Samantha threw her head back and laughed—bright and ringing.

"God, baby, I adore your sense of humor!"

I felt deeply embarrassed, but I didn't want to give up so easily. Right now I felt brave, and besides, we were so close—I was holding Samantha's foot in my hands, feeling her smooth skin beneath my fingers...

"I'm not joking, Sam. I... I really liked it."

Samantha stopped laughing. I was afraid to look her in the eyes, but when the silence stretched on, I finally lifted my head. Sam was staring at me like she was seeing me for the first time in her life. Her eyebrow was arched.

"Lottie, are you being serious right now?" she asked, her voice suddenly sharp, and my heart froze in fear for a moment.

"Yes," I whispered. "Sorry, does this make you uncomfortable?"

"What kind of answer are you expecting?!" she snorted irritably. "Ever since I left Texas, you've been my only close friend! You can't trust anyone in show business—friendship is a luxury. And you're suggesting I... God, I don't even know what to call this. What kind of fetish has awakened in you? Is this all Derek's fault?"

"No, no, he has nothing to do with this!" I exclaimed, involuntarily releasing Samantha's leg. "This isn't a fetish for me at all, I just..."

"Lottie, stop before it's too late," Samantha said more harshly, abruptly getting to her feet. "Cut this nonsense. I'll pretend I didn't hear anything, and we'll forget all about it."

"But I don't want to forget!" I burst out desperately, my mind racing as I frantically tried to figure out how to convince Samantha to give me a chance. "I'm completely serious, I swear! I... I could even pay you! Remember those expensive sandals you liked? You could buy them and..."

Samantha's laughter cut me off. I lifted my face, red with shame, and saw that she was genuinely amused and now looking at me with something almost like pity.

"Lottie," Samantha wiped away the tears that had involuntarily come from laughing, "stop it, that's going way too far. Let's just stop here."

I sat with my head hanging, wanting nothing more than to disappear into the ground. What had I even been thinking?! Sammy, my star—of course she would never let someone like me touch her that way, especially for money... As if I were trying to buy her attention!

Feeling like a traitor, I wanted to punish myself, to slap myself hard across the cheek, but I held back with all my strength, not wanting to look even more pathetic.

"Come on, grab your things and go home." Samantha's voice softened a little and sounded almost sympathetic. "You just need to get some sleep, rest properly... This conversation—consider it forgotten."

"Yes, Sam," I whispered in a defeated voice, awkwardly getting to my feet, "forgive me..."

We didn't exchange another word—I just looked at Samantha helplessly, walked out the door, and slid into my car.

For a while I sat behind the wheel, just staring at the pedestrians beyond the glass. It occurred to me belatedly that I should have called a taxi and picked up the car later, or asked Samantha to get it. I shouldn't have gotten behind the wheel in this state... The last thing I needed was to get in an accident or lose my driver's license.

I opened Uber and ordered a taxi.

"Idiot, idiot, idiot," kept spinning endlessly through my head.

I couldn't shake the thought that I'd chosen the wrong words, that I hadn't been convincing enough... Only a good nine hours of sleep could save me from this self-flagellation.

The moment I got home, I pressed my head against the pillow and closed my eyes.

I woke up in the morning with a pounding head—a pill took care of that easily enough, but it couldn't take away the regret and shame that had overwhelmed me.

How humiliating and stupid it had been to practically beg my best friend for a kiss—no, not just a kiss, but to kiss her feet, and for money no less!

"God, what must Sam think of me?! At best, she'll decide I've completely lost my mind," I thought in horror as I got ready for work.

Today I was supposed to do wedding makeup for a top model who had married very well. She and her husband had called a car to take me to their cottage. I was packing my makeup kit and kept anxiously glancing at my phone—waiting for any kind of message from Samantha.

"I never want to see you again"—that's what I expected to read.

Instead, Samantha texted me... about my work.

"You're doing makeup for Peggy Mason today, that redheaded bitch? Send me her pics later. I bet a hundred bucks that without makeup, she looks like Chuckie Finster."

I couldn't help but smile with relief. Well, at least she didn't seem angry...

Work helped distract me a little—Peggy turned out to be unexpectedly sweet, even though she'd built her career on an aura of bitchiness and being unapproachable. There were rumors that she was a lesbian and was marrying her much older husband for money.

By evening, Sam and I were already meeting over coffee, gossiping about the model like nothing had happened.

"So she's sweet, you say?" Sam smirked, taking a sip. She always drank very strong coffee without a drop of cream or sugar.

"Yes, Peggy was really friendly, complimented my work," I confirmed with a smile. "And she wasn't fussy like so many of her colleagues."

I still felt awkward around Samantha, but her calm and casual mAvar put me at ease.

"Hmm," Samantha thoughtfully wound a curl of hair around her finger, "they say she married that old fart to pay for her lover's medical bills."

"Seriously?" I was genuinely surprised.

"Yeah," Samantha scoffed, "they grew up together in an orphanage, then both moved to New York to conquer the runway. Only Peggy did better at it than her friend. The friend was soon struck down by cancer. So little Peggy slept with the old man to pay for some super expensive innovative cancer treatment."

