A sharp, sterile scent invaded my senses before I even opened my eyes.
The faint beeping of a heart monitor droned in the background, an irritating metronome ticking away at my already-frayed nerves.
My body felt like it had been set on fire and left to burn—every muscle aching, every breath sending a dull, throbbing pain through my ribs.
I tried to move, but a searing pain shot through my torso, like a blade carving through flesh.
My fingers twitched against the rough hospital sheets, as I gritted my teeth.
My throat was dry, parched as if I’d swallowed a mouthful of dust and gunpowder.
The brightness of the room hit me hard when I finally forced my eyes open.
White. Too much white.
The walls, the sheets, the glaring overhead lights—all of it made my vision blur, the intensity of it searing into my retinas like a brand.
My pupils contracted painfully, my body instinctively recoiling from the unnatural brightness.
The air was heavy with the antiseptic tang of disinfectant, mingling with something faintly metallic—blood.
I flexed my fingers, slow and methodical, testing my mobility.
Pain flared at my knuckles, the skin tight and bruised—like I had punched through something solid, unyielding.
My arm jerked slightly, and I felt the sting of an IV pulling against my skin.
I turned my head, barely suppressing a groan as stiffness protested the movement.
The IV line was taped securely to my forearm, a slow drip of glucose feeding into my veins.
I hate this shit.
The constriction of the heart monitor against my finger, the wires tangled around my chest, the restriction of my movements—it made my skin crawl.
A deep scowl settled onto my face, my jaw tightening as frustration clawed at my already-thin patience.
Then, footsteps.
Light, quick, a little too energetic.
A nurse.
"You're awake," she chirped, her voice far too bright for my current state of mind.
I turned my head slightly, pinning her with a glare that should have sent her scurrying out of the room.
But she just smiled, moving to check my vitals as if she didn’t notice—or didn’t care—about the sheer hostility radiating off me.
Why the fuck is she so happy?
My hand twitched toward the IV, the urge to rip it out strong, but even that movement sent another sharp wave of ache rippling through my ribs. Stabbed. Maybe fractured.
I exhaled slowly through my nose, forcing my body to comply, forcing myself to be still.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice dipping into something softer, more concerned.
Before I could respond, the door swung open, and I saw my friends— Every single one— entering the room.
But it wasn’t them that made my chest tighten, my breath hitch.
Trailing behind them, standing slightly apart from the group, was her.
Iris.
For a split second, I thought I was hallucinating.
Maybe the drugs they had me on were fucking with my head.
But no! —she was real.
She was standing there, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her brown eyes clouded with something I couldn’t quite decipher.
Worry? Guilt? Why the fuck would she be worried?
My heart twisted in a painful, unfamiliar way..
I averted my gaze before the emotions clawing their way to the surface could betray me. My frown loosened, confusion settling in.
What the fuck is going on?
"Gosh, you look like shit," Aiden smirked, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of relief, maybe, or something softer that he’d never admit to.
"So comforting," I rasped, my voice hoarse from disuse. I rolled my eyes, though even that small movement sent a dull ache radiating through my skull.
The doctor entered the room before I could process anything else, giving me a quick once-over.
He barely spared me a glance before declaring, “He’s all right now. Just needs to rest. His injuries are healing faster than expected.”
And then, like that, he turned to leave.
But what caught my attention wasn’t him—it was Iris following him out.
Her eyes were downcast, her fingers gripping the hem of her sweater like she was trying to hold herself together.
A sharp pang shot through my chest.
What the fuck was she doing here?
I frowned, still disoriented, my mind scrambling to make sense of everything.
She…left. She didn’t trust me. She walked away.
"How did I get here?" I asked, my voice rough as I reached for the glass of water on the bedside table.
Hudson stepped closer, his large frame blocking some of the harsh hospital light.
With more gentleness than I expected, he adjusted the pillow behind my back, his touch careful, calculated.
I looked up at him, caught off guard by the small gesture. He wasn’t usually like this.
"Iris found you lying on the road, beaten up," Alex said, his tone flat.
I choked on the sip of water I had just taken. My grip on the cup tightened, my knuckles going white.
Iris?
My brain short-circuited. My breath came faster, uneven.
