Chapter 13: The Party and the Drunken Fall
The air in the renovated loft apartment was thick with bass and the sweet, cloying scent of jasmine incense, battling with the sharper notes of spilled beer and ambition. Someone from the art college had hung fairy lights in chaotic webs across the exposed brick, casting everyone in a soft, forgiving glow that did little to hide the sharp edges in the room. It was the kind of party Rosewood specialized in: casual on the surface, a live wire underneath.
Elena had arrived with a singular, desperate purpose: to get out of her own head. The shut door of her bedroom, the cold strategy uncoiling within her, the static that was now a constant hum—it all needed to drown. She beelined for the drinks table, bypassing the craft beer for a bottle of vodka, and poured a generous three fingers into a red plastic cup. She didn’t bother with mixers. The burn was the point.
For the first hour, she was a social butterfly with a broken wing, flitting from one liar to the next. She found Spencer by the bookshelf, arguing politely with some guy about geopolitical theory. Elena slid in, hooking her arm through Spencer’s, leaning her head on her shoulder. “He’s wrong,” Elena declared, her voice already loose. “You’re always right.” Spencer had smiled, tight and worried, but let her stay.
She found Aria next, who was perched on a windowsill, listening to Ezra recite something that sounded suspiciously like his own prose. Elena plopped down between them, her back to Ezra, and launched into a loud, detailed story about a pigeon she’d seen that morning. Aria’s eyes widened, a silent thank you.
Hanna was by the snacks, and Emily was near the speakers, Alison’s arm possessively around her waist. Elena hugged Hanna too hard, spilling a little vodka on her top, then dragged Emily into a dance, spinning her away from Alison’s grasp with a drunken, “She’s my friend too, you know!” Alison’s smile never wavered, but her blue eyes tracked Elena like a sniper.
She ignored them all—Ezra’s annoyed frown, Alison’s calculated calm, the whole predatory ecosystem. She drank. The vodka bottle was her date, her confidant, her weapon against the noise. With each swallow, the edges softened. The faces of the ‘A’ network partners blurred into a harmless, smudged background. Mona’s laugh from across the room sounded like tin bells. Alex Drake was a pale ghost by the fireplace, talking low with Charlotte. Jason held court near the balcony doors. They were all here, her family’s beautiful, dangerous constellation, but for now, she was orbiting elsewhere, a drunken satellite.
Hours bled together. The music swelled. Her laughter became louder, less controlled. Her steps developed a sway, a teetering rhythm independent of the beat. She was gloriously, purposefully wasted. The weight was gone. The static was just… music.
She decided, through the pleasant haze, to go find her siblings. They were her anchor, her messy, complicated harbor. She wanted to collapse on them, to feel their hands in her hair again, to let their particular noise swallow her whole. She pushed off from the wall she’d been leaning against and navigated the crowd, a ship listing badly.
She didn’t make it. A hand caught her elbow, firm but not harsh. The scent of sandalwood and clean linen cut through the party fog. Wren.
“Steady on,” he said, his British accent a cool balm.
Melissa appeared at her other side, a faint, knowing smile on her lips. “You’re walking a fascinating line, Elena.”
“I’m having a good time,” Elena slurred, grinning up at them. “A really, really good time.”
“That’s abundantly clear,” Melissa murmured. She exchanged a look with Wren over Elena’s head. “Come with us. You need some water.”
“Don’t wanna water,” Elena protested, but she let herself be steered, their bodies forming a wall around her, guiding her away from the main room, down a short hall, and into a darkened bedroom. The door clicked shut, muffling the party to a dull throb.
A lamp flicked on. It was a guest room, impersonal and tidy.
Wren turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders. “You’re absolutely pissed, darling.”
“I’m happy,” Elena insisted, her words running together. “Just wanna be happy.”
“This isn’t happiness,” Melissa said, coming to stand behind her. “This is a cry for help painted in vodka. We can’t have you making a scene out there.” Her hands came to rest on Elena’s hips.