"Wow," I was struck by the story. "Such incredible devotion…"

"I was thinking the same thing," Sam said, tilting her head to one side with a slight smile. "It's such a strong, special bond… Like what we have, right?"

I froze, the coffee cup halfway to my lips. Seeing my confusion, Samantha smirked and asked in a silky voice:

"You wouldn't abandon me in my time of need, would you?"

"Of course not!" I blurted out immediately, getting flustered. "Never!"

"I never doubted you, Lottie," Sam laughed, satisfied.

"Why did you even bring this up?" I asked, a little embarrassed.

"Oh, for no real reason," Sam replied evasively, idly stirring her spoon in her half-empty coffee cup. "I'm trying to look at our situation from all angles."

Our situation... I felt a thrill run through me, but I didn't dare ask the question. Could Sam really mean there was something more between us than just friendship? And she was actually considering what to do about it?

Deciding I was fantasizing about the impossible, I pushed those thoughts away.

Samantha had given me a second chance, and I wasn't about to waste it. Losing her was far more terrifying than suffering from unrequited feelings—or so I believed... She was pretending nothing strange had happened, and I had to play along.

Almost a week had passed since that conversation at the café. Samantha had submitted an application to participate in a new music show called "Do It Like a Star" and was waiting for a response from the producers. I had taken on some gigs and was traveling around New York, doing makeovers and hoping to make useful connections.

I caught myself thinking about and yearning for Samantha far more often. If before I had simply been a girl who admired her celebrity friend, now I felt rejected, and that was much more painful.

On top of that, I started having dreams that left me waking up upset and emotionally crushed.

For some reason, the action always took place in Texas, at Samantha's old house, where her whole big family lived. It was always some kind of celebration: crowds of guests, a dinner table set up in the living room.

In front of everyone, I would drop to my knees before Samantha and tearfully beg her to let me kiss her feet.

Mockery and even spit flew at my back; someone yanked my hair and snickered.

"Sick fool," came Samantha's mother's arrogant voice, "who let her into our house?"

In real life, Samantha's mother had always been very kind to me, and seeing her face twisted with disgust felt fundamentally wrong.

"Stop embarrassing me, Charlotte!" When Samantha was angry, she always called me by my full name. "I don't want to see you anymore."

Usually, one of the guests or Samantha herself would seemingly accidentally step on the hem of my dress, and I would hear the rip of tearing fabric. After that, my clothes would suddenly vanish, and I was left standing in my underwear, desperately trying to cover myself with my hands while dozens of pairs of eyes bore into me.

"Samantha, throw this bitch out of our house," Samantha's mother said disdainfully in my last dream, pointing at me with her palm.

That's usually when I'd wake up, as if from the worst possible nightmare. Maybe it was my brain's way of trying to deal with the shame, but I felt like absolute shit after dreams like that.

Because of this, I forbade myself any shameful thoughts about my friend and tried to go back to living a normal life.

I really wanted Samantha to get the job on the upcoming talk show "Do It Like a Star." She'd promised she would recommend me as a first-rate specialist, and then we could work in tandem again.

Almost two weeks passed this way, and July began. New York was getting hotter and hotter, but Sam and I were used to the southern climate and didn't really suffer from it.

We had been eagerly waiting for the premiere of "In Wolf's Clothing"—a cross between a melodrama and a thriller. As soon as I found out the premiere date, I immediately bought us tickets for the weekend.

During the movie, I noticed that Samantha was in an excellent mood, laughing and joking more than usual. Her lightness seemed to rub off on me. I loved it when Sam smiled…

After the movie, we ducked into a café—I was so hungry and wound up that I decided to break from my healthy eating plan for once and ordered forbidden French fries and an impressively sized burger.

"How can you eat this junk? I swore off fast food ages ago," Samantha declared with a laugh, then coolly swiped some fries from my plate.

"Yeah, I noticed," I snorted and quietly shared my portion with Sam. "Sometimes you just crave something unhealthy and ridiculously high in calories."

"Oh yes," Samantha drawled, chewing on a French fry. "Too bad that doesn't apply to people."

I giggled. Samantha had recently been asked on a date by the manager who'd helped organize the opening of "Moonlight"—a ridiculous and somewhat amusing chubby guy named Freddy.

"You weren't too harsh with him, were you?" I smiled.

Knowing that Samantha had turned him down for a date, I could easily joke about her would-be "boyfriend."

"Oh come on," Samantha chuckled, ignoring her vegetable salad and already eyeing my burger. "He was actually sweet, so touchingly nervous... I had to tell him I was into girls."

I nearly choked on my food and hastily gulped down some juice from my glass.

"What's so surprising about that?" Sam laughed. "It's the universal excuse to avoid completely crushing a guy's ego. What else could I have said? That I don't like greasy food at night?"

"Just make sure he doesn't start chasing after you in a dress," I joked awkwardly, feeling a vague unease.

"I'll survive," Sam smirked, snatching a piece of steak from my plate. "So what's going on in your love life?"