She found me? She was the one who brought me here?
"Iris?" I repeated, my voice sharp despite the rawness in my throat. "But she left that time."
"Yeah, but she came back," Liam said, his voice quieter, as if he didn’t want to disrupt the fragile tension in the room.
“So yeah, she saved your ass,” Susan added, folding her arms across her chest.
A bitter taste coated my tongue.
Iris saved me.
My stomach twisted with something I didn’t want to name.
Anger? Guilt? Resentment?
I didn’t fucking know, and that pissed me off even more.
"How long have I been in the hospital?" I forced out, my throat tight, the words nearly suffocating me.
"Two weeks," Felix answered solemnly, the usual playfulness absent from his voice.
Two weeks! Two fucking weeks.
How much had I missed?
What had she been doing all this time?
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my body screaming in protest as I forced myself to stand.
Hudson's hand shot out, gripping my arm to steady me. "The fuck are you doing? Sit your ass down."
My body protested as I tried to push past him, a sharp pain flaring up in my ribs, but I gritted my teeth and shoved his hand away.
"I need to talk to her," I muttered, my voice hoarse but unyielding.
"Yeah, and you also need to not die five minutes after waking up," Felix scoffed, stepping in front of me like a human blockade.
Susan took a step forward. "You have to rest," she insisted, her voice softer but no less firm.
I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t.
My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out their protests.
My mind was spinning, still trying to piece together how the hell we had all ended up here.
"Why are you all back, suddenly?" The words came out sharp, cutting through the tension in the room.
I hadn’t meant for it to sound so accusatory, but it did. Who cares?
Hudson’s expression softened slightly, but his response caught me off guard. "Well, a little girl said friends should trust each other through hard times, not turn their backs."
Trust? My jaw clenched.
After everything that’s happened? It seemed almost laughable.
Hudson wasn’t done.
He took a step closer, his presence heavy with something unreadable.
"Why did you kill Dimitri?" His voice was lower now, more serious.
The tension in the room shifted, thickened, pressing against my ribs harder than my injuries.
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I stretched my sore body, rolling my shoulders to shake off the weight of the question.
But I could feel Hudson’s eyes on me, watching, waiting—judging.
Then, the door creaked open.
And just like that, everything else faded into the background.
Iris stepped inside, a bowl of porridge in her hands.
Her presence was like a sudden rush of warmth in the ice-cold void I had been drowning in.
But warmth could burn.
Susan was the first to speak, breaking the silence with a genuine smile.
Did you eat something?" she asked Iris, her tone light, as if trying to ease the tension in the air.
Iris shook her head slightly, her gaze flickering to me—cautious, worried.
Why is everyone acting so differently?
Iris turned her attention back to me, her brown eyes soft, hesitant.
"Ace, sit properly," she murmured.
The gentleness in her voice made something in me snap.
I didn’t want her care. I didn’t want her pity. I didn’t want her here.
"Get out." The words left my mouth cold, detached, dead.
Iris froze, confusion flickering across her face before hurt seeped in, cracking through her expression like a fragile piece of glass about to shatter.
"Huh?" Her voice was small, uncertain, as if she hadn’t heard me correctly.
I didn’t repeat myself.
Instead, I forced myself to stand, tearing the IV from my arm with a sharp tug.
Pain ripped through me, hot and punishing, but I welcomed it.
It was better than feeling anything else.
The monitor beside my bed beeped frantically as I grabbed her wrist, my grip too rough, too desperate.
I dragged her out of the room, my vision blurring at the edges, my body screaming in protest, my head spinning.
But I didn’t care.
I couldn’t let her stay.
I wouldn’t.
She needed to leave. She needed to get the hell away from me.
My back hit the cold wall as my knees threatened to give out, but I didn’t let go of her.
"Go away and never come back," I spat, forcing every ounce of venom into my voice.
The words burned as they left my throat, scorching the inside of my mouth like acid.
Iris flinched, her lips parting in shock.
"W-What? W-Why?" She stuttered, her voice trembling.
Her eyes—those damn eyes—were wide with hurt, and it cut through me like a knife.
I gulped, my throat tight and dry.
Every fiber of my being screamed at me to take it all back, to pull her into my arms and tell her it was all a mistake.