“We have to punish you for being so careless,” Wren said, his voice dropping, taking on a different tone. A thrill, sharp and hot, cut through Elena’s drunkenness. Punish. The word didn’t feel like a threat; it felt like an offer. A way to feel something sharper, clearer than the fog.
“Okay,” she breathed.
Melissa’s hands tightened. Wren’s gaze darkened. In one smooth motion, he bent Elena over the foot of the bed, her torso pressed into the duvet. Her cheek pressed against the cool fabric. She giggled, the sound muffled.
“This isn’t funny,” Melissa said, but her voice was close, warm against Elena’s ear. A hand smoothed her skirt down over her thighs, then gathered the fabric, pulling it up to her waist. The air was cool on her skin.
The first slap came from Wren’s hand, landing on the curve of her ass with a sharp, stinging crack. Elena gasped, her fingers clutching the bedspread. It wasn’t pain, not really. It was a bright, shocking focus.
“Count,” Melissa instructed from somewhere above her.
“One,” Elena whimpered.
Another slap, harder. The sting bloomed, warmth spreading under her skin. “Two!”
Wren spanked her again, and again, a steady, rhythmic punishment that turned her skin hot and sensitive. With each strike, the drunken haze receded, replaced by a raw, hyper-present awareness. The texture of the bedspread under her nails. The sound of her own ragged breathing. The predatory stillness of Melissa watching.
By the time he reached ten, Elena was panting, her body throbbing. Wren paused, his hand resting on the heated skin. “Good girl,” he murmured. The praise went straight to her core, a different kind of heat.
She heard the rustle of clothes, the click of a belt buckle. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of him, not at her entrance, but pushing against her asshole. She tensed.
“Relax,” Wren commanded, his voice rough. He spit into his hand, worked it over himself, and pressed again. This time, with the alcohol loosening her inhibitions and her body alight from the spanking, she yielded. The initial breach was a burning, stretching fullness that stole her breath. She cried out, a short, sharp sound.
“Shhh,” Melissa soothed, her hands now in Elena’s hair. “Take it. You wanted to feel something, didn’t you?”
Wren began to move, slow, deep, punishing thrusts that filled her completely. The pain morphed, blurred at the edges into a devastating, overwhelming pleasure. Each thrust jolted through her, a live wire connected directly to her clit. She was moaning now, shameless, animal sounds into the duvet.
Then Melissa shifted. She moved around the bed, straddling Elena’s face, her thighs framing Elena’s vision. She wasn’t wearing underwear. The musky, intimate scent of her filled Elena’s senses. “Clean me up,” Melissa ordered, lowering herself.
Elena didn’t hesitate. She buried her face in Melissa, her tongue finding her clit with a desperate, hungry focus. She licked and sucked, her world narrowing to the taste of Melissa, the rhythm of Wren fucking her ass, the twin points of utter subjugation. She was a vessel, being used, and it was the most freeing thing she’d ever known. The static wasn’t just quiet; it was obliterated.
Melissa’s thighs trembled. Her hips ground down against Elena’s mouth. A high, keening sound escaped her as she came, her release bitter and sharp on Elena’s tongue. The convulsions of Melissa’s orgasm triggered Elena’s own, a crashing wave that rolled through her, milking Wren’s cock inside her until he groaned, his thrusts turning erratic, and he emptied himself deep inside her with a final, shuddering push.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing. Wren pulled out slowly, leaving her feeling gaping and empty. Melissa lifted herself off Elena’s face, smoothing her dress down.
Elena rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The physical release was total, but the drunkenness had returned, softened now, layered with a deep, satiated exhaustion. She felt used, fucked silly, and she wanted more. She wanted the feeling to never end.
She clumsily pulled her skirt down, not bothering with her panties which were somewhere on the floor. She stood, her legs wobbly, the pleasant burn between her legs a reminder. She giggled, touching her swollen lips. “Thanks for the water,” she slurred.
Wren and Melissa were already rearranging their clothes, a composed unit once more. They said nothing, just watched her with knowing, satisfied eyes as she wobbled to the door.
