Page 15 of Hollow

The party was a mistake.

I can feel it deep in my lungs, this heavy weight spreading through my body like quicksand. Too many people, too much noise, the air thick with perfume and alcohol and whatever sketchy stuff people smuggled into my house. My body’s sending all the warning signals I’ve learned to recognize over the years, the telltale tremor in my fingers, cold sweat beading along my hairline despite being surrounded by sweaty bodies.

But I keep smiling anyway, nodding at whatever this woman from the harbor is saying about her son who’s studying marine biology. Can’t remember her name, even though she told me twice. My brain’s going fuzzy, that familiar pre-crash fog rolling in.

“I need to check on something,” I say, cutting her off mid-sentence. Rude, but whatever. “Excuse me.”

I weave through the crowd, dodging grabbyhands and people calling my name. The great room looks nothing like the elegant, empty space it was this morning. Now it’s bodies and spilled drinks everywhere, air thick with smoke that is not just tobacco. The antique furniture I spent hours covering is already uncovered in places, glasses leaving rings on wood that’s survived a century without a scratch.

The party seemed like such a badass idea when I planned it, a big “fuck you” to Dad, to this stupid illness, to being locked away from the world. But now I want everyone gone.

I scan the room for either Damiano or that bartender with the white streak in his hair, Flint.

They were by the wall earlier, having what looked like an intense conversation—the kind where you stand way too close while pretending you hate the other person’s guts. I recognize that energy, saw enough of it at art school before I had to drop out.

Neither of them is anywhere. They disappeared around the same time, which seems... yeah, definitely not a coincidence.

I need air—real air, not this recycled party funk. And space. And quiet.

Sneaking out through the kitchen is way easier than trying to navigate the main hall. A few catering staff glance up as I pass, but nobody stops me. Outside, the night wraps around me like a cool washcloth on a fever. The fog’s grown thicker since sunset, muffling the sounds from the house,turning the garden lights into soft, glowing spheres that don’t quite illuminate anything.

I breathe in as deeply as my lungs will allow, the moisture in the air coating my throat.

Better. Not good, but better.

The path to the maze gleams pale gray in the darkness. I don’t need to go far—only far enough that I can’t hear the bass from whatever music is playing now.

My mind keeps circling back to Damiano and Flint, the way they looked at each other, having entire conversations without speaking. The tension in Damiano’s shoulders when Flint leaned in to whisper something.

They’re definitely fucking.

Or they have.

Or they want to.

Or all of the above.

Not surprising, honestly. They’re both so intense in their own ways. Both so... much.

Like they’re somehow larger than life. I try to imagine them together and feel heat rise to my face. It’s not hard to picture, Damiano’s tattooed hands on Flint’s pale skin, those two completely different but equally magnetic forces colliding. Their bodies connecting...

Okay, stop. Just stop. It’s none of my business who the groundskeeper hooks up with. Even if he did give me those herbs that worked better than any prescription my doctors have thrown at me over theyears. Even if he gives off this hot, brooding vibe that I’m stupidly attracted to.

The entrance to the maze appears ahead, fog swirling between the high hedges like it’s being sucked in and trapped. I hesitate at the threshold. I’ve never been good at navigating this place, even in daylight. At night, in this fog? I’ll get lost in seconds.

But something draws me forward anyway. Curiosity. Or maybe just needing to be somewhere that doesn’t feel like the walls are closing in.

The hedge walls rise on either side as I step into the first corridor, immediately muffling the distant sounds of the party even further. The air feels different in here, cooler and damper, with that green smell that reminds me of Damiano’s greenhouse. I run my fingers along the leaves as I walk, feeling their waxy texture, the precision of the cuts—,maintained with an almost obsessive level of care.

Damiano definitely seems the obsessive type.

I take a left, then a right, letting instinct guide me. It’s not like I need to find my way to the center. I only need a few minutes of quiet before I return to playing hostess to people I barely know.

But after a few more turns, I realize I’m completely lost. The paths are all identical in the dark, the fog making it impossible to figure out which way is which. I should turn back, retrace my steps, but I have no clue how many turns I’ve taken or in what order.

Shit.

I pull out my phone to use as a flashlight, but the battery’s nearly dead, down to 3%. Of freaking course. Because tonight needed one more disaster.

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