That I didn’t mean it. That I never meant it.
But I couldn’t.
Instead, I forced myself to repeat the words that would shatter her heart, again, the words that disgusted me as they left my lips.
"I said, go away from me." This time, my voice was colder, harsher—devoid of any warmth.
I locked eyes with her, forcing myself to look, to see what I was doing.
The disgust wasn’t just for her. It was for myself.
Every syllable tasted like poison. Every breath I took burned like raging fire in my lungs.
She blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear the haze of disbelief clouding her mind.
But I couldn’t stop now. I had to finish this.
No matter how much it hurt her.
No matter how much it destroyed me.
I exhaled sharply, my patience snapping, my own anger—at myself, at this situation, at her—boiling over.
"You said you regret it, then what the fuck are you doing here?! You want money, Iris? How much? Crores? Millions?" My voice rose, sharp with a cruelty I didn’t mean but needed to use.
She flinched at my tone, shoulders tensing before suddenly… they loosened.
Then, she did something that made my stomach twist in pure dread.
Her lips twitched up. A smile.
"Money… of course."
Her voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. But her eyes—they were empty.
"Why do you think I even stayed with you all this time!?" she exclaimed, suddenly, her voice laced with an anger that barely masked the pain underneath.
I clenched my fists.
I couldn’t let this go on. I had to cut her deeper.
Had to end this before she saw through me.
“Because I l–”
"You think I loved you?" I sneered, cutting her off, watching as the slight furrow in her forehead smoothed out in confusion.
Before she could react, I twisted the knife deeper.
"You were just a bed warmer for me, Iris. A fucking bed warmer."
I spat the words like venom, clicking my tongue in fake disdain.
A lie. A disgusting, sickening lie.
But I had to say it. Had to watch as the light in her eyes flickered.
Had to watch as I destroyed the only good thing I ever had.
Her breath hitched, and I saw it. The exact moment her heart shattered.
She stood there, her small hands gripping the hem of her sleeves, knuckles white.
She was holding back, trying so hard to pretend like it didn’t hurt.
But it did.
I made sure of it.
I watched helplessly as the tears she had been holding back finally spilled over, rolling down her cheeks in silent agony.
"You're not even my status," I continued, forcing my voice into something cold, arrogant, ruthless.
She needed to hate me.
"Why do you think I would love a girl like you? A girl who is horrible, useless, and inexperienced?" I let out a scoff, shaking my head as if the very thought repulsed me.
"What do you even have that makes you think I would love you? The very idea of it makes me disgusted with myself."
The words came easier now, though they left a bitter, nauseating taste in my mouth.
Her face crumpled, her hands falling limp at her sides. The color in her brown eyes—those eyes I had once adored—faded into something lifeless, hollow.
The silence that followed was suffocating. A void.
She stood there, frozen, as if she were too scared to move, because moving would make it real. Moving would make it hurt.
But it was already real. And she was already hurting.
"What? You don’t wanna go?" I taunted, my voice sharp like shattered glass. "Weren’t you yelling that you despise me? Huh?"
My throat was burning. My lungs felt like they were collapsing.
My knees buckled slightly, and I stumbled back—the pain finally catching up to me.
A hand shot out, gripping my arm before I could collapse.
Hudson.
His fingers dug into my shoulder, steadying me with more force than necessary.
His voice was a whisper, but the anger in it was unmistakable. "Ace, what the fuck are you doing?"
I don’t know.
I don’t fucking know anymore.
Iris looked at me then.
Not with anger. Not with betrayal. But with nothing.
Like she had already given up.
Like she had finally accepted that I had never loved her.
I gulped, my vision blurring.
Finally, her voice, when it finally came, was barely a whisper. "Just a bed warmer."
She repeated it like she was testing the words on her tongue, trying to understand how the person she loved could throw them at her so carelessly.
Then, she laughed. A hollow, bitter chuckle that sent a shiver down my spine.
Not a laugh of amusement.
A laugh of acceptance.
She took a step back, slow and deliberate, distancing herself not just physically, but emotionally.
Her tiny hands rubbed at her eyes, frantically wiping away the tears, as if that would erase the pain. As if she could will it away.