The party noise hit her again, louder now, abrasive. She pushed through bodies, a single mission in her mind: find Jason, find Alison, collapse. She spotted them on a large sectional couch in a corner, a fortress of DiLaurentis. Jason, Alison, Charlotte, Alex. Mona was nearby, talking to someone. Safe.
She staggered over, her coordination gone. The world tilted. With a final lurch, she let herself fall, her body collapsing across their laps. Her head landed with a soft thud on Jason’s thigh, her legs tangled over Alison’s. She blinked up at the ceiling, then at their faces, which were upside down from her perspective.
“You’re upside down,” she announced, and giggled.
Jason looked down at her, his eyebrows raised. Alison’s sharp gaze scanned her face, her hair, her disheveled state.
“Hi,” Elena said, her voice a drunken singsong. She struggled to push herself up on an elbow, reached across the space, and took Alison’s cocktail from her hand, taking a large, gulping sip. It tasted of gin and regret. She handed it back, sloshing some over the rim.
Alison took the glass, her eyes never leaving Elena’s face. A slow smile spread on her lips, but it was cold, analytical. She set the glass down and reached out, her thumb brushing the corner of Elena’s mouth.
“You got a little something,” Alison said, her voice low and clear, cutting through the party din. She showed Elena her thumb, which held a smudge of deep, plum-colored lipstick. It wasn’t Elena’s shade. Alison’s smile turned razor-edged. “I think you got Melissa’s lipstick on you.”
Elena’s drunken brain fumbled with the information. The secret was out, smeared on her sister’s thumb. A giggle bubbled up, unfiltered, truth serum in the form of vodka and orgasm. She looked from Alison’s knowing eyes to Jason’s stunned face, to Charlotte’s amused smirk.
She leaned closer to Alison, her breath a hot, boozy whisper meant for all of them. “They fucked me silly.”
The words hung in the air, a bomb wrapped in a giggle. Jason’s body went rigid beneath her head. Alison’s breath caught, the only sign of her shock. Charlotte’s smirk froze, then widened into something genuinely impressed.
Alison recovered first. Her hand, the one not holding the evidence of the lipstick, came up and carded through Elena’s hair, but the gesture was different now. It was possessive, proud, and fiercely jealous all at once. She looked down at her drunken, debauched, brutally honest little sister, and something like awe flickered in her blue eyes.
“Yes,” Alison murmured, her voice a velvet threat and a promise. “I can see that they did.”
Alison’s thumb, still stained with proof, pressed against Elena’s lower lip before she wiped it on a napkin. The gesture felt like sealing an affidavit. Elena grinned, dopey and unfiltered, then made another clumsy grab for Alison’s gin and tonic.
“Thirsty,” she slurred, managing to get the rim to her mouth.
Jason smoothly intercepted, plucking the glass from her unsteady hand. “Here,” he said, reaching for a nearby bottle of water. He poured it into a fresh plastic cup, the clear liquid catching the light. “It’s vodka. Drink it all, lightweight.” He handed her the cup, his expression unreadable.
Elena took it, trusting and bleary-eyed. “You’re the best brother,” she declared, and chugged the entire contents in several loud gulps. She coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Tasteless vodka. The worst.”
She clumsily pushed herself upright, settling deeper into the couch between Jason and Alison. She swung her legs up, planting her feet in Alison’s lap. Alison’s hands settled on her ankles, a casual anchor.
“So,” Charlotte drawled from the adjacent armchair, swirling her own drink. “They fucked you silly. Where’d they take you?”
“Bedroom,” Elena sighed, leaning her head back against the couch. The water was doing nothing. “Guest room. It was tidy. Wren spanked me first.” She said it like commenting on the weather, a fact devoid of shame. “Melissa made me count. Then he fucked my ass. Melissa sat on my face.” A drunken, philosophical frown crossed her features. “It makes my head empty. In a good way. Not like the visions. It’s a different kind of empty.”
The group was preternaturally still, a circle of predators presented with a wounded, chirping bird. Jason’s jaw was tight. Alex, from the periphery, watched with cold, academic interest.