I shrugged with studied indifference.

"Nothing interesting. The men I like are either married or died in the last century."

"Poor Lottie," Samantha drawled mockingly, "don't worry, no one's ever died from loneliness."

"I'm not lonely," I wanted to say, but didn't dare.

With Sam, I never felt truly alone... Even now, when there was a light, barely perceptible tension between us—because I was trying so hard to watch what I said and did.

Today I was driving and after the café I was going to give Samantha a ride home. On the way we chatted about this and that, and time flew by unnoticed.

I stopped outside Sam's house, waiting for her to get out of the car. But Samantha unexpectedly turned to me and asked flirtatiously:

"Want to see my new pedicure?"

On the way, she had indeed boasted about finding a new nail tech, but I hadn't paid much attention to it—I was perfectly satisfied with the salon I go to.

I didn't even have time to respond—Samantha instantly kicked off her pumps, slipped off her sheer stockings, and brought her right foot right up to my face! I only had to tilt my head forward slightly—and my lips would have touched it.

I was so stunned that I temporarily lost the ability to speak and couldn't immediately focus on the pedicure. Sam wiggled her toes, as if hinting that I should be looking at them specifically. Her matte light pink nails were adorned with a raised floral pattern.

"Sam, that's a very... beautiful pedicure," I finally mumbled.

Her foot was so close to me that I could smell the faint scent of leather and slight sweat, but my thoughts were in complete chaos.

"Right?" Samantha smiled broadly. "It was so expensive, too—this nail tech has a very high opinion of herself..."

I nodded automatically, mesmerized as I stared at her foot dangling before me. She had such a beautiful arch, and those little toes with their perfectly rounded nails...

Instead of finally moving her foot away from my face, flexible Sam arched her back and lifted her other foot. Chuckling softly, she slowly and very sensually ran one foot along the other, surely noticing how my eyes moved and greedily tracked her every motion. I was as if under hypnosis, afraid of missing anything at all...

Seeing I was lost in a haze, Samantha smiled and with a light touch lowered a toe of her right foot right onto my lips, resting her other foot—which she struggled to hold aloft—directly on my chest.

"So you really do like my pedicure?" Samantha asked again with a chuckle.

"Y-yes," I stammered. Because my lips moved when I spoke, it seemed as if I were kissing her toes, and this made me flush crimson.

"Then why don't you pay for it?" Samantha inquired slyly. "Right now. Do it for me, won't you?"

There was curiosity in her voice—as if Sam didn't quite believe I would actually fulfill her request. But right now I simply couldn't refuse her. I never wanted to see her disappointed again...

"Yes, Sam, of course," I murmured, reaching for my purse.

For some reason, I didn't think to turn away or ask Samantha to move her feet. Instead, afraid to even stir, I was careful not to let her toes shift from my lips.

Noticing the effort I was making to keep her foot against my mouth, Samantha grew amused, her eyes dancing with mischief. Several times she pretended she was about to pull her foot away from my face, and I instinctively pressed closer, making her smile grow even wider.

I managed to fumble out my wallet and unsuccessfully tried to glance down to see its contents so I could pull out the right bill.

Growing impatient with waiting, Samantha simply snatched the wallet from my hands and rifled through it, then calmly pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.

A pedicure obviously couldn't cost that much, but I couldn't bring myself to object—all my thoughts were consumed by the sensation of Samantha's feet touching my lips and chest. I wanted her to press them harder against me or do something—wiggle her toes, move them around—but instead Samantha abruptly dropped her feet to the floor.

She looked extremely pleased, and I waited with excitement and hope to see what she would do next.

"Good girl," Samantha giggled and added in a sultry voice, "Close your eyes and open your mouth."

I instantly did as she asked, thinking that Sam would slip her toe into my mouth again. Now I wouldn't have to hold back—I could lick it or suck on it a little, like a lollipop... And then move on to something more.

At first, I really did feel the touch of her fingers and froze in joyful anticipation, but a second later she shoved something soft and foul-tasting into my mouth.

I nearly choked and my eyes flew wide open.

Sam was already laughing as she climbed out of the car and blew me a mocking air kiss goodbye.

I spat out what she had shoved in my mouth... and saw crumpled nylon socks.

Sam disappeared through the doors, still laughing, and I stared at her damp socks for a long time, feeling a mixture of shame and humiliation.

All of this... just a cruel joke? Had Sam wanted to punish me and been plotting this elaborate revenge while we were carelessly having fun and shopping together?

I couldn't even bring myself to throw away those wretched socks—I just hurled them onto the passenger seat and started the car. I almost sped, but I calmed myself in time and stopped flooring the gas pedal.

For a moment I allowed myself to be deceived, thinking that Samantha had softened, that she'd changed her attitude about certain things. But she... she just mocked me!

Out of sheer hurt, I wanted to just storm into the nearest bar, drink myself into oblivion and forget everything, but I had a very important client tomorrow morning. I couldn't afford to show up with a pounding headache and dark circles under my eyes.

"How could she—how could she—what for?!"