She had believed in me. And I crushed her.
"I will go away," she murmured, her head hanging low, her voice shaking, fragile like a thread stretched too thin, about to snap. "But I wanted to tell you something."
Something inside me twisted at the way she spoke, like she was ashamed of herself.
As if my words had made her believe she deserved this.
She inhaled deeply, a shuddering breath that made my stomach churn.
I should stop her. I should tell her I didn’t mean any of it.
But I stood there—silent. Cowardly.
"I saw you," she confessed suddenly, voice raw, cracking at the edges.
I frowned. Saw me?
"Years ago, before I ever set foot in the club. Before Noah sold me to you."
The moment she said his name, my body went rigid.
Noah. That fucking bastard.
But her next words sent a chill down my spine.
"I was ready to end it all, standing on that bridge with no hope left."
My heart lurched. No.
She swallowed thickly, her hands clenching into fists as if trying to hold herself together.
"But you saved me that day," she whispered, voice uneven, like she was fighting back memories she didn’t want to relive.
My blood ran cold.
She let out a humorless chuckle, a hollow sound that made my chest ache.
"You pulled me away from the bridge and scolded me for hours," she laughed bitterly, her voice laced with something sharp—something broken. "Told me that I was stupid for giving up. That I should suffer more in this world."
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she took a shaky breath. "Suffer more in this world no matter what happens."
Her tears fell freely now, but she didn’t wipe them away.
She let them fall.
"Again, I saw you in the alleys, feeding the homeless, bringing light to those who had none." Her voice was softer now, like a distant echo of something long lost. "Giving peace to those who had none."
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
She had seen me.
She had seen me before I even knew she existed.
"I respected that," she admitted, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear away the pain clouding her gaze. "I saw you there every week. I even tried to talk to you, but you just walked past me without glancing."
She smiled, but it was broken. "Then one day, you stopped coming. And I waited for you… every day… but you never came."
I remembered why I stopped.
Her voice trembled, fragile yet desperate, like she was fighting to be heard.
"That’s when I realized I started to like you," she whispered, the words spilling out as if they had been trapped inside her for years. "Because I liked how you helped people, even if it was only for a little while."
Her hands clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.
"When I was about to jump off the bridge, I blew on a dandelion."
I stilled.
Her gaze dropped to the floor, her lips parting as she took in a shaky breath.
"Wishing… that I wanted a hug."
My throat tightened.
"Then, after some minutes, you pulled me off the bridge, unknowingly pulling me into your arms. Giving me something that you didn’t know I needed so desperately." Her voice cracked on that last word.
"After that," she continued, letting out a bitter chuckle, "I blew on every dandelion, wishing for you to come back. Then you did."
She shook her head, as if ashamed of herself. "More like... my one stupid decision made me come back to you when I started to lose hope."
I felt the sting in my chest deepen, the pain creeping into my bones like a slow, suffocating poison.
She lifted her head then, her gaze locking onto mine.
"But then I got to know about you. Who you really were."
Her sorrow crashed into me, so deep, so consuming, that for a moment, I swore it could drown us both.
"I tried not to like you again," she whispered, her voice cracking, "but I started to love you instead."
My breath hitched.
No.
No, no, no.
Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. "The man I loved... he died."
My stomach twisted painfully.
"He died in those very alleys where he brought light to others.
You're not him."
Something inside me broke.
Before I could react, her hand shot up, gripping my shirt collar, yanking me forward.
Her breath hit my skin, warm but ice-cold in intent.
"Did you kill Isaac?" Her voice was nothing more than a murmur, but the weight behind it shook me.
Her eyes now burned with something else— hatred. Agony. Betrayal.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my chest tightening painfully.
"No," I whispered.
As soon as the word left my mouth, her fingers released me.
Then she shoved me.
My body lurched backward—pain seared through me, my vision swaying as I staggered.
Hudson’s grip caught me before I collapsed completely, but I barely registered his touch.
My chest felt like it was caving in.
My hands—shaking.
My everything—failing.
Pain clawed at my chest, my palm slick with something warm.
My whole body felt like it was shutting down, yet all I could do was stare at her.
Her lips parted as she looked down at me.
"You saved me, and now I saved you."