“Do you like it?” Alison asked, her voice dangerously soft. Her fingers traced the bone of Elena’s ankle.
“I liked feeling present,” Elena confessed, her eyes drifting closed. “All I could feel was them. No static. No past. No future. Just… now. I like feeling fully present here with my family, and then with Wren and Mel. They’re different empties. Both are quiet.”
She opened her eyes and turned her head toward Charlotte, a sweet, sloppy smile on her face. “I like you right now, Char. You’re just sitting. You’re not being all… intim…itating. Intimidating.” She giggled at her stumbling over the word. “Normally you’re intimidating.”
Charlotte’s lips quirked. “A necessity, darling.”
“I know,” Elena nodded sagely, then her smile faded into a childlike pout. She looked at Alison, then Jason, her gaze swimming with genuine, drunken hurt. “I like when you’re your nice selves. And not being mean. I don’t like when you’re your ‘A’ personas.” She whispered the ‘A’ like it was a cursed word, though the music drowned it out.
Alison stroked her hair, the motion almost maternal. “We’re always our ‘A’ personas, El. That’s just what we are.” She leaned closer, her breath a whisper in Elena’s ear. “But maybe we can be nice more often. For you.”
Elena’s eyes welled up, overspilling with sentimental vodka tears. “Really?”
“Really,” Alison said, brushing a tear from her cheek with her thumb.
Elena giggled, then cupped her hand around her mouth, leaning toward Alison as if to share a colossal secret. She didn’t succeed in lowering her volume. “I don’t think Alex knows how to be nice.”
From her post by the bookshelf, Alex’s head turned a fraction. A muscle flickered in her jaw. She said nothing.
Jason barked a short, surprised laugh. “She’s not wrong.”
“The visions,” Alison prompted gently, her hand still moving in Elena’s hair. “You said they make you not feel present.”
The light in Elena’s eyes dimmed. She shrunk back into the couch, seeking the shelter of the cushions. “They’re not like memories. They’re like… watching a movie on a broken TV. The scenes jump. The people are wrong. Spencer was with Toby but also with Wren? Hanna was stealing but she was also crying in a police station? It’s loud. And it hurts.” She tapped her temple. “It hurts in here. It makes me feel far away from everything. From you.”
She looked at them, her hazel eyes glassy with tears and intoxication, stripped utterly bare. “I just want the noise to stop. You make noise, but it’s your noise. I know your noise. Their noise,” she gestured vaguely toward the party, toward the world of the liars, “is screaming. My noise is screaming. I can’t… I can’t find the off switch.”
Her confession hung in the air, raw and too true. It was more than they’d bargained for. They had wanted salacious details, leverage, a drunken slip about timelines. They received a wound.
Alison’s composure fractured for a single, unguarded second. Something like anguish flashed across her face, there and gone so fast Elena might have imagined it. Her hand stopped stroking and fisted gently in Elena’s hair, not to hurt, but to hold on.
“Then stay here,” Alison murmured, her voice thick. “In our noise. It’s the only one that won’t destroy you.”
Elena nodded, her eyelids becoming impossibly heavy. The adrenaline of confession was spent. The weight of the water, the vodka, the spanking, the fucking, and the sheer emotional hemorrhage pulled her down. The cacophony of the party melted into a distant roar.
“Okay,” she whispered, her body going limp against Jason’s side.
Her breathing evened out, deep and slow. She was asleep, feet still in Alison’s lap, head on Jason’s shoulder, a pawn who had just voluntarily turned her queen.
The family looked at each other over the top of her sleeping form. The pleasant masks were gone. Jason’s face was etched with a protective fury. Charlotte’s was contemplative, scheming. Alison’s was pure, unadulterated possession, and a dawning, terrifying understanding.
Her sister wasn’t just remembering. She was drowning in it. And ‘A’ wasn’t just a game to her; it was an asylum.
“We need to move her,” Jason said, his voice low and rough.
“Not yet,” Alison said, her fingers finally relaxing from Elena’s hair. She didn’t look away from her sister’s peaceful, trusting face. “Let them all see.”