It felt like I would never want to see Samantha again. I had betrayed our friendship myself... but what she did was still too cruel!

For four whole days I heard nothing from Samantha. Usually we texted each other every day, even when we left town, and I felt devastated...

I had been working hard, attended courses with the renowned makeup artist Zack Anderson, who had come to New York for three days. There, one of his assistants unexpectedly struck up a conversation with me, and by evening I had already received an invitation to dinner at a restaurant... but I turned it down.

I didn't want to see anyone. In my twenty-four years, I had never faced cruel rejections or a broken heart. My personal life had been almost too serene. But now I was getting my full taste of the bitterness that had eluded me in my youth.

Only when Samantha called me four days later did I realize how much tension I had been living under all this time. I grabbed the phone instantly, desperate to hear her voice.

"Lottie, come over, I feel terrible," Samantha said and hung up immediately.

I stared at the dark screen, bewildered. This was so unlike Sam... Fearing something terrible had happened, I immediately got behind the wheel and raced to her place, forgetting all past grievances.

I would never forgive myself if something happened to Samantha because of me.

Samantha met me in a silk robe carelessly thrown over her shoulders, slightly disheveled and sleepy, as if she had just woken up, though it was already seven in the evening.

"What's wrong, Sam?" I asked anxiously, looking her over from head to toe, but I didn't notice anything unusual.

My friend didn't answer—she just walked silently into the living room and sank onto the couch, leaning back slightly against the pillows.

I noticed an opened bottle of wine and a glass on the side table, some wrappers, a torn piece of paper... A slight sense of déjà vu washed over me—this had all happened before. Sighing, I cautiously approached.

"The proposal fell through, didn't it?"

Samantha snorted and narrowed her eyes maliciously.

"Why would you think that? You think I can just be strung along like that?" she snapped, irritably flinging some object onto the carpet.

"Of course not!" I cried out in alarm, awkwardly crouching down in front of Sam and trying to meet her angry eyes. With my right hand, I searched for what she had dropped. "It's just that these pathetic producers have no taste—they're only trying to pander to the masses..."

Samantha smirked as she listened to me. I got so carried away railing against those stupid producers that I didn't notice Sam's right heel had landed on my shoulder. Stopping mid-sentence, I glanced over in surprise. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Samantha slid her heel along my shoulder while her toes tickled my neck.

"Actually, they approved my application. I'm going to be on 'Do It Like a Star,'" Samantha suddenly said, stroking my bare shoulder, then slowly sliding her foot up along my neck.

Despite my confusion over what she was doing, I was genuinely thrilled nonetheless.

"Wow, that's amazing, Sam! Congratulations!"

"Except I won't be one of the 'stars,'" Sam explained with a chuckle, her toes already tracing along my chin before moving higher, toward my temple. "Just a guest for a few numbers. My media presence is too low."

I fell silent—and Sam's foot froze by my temple too. Now she was simply stroking the right side of my face with her foot, watching my reaction intently. Seeing that I was afraid to even move, Sam's smile grew wider and wider, and those familiar mischievous sparks began dancing in her eyes.

"I'm sorry..." I finally mumbled, feeling rather than seeing Samantha catch a strand of my hair between two toes and tuck it behind my ear, giggling. "But it's a good chance for you to get noticed... Someone's bound to remember you..."

"Do you really think so?" Samantha narrowed her eyes at me.

"Of course!" Praising her came so easily that I blurted it out without thinking. "I... I always believed you were destined to become a star."

It was strange to say this while feeling Samantha's foot on my face, but her unexpectedly soft smile, complete with two dimples, was my reward.

"You used to sing too, Lottie," Samantha suddenly added with a smirk. "Who's more talented—me or you?"

My eyes widened involuntarily. Though I'd always genuinely admired Sam, hearing her question was painful. My dream had died, and I'd been living with the hope that Samantha's success would heal that wound...

"Y-you," I stammered, but disbelief crossed Samantha's face.

"You're not sure? Are you saying that out of pity, Lottie?" she sneered with contempt.

"No! No, Samantha!" I lunged forward, nearly falling. "I'm not lying! You're... so much more talented—I'm nothing compared to you!"

I wanted to say that as a singer I wasn't even worthy to be the soles of her shoes, that I had a different calling, but it came out utterly self-debasing—and I couldn't really start making excuses and explaining what I meant.

"Nothing," Samantha repeated with a faint smile, as if savoring the word. "Nothing..."

She slowly drew her foot away from my face, bringing it closer to my lips, and my heart involuntarily began to beat faster. It was like an invitation to a kiss... I could read it in her gaze: "Prove it."

I thought that words without actions truly meant nothing—I needed to do this... I timidly leaned forward, stretching my neck to touch her toes with my lips, but at the last second, Samantha pulled her foot away.

Losing my balance, I pitched forward and bumped my forehead against the edge of the couch. The impact was soft, but so absurd that I grabbed my head and shot a wounded look up at the laughing Samantha.

"You think all of this is absolutely hilarious, don't you?!" I cried out, feeling tears welling up in my eyes.