I swallowed hard, my throat burning.
Hudson tried to straighten me, but I couldn’t stand. I had no strength left.
Tears streamed down her face, silent, steady, never-ending.
But she didn’t sob.
She didn’t break.
I did.
Then, she whispered the words that would haunt me for the rest of my fucking life.
"The man I loved, he died.
So don’t ever show me your face again.
You’re a disgrace to the man I love."
And then—she turned and walked away.
With those final words, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the silence, each step heavier than the last.
Each one dragging me deeper into the abyss of my own self-destruction.
I stared after her, my vision blurring—not from tears, but from something worse.
Emptiness.
Then—my body gave out.
I barely felt it as my legs buckled, my strength completely abandoning me. One moment, I was standing. The next—
I hit the ground.
A sharp jolt of pain shot through my spine as my butt slammed against the cold floor. I barely reacted.
My chest felt tight, each breath a struggle, as if my lungs had forgotten how to function.
I didn’t even realize my IV line was ripped out until I felt something warm trickle down my fingers.
Blood.
It dripped from the back of my hand, pooling onto the floor, staining the pristine white tile like a silent scream.
The pain should have registered.
But it didn’t.
Because all I could hear were her words.
A haunting reminder of a love that was never meant to be, of a man I could never be.
My head slumped forward, my breathing ragged, body shaking— from pain, from weakness.
A deep, suffocating regret clawed at my chest, tearing through the walls I had spent years building.
My eyes snapped open at the furious pounding on my bedroom door, jolting me out of the suffocating weight of sleep.
I blinked, disoriented, the remnants of the dream still clinging to my mind like a dark cloud.
My head throbbed with the kind of ache that seeped into my bones, a reminder that even unconsciousness wouldn’t grant me relief.
I rubbed at my temples, willing the heaviness away as the knocking grew more insistent, the sound slicing through the haze of my thoughts.
"What now?"
Dragging my feet to the door, I ripped it open with more force than necessary, my irritation sharpening the edges of my voice. “What?”
Aiden and Felix stood on the other side, grinning like they had just pulled off the greatest prank in the world.
Aiden, as usual, didn’t give a damn.
He strolled past me like he owned the place, flopping onto my bed and stretching out like a lazy cat.
"Why do you sound like a grouchy old man with no life?," he shot back, tilting his head at me with a shit-eating grin.
Felix leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Maybe because he doesn’t have a life? I mean, look at him. He looks like he’s been through hell."
I scowled, rubbing the back of my neck. "I look fine."
Felix snorted. "Yeah? You look like you’ve been drinking bleach for breakfast. Did you even sleep for more than an hour?"
"Obviously." It was a lie.
Aiden propped himself up on his elbows, scanning me with an annoying level of amusement. "Lemme guess. You had a dream about her."
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
Felix sighed dramatically. "Of course he did."
I forced out a scoff, walking past them toward the bathroom. "I don’t dream about people who don’t matter."
Aiden laughed. "Yeah? Then why do you look like you just watched your soulmate die in front of you?"
I ignored him, shutting myself inside the bathroom before I did something reckless, like rip his head off.
With a heavy sigh, I turned the shower on, stripping down as I stepped under the freezing water.
It hit my skin like a slap, but I didn’t move.
I let it numb me, hoping it would drown out the thoughts clawing at my mind.
Hoping it would drown out her.
But she was still there, lingering in every drop of water sliding down my skin, in every exhale that felt heavier than the last.
I braced myself against the tiled wall, closing my eyes.
She had no idea.
No idea that her absence felt like a fresh wound, one that wouldn’t close no matter how much I tried to stitch it shut.
I had done this.
So why did I feel like I was the one drowning?
The sound of the door opening snapped me back to reality.
Felix’s voice cut through the sound of the water. "Well, Hudson found a date for you."
My eyes snapped open. I turned my head sharply, finding him sitting casually on the marble counter by the sink, arms crossed.
"What?" I snapped, harsher than I intended.
Felix smirked. "I said Hudson found you a date. You know, dinner, conversation—maybe even a little fucking if you’re lucky."
“You know, a normal person’s way of moving the fuck on,” he added.
The words barely registered. A cold, ugly feeling settled in my stomach.