Alison’s words hung in the air, a command layered with threat. Jason’s protective rigidity softened into understanding, his eyes scanning the room over Elena’s sleeping form. He saw the glances. Mona by the fireplace, her sharp gaze missing nothing. Aria and Ezra, paused in conversation, their attention snagged by the intimate tableau on the couch. Spencer, weaving through the crowd with fresh drinks, her steps faltering as she took in the scene.
Charlotte stretched her legs, a panther enjoying the sun. “She’s certainly given us a new set of variables to consider.” She sipped her drink. “The Hastings’ proclivities are one thing. Her reaction to them is quite another.”
“She’s not a variable,” Jason said, his voice low. His hand, which had been frozen in mid-air, finally settled on Elena’s shoulder. “She’s our sister. And she’s clearly not okay.”
“We knew that,” Alison said, her tone dismissing his concern as obvious. She was watching Spencer approach, a tight smile already forming on her lips. “The degree was in question. Now it’s quantified.” Her fingers brushed a strand of hair from Elena’s slack cheek. “Drowned, not swimming.”
Spencer arrived, holding two martinis. Her eyes darted from Elena’s peaceful face to Alison’s possessive stroke to Jason’s defensive posture. “Is she okay?” she asked, her voice all business. “She was pretty gone an hour ago.”
“She’s perfect,” Alison replied, not looking up. “Just tired. Our little lightweight finally hit her limit.” She finally lifted her gaze to Spencer. “You know how she gets. Pours all her energy out until there’s nothing left.”
Spencer’s jaw tightened. She knew no such thing. The Elena she’d known moderated herself, was cautious, was a planner. This unraveled creature was foreign. “Maybe I should take her home. To her home, I mean.”
“She is home,” Jason said, the words leaving no room for argument. His grip on Elena’s shoulder tightened slightly.
A flicker of frustration crossed Spencer’s face. She looked down at the martinis in her hands, as if remembering they were there. “Right. Of course. Just… if she needs anything.”
“She has everything she needs,” Alison said, her smile widening into something genuinely chilling. “Right here.”
Spencer nodded once, a quick, birdlike motion, and retreated. The message was received. Property lines had been reaffirmed.
From across the room, Emily watched the exchange, her brow furrowed. She made a move to step forward, but Mona appeared at her elbow, sliding a fresh drink into her hand. “Don’t,” Mona murmured, her voice singsong. “That’s family business. You’re just the girlfriend.” Emily flinched, and Mona smiled. “For now.”
The party’s energy began to wane. The music shifted to something slower, less insistent. Clusters of people started to dissolve, heading for coats and Ubers. The DiLaurentis corner remained, a still point in the departing chaos. They were a statue group, frozen around their sleeping centerpiece.
Alex detached herself from the shadows by the bookshelf. She walked over, her movements precise and silent. She stood for a moment, looking down at Elena. Her expression was unreadable, a clinical appraisal. “The vulnerability is a liability,” she stated flatly.
“It’s an asset,” Charlotte countered, swirling the ice in her glass. “It makes her predictable to us. And unpredictable to everyone else. That woman at the bank, the one who cries? They always open the vault for her faster.”
“She just gave the Hastings a new form of leverage,” Alex shot back, her cool eyes finding Alison’s. “Over her, and by extension, over us. You heard her. They make the visions stop. That’s a powerful hook.”
Alison listened, her face a mask of calm consideration. She watched Mona guide a reluctant Emily toward the door, watched Spencer usher a worried-looking Aria and Hanna out. The flock was scattering, leaving the core alone.
“We’ll handle the Hastings,” Alison said finally, her voice devoid of inflection. “They play a long game. So do we. And we have the home-field advantage.” She looked at Jason. “Take her upstairs. The green room. Lock the door.”
Jason moved carefully, shifting Elena’s dead weight into his arms. She murmured in her sleep, nuzzling against his chest, but didn’t wake. He carried her away from the remnants of the party, a knight removing a reclaimed prize from the field.