I shot to my feet, whirled around, and stormed toward the exit, but Samantha's voice stopped me cold.

"Lottie, stop."

I froze, my hand already gripping the door handle. I stood with my back to her and couldn't see Samantha's expression, but her voice had noticeably softened.

"Sorry, that was too much."

I turned around, still looking hurt. Samantha watched me with a serene expression, then gently beckoned with her hand. Hesitating, I took a few steps toward her. Samantha sighed.

"I'm just exhausted. Those producers have drained every ounce of life from me. My number takes up five minutes of the show at most, but they're making demands like it's my solo gala," she snorted. "I need you by my side, Lottie."

Those words won me over. All I ever wanted was to feel needed, wanted... Maybe Samantha caught something in my expression, because she smiled, quite pleased with herself.

"You don't despise me, do you?" I mumbled in embarrassment, lowering my gaze.

"Of course not, Lottie," I thought I saw the corners of her mouth twitch, as if she'd almost smiled, but a moment later, Samantha was already looking at me seriously. "You're..."

I thought Samantha would continue with "you're my friend" or "you're my person," but she only said:

"You're so devoted to me. I appreciate that."

Hiding my slight disappointment, I smiled.

"Yes, Samantha. And of course, I'll stay by your side for as long as you need me..."

Sam smiled and took a sip from her wine glass.

"I interrupted you so rudely. You can finish what you started."

What I'd started?.. My eyes involuntarily dropped to her feet, which she'd placed on the floor, and I swallowed nervously. I couldn't even tell if this was a request or if she was doing me a favor... Did Sam want this kiss? Or was she just allowing me?

I couldn't imagine saying "no, I don't want to," turning around and walking away. After everything I'd said and done, it was too late to save my pride... And there was this foolish hope living inside me that our relationship could go further.

Samantha didn't even think to lift her feet or put them up on the nearby table, and I didn't know if I could ask her to, so I stood there awkwardly, trying to work up the nerve. After a minute, I finally gave up and dropped to my knees, studying her delicate toes.

As if relenting, Samantha lifted her foot—just a couple of inches off the floor—so I still had to bend down considerably.

I waited anxiously for her to pull her foot away at the last second, but it didn't happen—my lips touched her toes. A pleased chuckle came from above my head. Emboldened, I tried to move my lips a little higher, toward her ankle, but Sam giggled and gently pushed my head back with her heel.

"Don't be such a greedy girl, Lot," Samantha said, quickly pulling her feet up onto the couch, as if hiding them from me.

"Sorry," I said, blushing.

It turned out I was begging her for a kiss, wanting it so badly that I was willing to humiliate myself... And she understood that perfectly. Her expression had completely softened: she looked so pleased, even though just moments before she'd been terribly depressed!

I had mixed feelings and didn't know what to think. I didn't want Sam to just take her anger over her failures out on me, without any tenderness or desire...

I could only console myself with the thought that it's impossible to suddenly change and start seeing more in a friend. Maybe someday... my star would look at me differently?

"Lottie," Samantha called in a serene voice, clearly not troubled in the slightest, "tomorrow I'm going to meet with the show organizer. I need to look my best."

"Do you want me to do your makeup?" I felt a spark of hope, but it was misplaced.

"No, they have their own makeup artist, so I don't need your services for now. I want to stop by the salon and refresh my hair color."

Samantha tossed her chestnut curls. Her hair was naturally light brown, but the rich chocolate color looked incredible with her gray eyes, so she dyed it. Lost in thought, I missed that Samantha was watching me very intently.

I remembered how she had demanded I pay for her pedicure, and I realized she wanted money again.

"Do you want me to..." Noticing her condescending smile, I fell silent in embarrassment.

"I go to the best stylists because I always have to look flawless. You agree, don't you?"

"Of course you're right, Samantha," I said, still being on my knees and fussing around awkwardly as I tried to remember where I'd left my purse.

"So you'll pay for my salon appointment?" she said, resting her chin charmingly on her crossed arms like a spoiled little girl.

"Yes, of course, you can... you can..." I pulled my wallet from my purse with trembling fingers, not knowing if it contained enough money, or if it would be better to transfer the funds to her card. "This is all I have..."

Samantha briskly snatched the wallet from my hands, pulled out three hundred-dollar bills at once, and calmly slipped them into the pocket of her robe, handing me back the empty wallet with just the cards.

I was stunned by such audacity. Three hundred dollars! That money would have been enough for five such stylists! Didn't Sam have an ounce of conscience?

"We're done, Lottie. You can go," Samantha said with a dismissive wave of her hand, standing and heading toward the kitchen.

That tone and gesture, as if shooing away a bothersome dog, completely crushed my spirits, and I could only watch helplessly as she walked away. I had simply been used... And I couldn't even object. I didn't want Samantha to think I was greedy or ungrateful.

"I'm leaving, Sam," I mumbled at the front door, but Samantha didn't respond.

She was humming something under her breath, bustling around in the kitchen, and paying no attention to me. All I could do was leave in silence.

