with Amira, Chara and Adam in the armchairs, and Tina and me on pillows on the floor.

Peter suggests Millie go first since she’s the birthday girl, but she waves him off, claiming she needs more time to think. I know she’s only doing it to avoid seeming suspicious. She’s definitely already cooked up a “Never Have I Ever” aimed at Adam—I’d put money on it—but she’s playing it cool.

Tina jumps in instead, brushing crumbs from her hands before popping a cheese cube into her mouth. “Never have I ever,” she says with a grin, “stolen anything.”

A wave of laughter ripples through the group as Chara, Peter, and Amira sip from their cups.

Tina’s jaw drops, and she turns to Amira, pointing an accusatory finger. “You thief! What did you steal?”

Amira laughs, raising her glass defensively. “Post-it notes. And pens. Relax—I didn’t rob a bank.”

Peter chimes in, mock-serious. “Office supplies theft is a slippery slope.”

“Wait,” I cut in, brow furrowed. “That counts as stealing? Because if it does, I’m guilty too.”

Tina grins, pointing at my cup. “Drink.”

With a shrug, I take a slow sip, savoring the tart sweetness of the cherry juice as some of the tension from earlier eases, like I can finally breathe again.

Next, it’s Chara’s turn. She shifts forward, her eyes glinting with mischief as she shoots me a devilish grin. “Never have I ever,” Chara begins, dragging out each word for dramatic effect, “worn my sibling’s clothes.”

The entire group bursts into laughter as everyone instinctively looks at me, and I already know—I’m busted. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Adam smirking, one brow raised, as if contemplating whether “clothes” means dresses or just a T-shirt. The sight sends an odd jolt through me.

“I hate you,” I groan, shooting a frustrated look in Chara’s direction as I reluctantly lift my cup and take another sip. The cherry juice is cool on my tongue, but it does nothing to dull my annoyance—or the heat creeping up my neck.

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