Bleach, Boba and Boldness

The Chateau felt different when the sun dipped behind the trees. Not quieter—just softer.

Inside, tension from the past few days clung to corners: half-whispered strategies, unsent messages, the weight of Veilstone secrets spilling into OBX air. But upstairs, in the small blue-walled bathroom with cracked tiles and mismatched towels, something else was happening.

Something sacred.

Riley tightened her grip on the bleach box and squinted at the instructions. "Do you think JJ will notice if we stain his towel?"

Julianna snorted. "That towel already looks like a crime scene."

Ophelia Lewis stood barefoot on the bath mat, hair twisted into wild sunset-colored knots, her makeup still flawless despite the madness. She held her arms out dramatically. "I am trusting you both," she said. "Not just with bleach. But with *my identity.*"

Riley raised a brow. "Your identity is chaos in glitter."

Jules leaned against the sink. "And you're about to be chaotic *blonde* again."

"I'm reclaiming my crown," Ophelia declared. "Blondes *do* have more fun. Especially when they're solving political conspiracies and seducing danger."

The girls dissolved into laughter.

---

They spread newspaper over the floor like a battlefield. Riley wore latex gloves two sizes too big. Julianna mixed the bleach like she was prepping potion ingredients. Ophelia sipped from a lavender boba tea and hummed old Veilstone ballads under her breath.

The vibe was rebellion-meets-retreat.

Jules glanced at Riley. "This feels like Veilstone. Our dorm nights. Thursday disasters. Remember Aveline trying to make herbal dye and accidentally turning Freya's bangs green?"

Riley chuckled. "She said it was moss chic. Freya said it was a declaration of war."

Ophelia giggled, half-hysterical. "That night we snuck out and got matching earrings at 2 AM because we needed 'symbolic jewelry for shared trauma.'"

"Still have mine," Riley whispered. "It's in my songwriting box."

Julianna softened. "Mine's in my jacket. I sewed it into the lining."

There was silence—not heavy, just warm. The kind that wrapped around you like a blanket stitched from old memories and unspoken love.

"Do you think we're still those girls?" Riley asked.

"We're wiser," Julianna said. "Scarier."

"We're still *us*," Ophelia murmured. "We never stopped being."

---

As the bleach settled, the smell filled the room. Riley fanned Ophelia's face with a spare notebook. Julianna pressed cool water bottles to Opie's cheeks and narrated their chaos like it was an indie documentary.

"Three emotionally complex women, haunted by secrets, reclaim autonomy one peroxide session at a time."

Riley snorted. "Let's add a boba sponsorship and go viral."

Ophelia grinned. "I'm the face of soft ferocity. With highlights."

They took pictures. Polaroids. Mirror selfies. Candid shots where Riley's smile reached her eyes and Julianna leaned in like they hadn't fractured in years.

It was a chapter untouched by fear—a shrine to resilience built in sink-stained towels and bathroom light.

---

By sunset, the transformation was complete.

Ophelia stepped out of the bathroom slowly, like she was walking into a music video. Her icy blonde hair shimmered under golden hour light, slicked back and styled like a war cry. Her lips were glossed. Her eyes lined sharp.

Freya, sprawled on the couch with a book, glanced up and said, "You look like vengeance wearing lip gloss."

"Good," Opie replied. "I'm ready to seduce secrets and burn bridges."

Aveline clapped. "She's divine."

Ace didn't speak—just gave a quiet nod of approval.

JJ wandered in and blinked. "Is this the same girl?"

Riley stepped beside Ophelia. "No.