A date.
With someone who wasn’t her.
The thought of sitting across from another woman, making meaningless conversation, pretending to care, pretending she was Iris—it made my jaw clench.
It felt like a betrayal. A disgrace.
An insult to what I had lost, to what I had chosen to destroy with my own hands.
Felix cocked his head, studying me. "You know, this is the part where you say, ‘great, I could use the distraction.’ Not where you look like you wanna stab me."
I didn’t respond.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
The very idea of moving on from her sent a sharp, unrelenting pang through my chest.
Moving on meant admitting she was gone.
It meant accepting that I let her go.
Iris had left a void in me that nothing could fill.
And I didn’t want to fill it.
Aiden sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Ace, come on. You can’t live like this."
I let out a slow breath, my fingers pressing into my temples as if that would ease the pressure building inside my skull.
"Like what?"
"Like you’re mourning someone who’s still alive," Aiden shot back, his patience beginning to fray. "Like she was the only woman who ever existed in your life."
She was.
Not in the way they thought.
Not in the way anyone would ever understand.
"You have to let go," Aiden continued, pushing past his usual indifference to poke at something raw inside me.
I turned my head slightly, fixing him with a look that made most men wither on sight.
But Aiden wasn’t most men. Neither was Felix.
They had seen me at my worst. And they were still standing.
"I don’t love her," I lied, the words slipping from my lips before I could stop them.
The silence that followed was thick with disbelief.
Felix let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure. And I don’t drink."
Aiden looked just as unimpressed. "You could at least lie better."
I said nothing.
Because in truth, If she stayed, she would die.
If she stayed, I would be the one to kill her.
The blood on my hands was already thick, layered, suffocating.
Hers was the one sin I could never atone for.
And yet, I still wanted her.
Even knowing the cost, I still wanted her more than I needed my next breath.
I hadn’t let her go at all.
She still ruled me.
She still commanded me.
She could break me. Rip me apart piece by piece. And I’d still crawl back.
She had, quite literally, put a knife in my chest.
And yet, if she stood in front of me now, looking at me with those damn gold-flecked eyes— I’d let her do it again.
"But what’s the harm in going on a date?" Felix asked, his voice almost pleading. "It’s one dinner. One night. It’s not like you have to marry her."
He didn’t get it.
He didn’t understand that this wasn’t about moving on.
This was about worship.
This was about the fact that I had already given her everything.
That there was nothing left for anyone else.
"I don’t like it," I stated, my tone flat, final.
Felix rolled his eyes. "Jesus, man, it’s just dinner—"
"Don’t," I cut in sharply.
A flicker of confusion crossed his face before realization dawned.
There was no room for argument, no room for compromise.
The shower had done little to wash away the thoughts of her that clung to me, stubborn and unyielding.
They left without pushing further, probably sensing they wouldn’t get anywhere.
And honestly, I was relieved.
I didn’t want to argue. I didn’t want to explain.
Good riddance.
I just wanted to be left alone with the memories that refused to let me go.
And I would be.
As I wrapped a towel around my waist, and as I did, my gaze caught my own reflection in the mirror.
The man staring back at me looked nothing like the one I used to be.
My face was sharper now, harsher—like it had been sculpted by grief and rage instead of time.
I ran a hand through my damp hair, a slow, deliberate movement.
I should’ve reached for the hairdryer, let the heat dry it within seconds, but I didn’t.
Instead, I grabbed another towel and raked it through my hair with measured precision.
It was a habit I had picked up from her.
Iris used to do it for me, rubbing the towel through my hair, laughing softly when the strands stuck up in wild directions.
I used to sit there, unmoving, letting her do as she pleased because it made her happy.
Because I had liked the way her fingers brushed against my scalp, the way she had treated me like a feather.
And now—
Now it was just another meaningless action.
Another reminder of everything I had lost.
Dressed in a gray waistcoat suit with a black tie, I made my way downstairs, Hudson was already waiting.
He was pacing in front of the door, one hand running through his hair while the other gestured wildly as he spoke— probably arguing with Alex on the phone.
When he spotted me, his eyes lit up with a mix of relief and exasperation.
"There he is," Hudson drawled, tucking his phone away. "Thought I was gonna have to drag your ass out of bed."
