My Best Friend Mocked Me in Front of a Group of Men at a Party—Then the Terrace Door Locked Behind Us

My best friend and I were at a party after her breakup when a group of tall, intimidating-looking men walked in. “We should go,” I whispered to Vanessa, already feeling something turn wrong in the room.

Instead of listening, she turned toward them and practically shouted, “You always want to leave when the hot guys show up. Are you jealous of me or something?”

The men looked over, and I watched their faces change in a way that made my stomach tighten, like sharks catching the scent of blood. Vanessa was already moving toward them with that desperate little bounce in her step she got anytime a man gave her attention.

“Birthday shots,” she squealed, grabbing my wrist.

Her nails dug into my skin as she dragged me toward the terrace. The men followed behind us, spreading out as they moved. By the time we stepped outside, they were already positioning themselves around us.

Then the terrace door clicked shut behind us.

Click.

The automatic lock engaged, and in an instant we were trapped out there with them. Vanessa was giggling like it was cute, like this was just another flirtatious party moment and not something much darker.

“Vanessa,” I said, but she was already pressed up against one of them, the one in the ugly designer shirt.

Another guy stood by the door, blocking it without making a show of it. He looked casual, but I knew exactly what he was doing.

“Your friend looks scared,” one of them said with a laugh.

“She’s always like this around men,” Vanessa said. “Probably because she hasn’t been touched in months, right, babe?”

My face burned. The men exchanged looks.

“That true?” Ugly Shirt asked, stepping closer.

“We should go,” I said firmly.

But Vanessa only laughed again, that fake high-pitched laugh she used when she wanted male attention more than dignity. “See, she can’t even talk to you. It’s actually sad. That’s why I brought her. Thought maybe you guys could help her loosen up.”

I pulled out my phone.

The second Vanessa saw it, her face changed completely. “No phones.”

She ripped it from my hand so hard her nails scratched deep enough to draw blood. Then she held my phone up like a trophy. “She’s always on this thing. Probably texting her mom. She still lives at home, you know.”

The men laughed harder.

Ugly Shirt took my phone from her, slipped it into his pocket, and smiled at me while he did it. “No mommy to save you now.”

Vanessa was lying, but they were loving every word. They were looking at me exactly the way she wanted them to: like I was some sheltered, nervous little girl who could be pushed around.

“Bet she’s never even done shots,” one of them said.

“Virgin everything,” another added.

Vanessa giggled.

I made a move for the door, but Vanessa threw her whole body at my legs and tackled me before I could get there. I slammed into a deck chair so hard I tasted blood in my mouth.

“You’re not ruining this for me,” she hissed.

Then, louder, performing for them again, she said, “She always does this. Such a drama queen. One time she faked a seizure to leave a date.”

I had never done that.

The men were circling closer now.

“Maybe she needs to be taught how to have fun,” Ugly Shirt said.

“Yes!” Vanessa actually clapped. “That’s what I’ve been saying. She just needs the right teachers.”

One of them grabbed my arm to pull me up, but his grip was too tight. Another reached out and touched my hair.

“Pretty thing like this shouldn’t be so uptight, right?”

“I keep telling her,” Vanessa said, rolling her eyes, “just relax. Stop being so rigid.”

I yanked away.

Vanessa looked annoyed, like I was embarrassing her. “She probably thinks you guys are going to assault her or something,” she said. “She thinks every man is a predator. It’s actually really offensive.”

The words hung there.

The men’s expressions shifted.

“We’re not predators,” Ugly Shirt said slowly.

“We’re nice guys,” Vanessa rushed to add. “The nicest.”

“Maybe she needs a drink,” the quiet one said from the bar.

“I don’t drink,” I said.

“She thinks she’s too good to drink with you,” Vanessa said immediately. “She only drinks expensive wine with her book club where they read poetry.”

She said the word poetry like it was a disease.

The quiet one started pouring shots. I saw him drop something into two of the glasses with quick, practiced movements. My stomach dropped so fast it felt like missing a step in the dark.

“Vanessa, don’t.”

“Oh my gosh,” she cut me off. “Now she’s going to say the drinks are drugged. She does this every time. Remember Duke’s party?” She turned to the men. “She accused the host of putting something in the punch. Turned out she was just a lightweight.”

That never happened. Duke’s party never happened.

But the men nodded like it did.

“Sounds like she needs to prove she trusts us,” Ugly Shirt said.

Vanessa grabbed the spiked glass.

I caught her wrist. “Stop.”

She shoved me hard enough to send me stumbling backward. “Stop what? Stop having fun? Stop making friends? Stop trying to get a boyfriend? Just because you’re miserable doesn’t mean I have to be.”

Then she held up the glass and said, “There’s nothing in this drink. Watch. I’ll prove she’s crazy.”

And she chugged the whole thing while staring straight at me.

The men watched with amused faces. The quiet one poured another shot and slid it toward me.

“Your turn,” he said.

I tried to sidestep him, but he moved with me. Then the others did too, tightening the circle.

“Guys,” Vanessa said, but her voice was already getting thick. “She—she’s not fun, I told you. Waste of time.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” one of them said.

Vanessa swayed and caught herself on the bar. “I don’t feel—”

“Lightweight,” Ugly Shirt said, but he was watching her like a documentary, clinically, almost curiously.