It had gotten a bit colder outside, clouds had gathered, and I shivered in my light dress. I walked slowly to my car, trying to process what had just happened.

"She was having a hard time, and she called me... That means I still matter to her," I told myself.

I tried not to think about how I had almost willingly knelt before her, ridiculously sticking my ass up in the air, kissing her toes. Even parting with the money seemed more humiliating, because Samantha had done it so cynically, without giving my feelings a second thought...

Realizing that my head was starting to spin from the flood of contradictory thoughts, I decided to stop by the store for some wine—I wasn't in the mood to sit in a bar surrounded by people.

“Just don't become a drunk like your Grandma Becky,” I thought sadly. “She was the one who drowned every sorrow in a glass of booze...”

Though there was a positive side to her story—she lived to eighty and died peacefully surrounded by family, while her sister, who never smoked a single cigarette and despised both alcohol and Becky herself, passed away twenty years earlier.

I couldn't help but think of my family, and I felt even sadder. I couldn't share my feelings with anyone—they'd just suggest I check myself into a mental hospital, or find some other way to "knock the nonsense out” of my head.

At home, I lay for a long time clutching a bottle of wine, mindlessly flipping through chAvals. My mind was surprisingly empty.

I didn't know what I would do if Samantha called me again, invited me over, asked me for something. If I set aside all the unpleasant moments, thoughts of Sam still stirred me, excited me, made my heart beat faster... I could kiss Samantha's feet if she enjoyed it that much—I just didn't want to be mocked for it...

"You're my superstar, you light up my heart so bright..." I caught myself singing the lines from a song that had been stuck in my head for weeks.

Back then, Samantha and I had argued about our new acquaintance, a Latina named Jennifer Montaner. She was a fashion model—I had managed to work with her on styling once, and later I introduced her to Samantha.

After a week of getting to know her, Samantha was convinced that Jennifer had narcissistic personality disorder. I was sure she was exaggerating, and Jennifer was just an overly confident, pretty girl who'd bought into her own hype.

"You can't call everyone who's obsessed with their own reflection a narcissist, Sam," I laughed.

"No, Lottie," Samantha said heatedly, "trust me, this one is a total psycho. I can sense people like her. I'll bet you anything!"

I agreed, though I had no idea how we were going to verify the truth. But it turned out to be much simpler: Sam asked a direct question... and Jennifer confirmed everything. She really had been diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder. She regularly saw a therapist and took pills to reduce anxiety and excitability.

I was in shock, but Samantha looked at me with a triumphant smile.

"So, who in this world is cooler than your Sammy, huh?"

"Nobody!" I applauded playfully. "You're a walking lie detector."

Samantha snorted.

"If I got paid for every 'psycho' I've exposed, I'd already be buying myself a villa in Manhattan."

"I never realized you had such a gift," I said in amazement.

"Occupational hazard of living in a big family," Sam waved it off. "We're just a treasure trove of diagnoses and disorders. Hopefully I'll inherit something harmless and won't end up screaming at houseplants like one of my aunts."

"You're the most level-headed girl I know," I assured Samantha with a smile.

"You're a little too happy for someone who just lost a bet, Lottie," Samantha suddenly squinted and jabbed her finger at me. "Forgot the terms of our bet? You lost, you know."

"Oh no," I gasped theatrically, "you wouldn't really make me, would you, Sam?... Please!"

But she quickly snatched the phone away from me and started digging through its settings with a mischievous smile. A couple of minutes later, she was already dialing my number—and giggling as she heard the lyrics of "You're My Superstar."

"Shame on you, Sammy," I clicked my tongue, "that's from a kids' cartoon."

"Are you saying I'm not your superstar?" she smiled slyly, handing my phone back to me.

"Who am I to argue with the obvious?"

We giggled and bickered like two silly schoolgirls, paying no attention to the sideways glances from the other café patrons.

Now it seemed to me that conversation had happened in some other life—or that I'd simply dreamed it... We had been so carefree, happy, free... How did it all come to this—me practically licking her foot, then begging for more?..

“I hope she doesn't think too poorly of me,” I sighed heavily.

Sammy, my Sammy... Perfection from fingertips to the crown of her head... Was it humiliation to kiss her beautiful feet, or did they exist only for that?

I dimly realized this was just drunken nonsense, and I needed to sleep it off.

I couldn't even remember if I had clients tomorrow, but I was counting on my electronic organizer and my ability to pull myself together quickly.

Clutching the pillow tightly, I fell asleep.

“ “ “

"Well then, Miss Thompson," the female recruiter named Dakota offered a practiced smile, "we were quite impressed with your portfolio. You even managed to work with Zack Allende himself?"

"Yes, I won a contest he organized on his Facebook page," I said eagerly, feeling a pleasant excitement. "His lessons were invaluable to me."

A week had passed since I'd last seen Samantha. Despite how humiliating our final encounter had been for me, Sam hadn't forgotten her promise and had recommended me to the HR manager of the TV show.

"Now for the most important part," Dakota placed sheets of paper in front of me. "Please read through this carefully and sign. This is a non-disclosure agreement prohibiting you from sharing any information about the filming, participants, and guests. You're forbidden from posting photos and videos from the set or revealing details about upcoming episodes."

