The hotel room was a battlefield of glitter and spilled prosecco, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and the laughter of a dozen women reveling in the chaos of a hen weekend. The coastal town of Brighton buzzed outside, its nightlife seeping through the cracked window in a symphony of distant bass and drunken shouts. Inside, the atmosphere was no less wild. Empty bottles littered the floor, a feather boa hung precariously from a lampshade, and someone’s forgotten stiletto lay abandoned by the minibar.
Rachael perched on the edge of a sagging double bed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her lips pursed into a thin line. She’d had one too many cocktails—those sugary, neon-colored monstrosities the bride-to-be, Jenny, had insisted on ordering by the pitcher—and her head was swimming. But it wasn’t just the alcohol making her dizzy. It was her current company.
Niamh sat cross-legged on the opposite bed, her dark hair tousled from the night’s antics, a half-empty glass of something pink and fizzy balanced in her hand. She was laughing at something one of the other girls had said earlier, her sharp green eyes glinting with mischief. Rachael couldn’t stand her. Never had. Not back in their school days when rumors swirled about Niamh’s “preferences,” and certainly not now, when they’d been forced into sharing this cramped hotel room for Jenny’s hen do. Of all the people to get paired with, why her?
The rest of the party had spilled out into the hallway or down to the hotel bar, leaving the two of them alone in a sudden, suffocating silence. Rachael shifted uncomfortably, the cheap mattress squeaking beneath her. She couldn’t help it—her tongue was loosened by the booze, and curiosity, that insidious little beast, clawed at her.
“So,” Rachael started, her voice cutting through the quiet like a knife, “are the rumors true, then? About you. Y’know… being… that way.”
Niamh’s laughter died instantly, her gaze snapping to Rachael with an intensity that made her squirm. A slow, knowing smirk curled her lips as she set her glass down on the bedside table with deliberate care. “That way?” she echoed, her tone dripping with amusement. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, Rach. I’ve heard a lot of rumors about myself over the years. Which one are we talking about? The one where I’m a secret witch? Or the one where I’m, what, a raging lesbian?”
Rachael’s cheeks flamed, but she doubled down, her jaw tightening. “Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. Are you… into girls or not?”
Niamh leaned back on her hands, her smirk widening into something almost predatory. “Oh, darling, I’ve been out since uni. Didn’t you get the memo? Yes, I’m gay. Card-carrying, rainbow-flag-waving, full-on queer. Does that satisfy your little late-night inquisition, or do you want details? I’ve got stories that’d make your straight little heart race.”
Rachael recoiled, her eyes widening in horror. “No! God, no. I don’t want… ugh, just forget I asked. I don’t care. I don’t even know why I brought it up.”
Niamh tilted her head, her smirk softening into something dangerously playful. “Sure you don’t. But, y’know, it’s okay if you’re curious. I mean, asking questions like that at midnight in a hotel room? Sounds like you might be having a little… identity crisis of your own.”
Rachael’s mouth dropped open, a strangled noise escaping her throat. “Excuse me? Are you insane? I’m not—I’m not like that! I’m straight. One hundred percent, dyed-in-the-wool, man-loving straight. I don’t even know why I’m wasting my breath on this. You’re ridiculous. And disgusting. And—and wrong!”
Niamh raised an eyebrow, unfazed by the outburst. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. But fine, storm off if it makes you feel better. I’ll be here, sipping my drink, not giving a single damn about your fragile heterosexuality.”
Rachael shot to her feet, her face a mask of outrage. “You’re unbelievable. I’m done with this. I’m going back to the party where people aren’t trying to… to psychoanalyze me or whatever this is!” She stomped toward the door, her heels clicking furiously against the carpet, and didn’t look back as she flung it open and disappeared into the hallway.
---
Morning light sliced through the cheap hotel curtains like a guillotine, cutting straight into Rachael’s pounding skull. She groaned, her tongue thick and sour in her mouth, her body aching as if she’d been hit by a truck. The hen party had raged on into the early hours, and her memory of the night was a fragmented mess of laughter, shots, and someone—probably Jenny—screaming about a lost tiara on the pier.
She shifted under the tangled sheets, her limbs heavy, and then froze. Something was… off. Very off. Her eyes snapped open, and a wave of nausea hit her—not just from the hangover, but from the stark, undeniable realization that she was naked. Completely, utterly bare. And worse, she wasn’t alone.
Niamh lay beside her, equally unclothed, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, her breathing slow and steady in sleep. Rachael’s heart slammed against her ribcage, her mind racing to make sense of this nightmare. But then her gaze dropped lower, and her breath caught in her throat. Strapped to her own hips, like some grotesque parody of a costume, was a bright purple strap-on dildo.
“Oh, no. No, no, no!” she hissed under her breath, her hands flying to cover her mouth as if that could erase the reality. “This isn’t happening. This did not happen. I did not—oh God, what did I do?”
Her internal monologue spiraled into a frantic mess as she scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the sheets in her haste. *I’m not like that. I’m not. I probably just… fell into bed drunk. Naked. With a sex toy. Because that’s normal. Totally normal. Jenny’s going to hear about this and never let me live it down. I’ll be the laughingstock of the hen do. ‘Oh, look, it’s Rachael, the accidental lesbian!’ Kill me now.*
She bolted for the bathroom, the strap-on bouncing awkwardly with every step, and locked the door behind her. Her reflection in the mirror stared back, wide-eyed and horrified, as she fumbled with the unfamiliar buckles. “Come on, you stupid thing, get off!” she muttered, her fingers trembling. “I swear, if anyone sees me like this, I’m moving to bloody Antarctica. No friends, no hen parties, just penguins. Penguins don’t judge.”
After what felt like an eternity, the contraption finally came loose, and she shoved it into the bottom of the bathroom trash can, burying it under a pile of tissues for good measure. Her heart was still racing as she splashed cold water on her face, trying to scrub away the shame and confusion swirling in her chest. *Nothing happened. Nothing. I got drunk, passed out, and… and that’s it. End of story. Niamh doesn’t need to know. Nobody needs to know.*
Emerging from the bathroom, she held her breath, half-expecting Niamh to be awake and smirking at her with that infuriating confidence. But the other woman was still asleep, blissfully unaware of the crisis unfolding mere feet away. Rachael didn’t waste a second. She threw on the first clothes she could find—a crumpled sundress and mismatched sandals—and grabbed her purse, determined to escape before any awkward questions could arise.
She slipped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that felt like a lifeline. The hallway was mercifully empty, and she hurried toward the hotel’s breakfast buffet where the rest of the hen party would be nursing their hangovers. Her mind churned with a mix of dread and denial, her resolve hardening with every step. She’d avoid Niamh for the rest of the weekend. She’d pretend last night—whatever it was—never happened. And those strange, unsettling flutters in her chest? Those were just the aftereffects of too much vodka. Nothing more.
As she pushed open the door to the dining room and spotted Jenny waving her over with a mimosa in hand, Rachael forced a smile. “Morning, bride-to-be,” she called, her voice brighter than she felt. “Let’s never speak of last night again, yeah?”
Jenny laughed, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath Rachael’s carefully constructed facade. “Deal. But you’re buying the next round tonight. No excuses.”
Rachael nodded, sliding into a seat as far from the door—and any chance of Niamh’s arrival—as possible. She could do this. She could bury the confusion, the questions, the memory of bare skin and sharp green eyes. She had to. Because Rachael wasn’t that kind of girl. She wasn’t. And she’d spend the entire bloody weekend proving it.
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