"You bitch!"

Emelia lunged for the woman in front of her but was held back by her boyfriend.

"Emelia," he yelled. "Calm down!"

"As if!" she shouted, jabbing an aggressive finger at the woman she wanted to pummel. "You think you can kiss my boyfriend and get away with it?"

"Oh, please, Emelia." Charlotte, a girl she had known since primary school, laughed. "If Reuben has to get with other girls it's obviously because he isn't getting what he needs from you."

Her words made Emelia's blood boil and Reuben, sensing her rage, tightened his hold around her waist.

"You would know all about what a man needs, wouldn't you, Charlotte?" Emelia sneered in response. "I suppose as London's number one slut you've had plenty of time to practice!"

Charlotte's face flushed an ugly shade of red.

"You take that back," she demanded, and now it was Emelia's turn to laugh.

"Nope," she said with a snort. "Sorry, the truth doesn't give refunds."

"Can both of you just please stop shouting?" Reuben's voice was barely audible above the thumping music.

"You're going to get us thrown out."

Emelia turned her attention to him, enraged.

"I can't believe you kissed her!" she said.

"I didn't kiss her," he argued defensively. "She kissed me. It was an accident, babe."

"An accident?" Charlotte gasped. "That's not what you said last time."

"Last time?!" Emelia shrieked in disbelief, her stomach dropping. "This has happened before?"

"What-?" He blanched, spluttering. "No, of course not."

"Have you slept with her?" Emelia asked, wanting to know. Needing to know.

"No!"

"Yes!"

He and Charlotte both answered at the same time and Emelia felt the betrayal sink its poisonous hooks into her heart. Oh, my god.

Seeing the realisation on her face, Reuben quickly attempted to conjure up an explanation.

"Babe, look," he rushes. "I was drunk and it was just the once. It meant nothing. She means nothing. I love yo-"

He was cut off midway when Emelia slaps him hard across the face, stunning him into silence.

Then, without saying another word, she turned and headed across the crowded dance floor towards the exit.

The palm she had used to strike Reuben burned but the sensation was nothing compared to the acidic, alcohol-tinged bile making its way up her oesophagus.

Oh God, she thought, I'm going to throw up.

When she finally made it out of the bustling nightclub and onto the less crowded street, any relief she would have found was thwarted when a wave of nausea caused her to double over and vomit onto the pavement.

A few moments later, two hands appeared from behind her to hold back her hair while she retched. At first, Emelia was grateful, but then she heard Reuben's voice.

"Take a deep breath, babe. It's okay."

"Don't you dare touch me!" she yelled, stumbling out of his hold.

"Em-" he pleaded, grabbing her wrist to prevent her from leaving. She tried to yank her arm away but the alcohol's influence stole her strength.

"Please, babe, just let me explain."

"There's nothing to explain," she replied, hating how hoarse her voice sounded. "I know the truth now."

"No, Em, please," he begged. "Just listen to me for a sec-"

"Let go or I'll scream," she threatened, fully prepared to follow through if he didn't listen.

When he released her wrist she whirled around to face him, her long straight chestnut brown hair slapping him across the face.

"You don't have to walk me home," she shouted, earning a few curious glances from the people who were queuing up outside the club. "Because you're dumped!"

Reuben didn't try to stop her a second time and, without saying another word, just watched as she walked away.

When Emelia arrived home almost an hour later, her father was waiting to ambush her.

"Where the hell have you been, young lady?"

He was standing in the kitchen doorway, hands on his hips, and still wearing his suit from work, which Emelia thought was hilarious.

"Out," she answered whilst shrugging out of her favourite red leather jacket and hanging it up on the coat stand by the front door.

Her dad wasn't amused by her witty response.

"It's two o'clock in the morning, Emelia," he barked. "Your mother was worried sick. No phone call, no text. She had no idea where you were this entire weekend and I had to come home early from the office to calm her down."

"Well, that must have been a huge inconvenience for you," Emelia remarked snidely. "Although I'm surprised you even bothered. You've never cared about what I get up to before unless it interferes with your precious work."

"How dare you," her dad said, voice deepening. "My work is important. You will never know how much so."

"Whatever," she muttered, not wanting to hear the same old spew she had listened to a million times before, and turned to trudge up the stairs.

However, her father wasn't finished.

"We're not done talking, young lady."

"Yes, we are," she snapped, resisting the urge to use some less civilised words whilst leaning against the bannister for support. It would only make this exchange go on for longer than it had to.

"You've been drinking," her father said, sneering. It wasn't a question. He could probably smell the vodka and vomit from where he stood.

"Yeah," Emelia confirmed daringly. "So what?"

"Did you travel home alone tonight?" he asked. "Drunk and dressed like that?"

A sudden flood of hot and heavy tears threatened to consume her but Emelia managed to hold them back. She wouldn't give her dad the satisfaction of watching her cry.

"I got a cab," she responded with venom instead, glaring at him. "And talk about sexism. It's the twenty-first century, dad. Women can wear whatever the hell they want!"

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me!" he bellowed and in her drunken state, Emelia couldn't help but imagine steam shooting from his ears.

Laughter bubbled up from inside her chest.

"You think this is funny?" Her father sounded comically outraged.

"Ugh," she groaned once she had composed herself. "I'm tired! Just leave me alone."

"Fine," he said, voice like ice. "But your mother and I are going to be having a serious discussion about this tomorrow."

"Whatever," Emelia retorted before stomping up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door shut with more force than necessary.

Kicking off her shoes, she stumbled towards the bed but halted halfway across the room when she spotted a manilla envelope laying atop her messy desk.

It hadn't been there when she had left two days prior.

Ripping the envelope open, Emelia's stomach dropped before churning viscously - but this time not from alcohol.

Dear Miss Temple

The Admission Committee has reviewed your application carefully and we are sorry to inform you that we will be unable to offer you a place at The Oxford School of Art this year...

Yet another rejection letter that was bound to make her father smug.

With stinging eyes, Emelia tossed the piece of paper aside and collapsed onto the bed without bothering to remove her clothing or makeup.

Vowing that her clubbing days were over, she lay there, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the stabbing pain in her chest to subside, but it only got worse.

"Don't cry," she whispered to herself only seconds before rolling onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow and sobbing herself to sleep.