"Of course, I understand everything," I quickly skimmed through the contract text and signed it. "Thank you for your trust."

Dakota nodded and let me go, saying they would call me when they had the exact filming schedule.

This job was an excellent chance to establish myself and find more prestigious clients, but right now I wasn't thinking about my career—I was thinking about Samantha. We could work together again, like we used to…

But would Sam behave the same way as before?

I was terribly worried. Each time we met was unpredictable. My resentment over Sam's brazen behavior had smoothed over, giving way to completely different feelings. Part of me yearned for another encounter, whatever it might bring… Anything but disappointment and Sammy's indifference.

"Maybe I should call her myself?" I thought as I left the studio. "Invite her somewhere?"

While I was thinking about where we could spend the evening, Samantha unexpectedly called me herself.

"Hi, Lottie," came her unruffled and so melodious voice through the phone. "Do you remember Amanda?"

"Mmm," the question caught me off guard, and I quickly tried to remember our mutual acquaintances. "I think we went to school together?"

"Yes," Sam chuckled. "Her sister lives in New York, and it's her birthday soon, so Amanda and her friends are coming for the celebration. You and I are both invited."

"Wait, her sister wouldn't happen to be Monica, would it? The realtor who helped us find housing?" I vaguely remembered one girl who had chattered about her talented little sister Amanda.

"That's her," Samantha laughed. "We haven't seen each other in ages, but she doesn't want to lose touch with old friends. The whole group will be girls only, by the way—no guys."

"You... want me to come with you?" I asked timidly, suddenly feeling flustered.

"Of course I do," Samantha replied playfully, probably twirling a strand of hair around her finger out of habit. "You're obligated to be there."

"Okay. I'll think about a gift in the meantime." I was pleased that Sam had invited me to a party where I barely knew anyone.

"I'll send you a link to her wish list, pick something from there—she's constantly updating it," Samantha suggested. "Oh, and all the guests have to wear white. Monica has her oddities, just accept it."

We said goodbye. My good mood returned. Samantha still considered me a friend—otherwise she wouldn't have invited me to a party where her acquaintances would be.

When I got home, the first thing I did was go to my closet and fling open the doors. White... I didn't have that much white clothing—mostly blouses, a couple of tops... and one dress.

It fell just above the knee, with a flared skirt and a deep triangular neckline, while the airy short sleeves made it look very delicate. I decided it would work for the girls' night—not too fussy, but just a little bit sexy. Besides, it was blazing hot outside.

"I wonder if Samantha will like it?" I thought, twirling in front of the mirror.

Though I was more interested in something else—would Samantha like me, not the dress... Did I have even the tiniest chance of winning her affection?

I moved closer to the mirror. Samantha and I were so different. My wavy light hair, dark green eyes... I ran my finger across my lips—they weren't as full as Samantha's, but they had a beautiful shape, with a seductive Cupid's bow on top...

Did Sam like it when I touched her with these lips? I don't think she'll ever admit it, but I was dying to know the truth...

As I primped and scrutinized my appearance with a critical eye, it was as if I truly dreamed of seducing Samantha.

I was mistaken thinking that I'd pick up Samantha in the evening and we'd go together. She texted that she was leaving early with Monica and sent me the location.

It was almost five in the evening when I arrived at the address and looked around—this was some gray industrial area, nothing special. Soon enough, though, everything became clear—Monica owned a gorgeous loft on the first floor. The perfect place for loud parties and blaring music, hidden behind the building's unremarkable walls.

Smoothing down my dress, I entered the building with a flutter of anticipation. I didn't know what to expect from the evening ahead, but I figured Samantha and I would just act like normal friends—after all, there would be plenty of people around, including mutual acquaintances of ours.

Even before reaching the door, I could hear the buzz of voices, laughter, and music.

"Oh, hey, Charlotte!" a beautiful blonde with a high ponytail greeted me warmly at the doorway. "Come in."

I didn't immediately recognize her as the hostess—Monica had changed dramatically since our last meeting, dyeing her dark blonde hair ash blonde and starting to wear bright green contacts.

"Monica, that color looks so good on you," I said, kissing her on the cheek, and she smiled.

"Thanks, sweetie. Come on in, make yourself at home."

The huge apartment was already packed with people. Instead of regular lamps, oddly shaped fixtures hung from the ceiling, casting a muted bluish glow throughout the rooms. Neon decorations and pop art paintings adorned the pockmarked brick walls. I had to adjust to the dim lighting and colorful patches of light.

I struggled to find Samantha in the crowd—she was sitting in the center of a huge leather sofa, telling some captivating story, because everyone was listening with bated breath and occasionally chuckling.

When I approached, the story had already ended—and Samantha turned her attention to me.

I found myself mesmerized by my friend: today she wore tight leather pants and a white corset-style top that emphasized her slender waist. My eyes involuntarily drifted to her legs, where I saw her toes tucked into white patent leather shoes with sky-high heels.