Alison watched them go, then stood, smoothing her dress. She turned to Charlotte and Alex. “Clean up the narrative. Spencer will be digging by morning. Make sure the only story she finds is about a girl who had too much to drink and got a little too friendly with her sister’s complicated ex-boyfriend and his wife. A sad, messy, human story.” She allowed a thin smile. “The truth is too gothic to be believed.”
Charlotte nodded, already pulling out her phone. Alex simply watched, her arms crossed. “And the other truth?” Alex asked. “The one sleeping upstairs? The broken television in her head?”
Alison picked up her discarded gin and tonic, finishing it in one swallow. The ice cubes clicked against her teeth. “That,” she said, placing the empty glass down with a definitive click, “is ours. We fix our own problems.”
She walked toward the now-empty bar, her heels echoing on the marble. The caterers were already clearing glasses. The only light came from the fairy lights, casting long, distorted shadows. She felt, rather than saw, a presence lingering in the doorway to the hall.
It was Wren. He leaned against the frame, watching her. His expression was guarded, professional.
Alison walked up to him, stopping a foot away. She said nothing for a long moment, just let the silence do the work. Finally, she spoke, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “The treatment seems to be working.”
He gave a slight, diplomatic nod. “She was remarkably… receptive. A breakthrough in catharsis, one could say.”
“One could,” Alison echoed, her tone icy. “But let’s be precise. You provided a release valve. You don’t get to be her cure.” She took a half-step closer, invading his space. “If you or your wife ever use that ‘cure’ to pull her away from this family again, the next treatment will be administered by me. And it will be terminal.”
Wren held her gaze, a faint, challenging smirk on his lips. “Understood. Though I’d argue we didn’t pull. She pushed. Quite enthusiastically.”
Alison’s hand shot out, faster than he could react, and gripped his chin, her nails digging into his jaw. “Semantics are for people with time to waste.” She released him with a slight push. “Your role is palliative. Remember your place.”
She turned and walked away, leaving him in the darkening room. The party was over. The real work was just beginning.
Upstairs, in the green guest room, Jason laid Elena on the bed. He removed her shoes, draped a blanket over her. In the dim light from the hallway, her face was smooth, untroubled. The smudged mascara, the misplaced lipstick—they were the only evidence of the night’s chaos.
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her breathe. The anger that had tightened his chest downstairs began to thaw into a colder, more directed resolve. The Hastings had crossed a line they didn't even know was drawn. His sister was not their therapy experiment.
Elena’s phone, tucked in her clutch on the nightstand, buzzed. A text notification lit up the screen.
He shouldn’t look. He knew he shouldn’t.
He picked it up. The screen was unlocked, the password a birthday he recognized. The text was from Spencer.
Spence: Check footnote four. The barn fire dates Jason gave us are wrong. By a week. Why would he lie?
The air left Jason’s lungs. He stared at the screen, then at his sleeping sister. The static in her head was leaking. And it was pointing directly at him.
He deleted the message, placed the phone back on the table. His own heartbeat was a drum in his ears. He stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the black expanse of the DiLaurentis property.
Downstairs, a door clicked shut. The house settled into a false quiet. Jason turned from the window, his silhouette a tense cutout against the night. The truth was a virus, and Elena was patient zero. Containment had just become his only priority. He walked back to the bed, placed a kiss on her forehead, and left, locking the door behind him.
The click of the lock was the loudest sound in the world.
In the dark, Elena’s eyes opened. They were clear. Sober. She had been awake since the moment Jason lifted her from the couch.
She stared at the ceiling, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall. She replayed every word she’d slurred, every confession she’d made, every reaction she’d observed. The worry on Spencer’s face. The calculation in Alison’s. The cold fury in Jason’s.
She slowly brought her fingers to her lips, where Alison had wiped away Melissa’s lipstick. A faint, grim smile touched her mouth in the dark.
The performance was over. The feedback had been invaluable.
She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket tight under her chin, and closed her eyes. For the first time in months, the noise in her head wasn't a scream. It was a whisper, crystal clear and perfectly orchestrated. It sounded like her own voice. It sounded like a plan.