I ignored him, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt as I stepped onto the final stair.
Hudson leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his grin widening. "You clean up nice. Shame it’s wasted on a guy who looks like he’s walking into his own funeral."
I shot him a sharp look. "It might as well be."
The words left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Hudson scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, if you try anything, I will physically drag you out of here and throw you in the damn car myself."
I could tell he’d been waiting for me, probably wondering if I was going to bolt at the last minute.
I wanted to.
But I owed him.
I owed him for a bullet through his father’s skull.
And now, I was in his debt.
My own place was unbearable now. Cold. Frigid. Empty.
I’d been staying at Hudson’s because I could barely breathe in my own home.
Every damn corner had her in it.
The couch, where she used to sit, legs curled up beneath her.
The kitchen, where she’d cook for us and stood on her tiptoes to reach the cabinets, stubborn as hell.
My bed, where—
I exhaled sharply.
Taking a seat on the couch, I grabbed the glass of water on the table, letting the coolness ground me.
The silence, however, didn’t last long.
Hudson sat beside me, elbows on his knees, his urgency almost palpable. "We had a deal, remember?"
I clenched my jaw.
A deal. Right.
"Fine," I bit out, the word sharp enough to cut.
I had agreed, hadn’t I?
"Fine," I bit out, the word sharp enough to cut.
I had agreed, hadn’t I?
He wanted to make up for the past.
And me? I was doing this because I owed him.
Because I had robbed him of something, and if this was what he wanted in return—if a fucking date was the price of my debt—then fine.
"Perfect," Hudson said, as if everything was settled.
He clapped me on the back—too hard, like he was trying to shake the resistance out of me. "I booked the restaurant. Her name’s Clara Williams. Sharp at six. Pick her up."
He was already on his feet, moving like he had somewhere more important to be.
"Perfect," he repeated, nodding as if that was that.
I barely acknowledged him, my mind too clouded with the weight pressing down on my chest, suffocating and relentless.
Hudson had always tried to help, in his own way.
He was one of the few people who had stuck around after everything. After the truth.
After I told him what really happened that night.
I had watched the way his face shifted, the flicker of pain in his features, the betrayal that had cracked through his usual calm.
But in the end, he had stood up again, like he always did.
Like all of them had.
My friends had never brought that night up again.
They understood. They had accepted it.
But boy, Hudson was being a bitch now.
The way he pushed, the way he tried to shove me into something I didn’t want—didn’t need—was starting to suffocate me more than the memories ever could.
His concern felt like chains, tightening around my throat, binding me to a fate I had no interest in choosing.
I respected him—I always had.
But right now?
This wasn’t about me.
This was about him, about his way to fix what could never be fixed.
A way for us to be even.
But we would never be even.
Not with this. Not with anything.
So, fine.
I’d do this. I’d go on this stupid fucking date.
Not because I wanted to.
Not because it would fix anything.
But because Hudson wanted to make up for what he couldn’t change.
And because I was still paying the price for what I already had.
I watched him leave, a mixture of resentment and resignation churning in my gut.
The moment I stepped into the basement, the scent of rot and sweat curled in my nostrils.
The cold gnawed at my skin, sinking into my bones like an old companion. It smelled of suffering, of time stretched too thin, of hope bled dry.
The flickering fluorescent light cast long shadows, adding to the oppressive atmosphere.
The guards straightened as I passed, their eyes flickering with the quiet reverence I’d beaten into them.
One of them extended a plate toward me—a warm meal meant for the prisoner inside.
The door creaked as I pushed it open, the sound slicing through the thick silence.
The light in the room was dim, weak, like even it had given up on illuminating this place.
The cell was small, barely enough room to stand, and the air was thick with the stench of sweat and filth.
Ivan sat slumped against the far wall, his body limp, but I knew better than to assume he had given up.
His wrists were raw from the restraints, skin torn where he’d fought against the metal.
His face was swollen, a mix of yellowing bruises and fresh cuts, his lip split, dried blood crusted at the edges.
His breathing was shallow but steady. Still alive.
Good.
“Ivan,” I greeted, my voice almost cheerful as I crouched before him. “Miss me?”