"Lottie, come join us," Sam waved at me warmly, just like in the old days.

"Oh, is this the makeup artist?" said the girl next to her, her eyes lighting up. She immediately turned to me: "Hey, do you think colored eyeliner would look good on me?"

"You have dark, wide-set eyes and no obvious asymmetry," I said with a smile, quickly sizing up her pretty face. "Any color eyeliner would work on you, especially turquoise."

"Wow, thanks," the girl laughed. "That's what I call a pro."

"Hmm, Lottie? What's your full name? Charlotte?" asked a pretty brunette with high cheekbones and a bob cut, then giggled. "Honestly, I haven't heard that name in ages."

"Charlotte. I have old-fashioned parents," I replied with a slightly embarrassed smile, settling onto the couch. "My mom teaches literature and named me after a writer."

"Oh cool, I think I know her!" The brunette furrowed her brow, trying hard to remember. "She was into feminism or something like that..."

"Yes, it was difficult for women to write books back then, but she managed to achieve success," I smiled.

"Nice. Too bad my folks didn't name me after some feminist," the brunette giggled. "So I'm Anna, named after my grandaunt."

"But what if she was fighting for women's rights too?" laughed the girl who'd asked about makeup—everyone called her Kitty.

Kitty had an unusual, very soft accent and a doll-like appearance. Her prominent cheekbones and eye shape made it seem like she had some Native American blood in her veins—possibly Cherokee, like Johnny Depp.

"Nah, my grandma only fought for the right to smack my grandpa when he blew his whole paycheck at the bar," Anna guffawed, and everyone else laughed.

While they exchanged jokes, I turned to look at Samantha... and froze. She was smiling, but I knew that icy smile and those narrowed eyes all too well. I felt guilty—by showing up, I had unwittingly drawn all the attention away from her. She definitely didn't like that...

I tried to make myself invisible and just listened to other people's stories, laughed at the right moments, and constantly kept an eye on Samantha from my peripheral vision—she had thawed out a little by now.

Once all the guests had finally gathered, the girls began congratulating the birthday girl and presenting her with gifts.

"Happy birthday, my dear Monica," Samantha sang out her congratulations with a smile when her turn came, making Monica burst into delighted laughter.

"Oh, Sam, stop it, or I'll have to pay you a fee for your singing," she said, accepting the gift and playfully wagging her finger, "I'm not quite that rich yet."

"Don't worry, darling, I'll give you a discount," Samantha said, blowing her a kiss.

Watching Sam, I thought that no one at this party could match her, and even the pampered birthday girl wasn't beautiful enough to eclipse her. Samantha smiled enchantingly, her pink tongue occasionally flicking between her lips, especially when she sang—and for the first time I felt such a sharp ache for a real kiss... To look into Sammy's eyes, to hold her and pull her close to me...

Catching my gaze, Samantha suddenly winked at me, and I felt my cheeks burn. It seemed like everything was written all over my face, and Sam was absolutely delighted by my reaction to her.

An hour later, the atmosphere in the loft had shifted, becoming lighter and more relaxed. There was a sea of drinks and appetizers, with music playing constantly. In the huge room with the home theater, the girls had turned the space into a dance floor and were spinning around, often with cocktails in hand.

The party was full of girls who watch their figures—aspiring models, for example—so alongside the classic appetizers, they'd ordered vegetarian canapés and desserts.

Samantha and I grabbed cocktails and returned to the living room, where several girls had already made themselves comfortable on the leather sofa, gossiping away. Among them were Kitty and Anna, whom I already knew. Two other girls sat beside them—Irene, a fiery redhead from Ireland, and the birthday girl's sister Amanda, a very pretty girl with a mass of curls. She looked nothing like Monica since they had different fathers.

Samantha had already shared the news that she would be participating in the new TV show "Do Like a Star." The girls were asking her about the filming, and whether it was true that singer Mandy Wilson would be taking part—there had been such rumors going around.

I felt a slight unease, hoping that the ever-frivolous Samantha remembered the terms of the contract.

"They invited her, but she's demanding twice the fee," Samantha snorted, "and a double-wide seat for her ample backside. So no, she won't be the main star."

The girls laughed. Samantha was in her element—having kicked off her uncomfortable high heels, she was half-reclining on the pillows, stretched out comfortably while surrounded by people chattering excitedly around her. Some girls were sprawled out hugging pillows scattered across the sofa, others were swinging their legs while lying on their stomachs with smartphones in their hands. If it weren't for the surroundings and the elaborate outfits some of the guests were wearing, I would have thought I'd stumbled into a teenage pajama party.

I settled near Samantha, perching on the edge of the sofa, and listened to their conversation with interest.

Catching my attentive gaze, Sam smiled at me charmingly once again, though for some reason her expression struck me as cunning.

She started moving—I thought Samantha wanted to get more comfortable, and I was even ready to scoot over... but instead Sam stretched out her left leg... and placed it on my shoulder, using it as a footrest.

I froze, completely stunned. Kitty, the first to notice the scene, giggled loudly, tearing her eyes away from her phone.