His head lifted sluggishly, dark eyes burning with hatred.
His lips parted, but whatever insult he had planned died before it left his mouth.
His gaze dropped to the plate in my hand, nostrils flaring at the scent of food.
I placed it down between us, just out of his reach.
The silence stretched, thick and charged.
I could see it in the way his fingers twitched, the way his body tensed against the chains.
Hunger was a funny thing— it stripped men down to their most primal selves.
It didn’t matter how much rage they carried. It didn’t matter how much they wanted to spit in my face.
Hunger always won.
Ivan lunged forward, but the chains snapped him back with a sharp clink.
His body jolted from the impact, a hiss of pain slipping through his clenched teeth.
I laughed. Low. Cruel.
"Try, try, but don’t cry," I mocked, resting my elbow on my knee as I watched him struggle.
His chest rose and fell, his breath ragged, but he didn’t speak.
His silence didn’t fool me.
It was the silence of a man trying to hold onto whatever dignity he had left, a man who still thought he could resist.
But I knew better.
I leaned forward slightly, just enough to lower my voice to a whisper.
"How does it feel, Ivan?" My tone was smooth, almost gentle. "To be at my mercy? To know that the only thing standing between you and death is me?"
His jaw tightened, but his stomach betrayed him, releasing a pitiful growl.
I smirked. "Ah. That’s right. You’re hungry."
He didn’t respond.
"You know," I continued, dragging my fingers across the plate’s surface, "I could feed you. I could unchain you, sit you at a table, give you a meal like my favorite guard instead of a starving dog."
I tilted my head, watching the way his body stiffened. "But you don’t deserve that."
"You should’ve killed me properly, Ivan." I tapped my abdomen, right where his knife should have gone deeper. "You had your chance, and you wasted it."
I stood, brushing nonexistent dust from my suit. "I don’t have that problem. When I decide to destroy someone, I don’t stop halfway."
He swallowed, the first sign of anything other than blind defiance.
I smiled.
For days, he had resisted, holding onto whatever flicker of hope he still had.
But I could see it now, the cracks forming, the slow unraveling.
Hope was a fragile thing.
And I had all the time in the world to crush it.
As I turned to leave, I glanced back one last time, watching as Ivan stared at the plate with burning hunger, his hands trembling, his pride fighting a losing battle against his need to survive.
I didn’t need to tell him what he was realizing.
He is slowly accepting his new faith.
I found Ivan almost immediately after being discharged from the hospital.
My name had been dragged through the mud, my empire shaken, my reputation fractured—but not broken.
Ivan had tried. He had laid out everything, ripping open the veins of my business for the world to see.
He hadn’t just wanted to ruin me—he wanted to make sure I could never claw my way back.
But the thing about power? It isn’t just built on reputation.
It’s built on money.
And money, unlike trust, can fix almost anything.
I moved fast. Even before I was discharged, my men had been working to control the fallout.
By the time I stepped back into the world, the worst of it had been contained.
Loose ends had to be tied.
People who had too much to say… stopped talking.
Some disappeared. Some found their bank accounts filled with enough zeroes to suddenly forget the details they were so eager to leak.
A handful needed a more permanent solution.
I didn’t hesitate.
Hudson and Alex took care of most of them while I was stuck in the hospital.
He handled it cleanly, efficiently—removing threats with the kind of cold precision I expected from him.
I owed him for that, too.
Ivan had made one mistake— he had underestimated just how deep my influence ran.
It wasn’t hard to spin the leaks as falsified documents, planted by a rival syndicate to weaken my standing.
Politicians whose names had been dragged into the mud were quick to play along, eager to protect themselves.
Their silence came at a price, but it was a price I could afford.
Journalists who had been ready to rip me apart found themselves distracted by new, juicier scandals—carefully manufactured ones, of course.
The world’s attention was easy to manipulate when you had the right resources.
Yes, my reputation had taken a hit.
But at the end of the day, power in this world wasn’t just about reputation. It was about control, also.
It was about money.
And I still had plenty of it.
A few business partners pulled out, but they were replaced just as quickly.
Some deals were put on pause, but newer, more lucrative ones opened up.
Because the thing about reputation? It fades.
The world moves on.
Scandals die.
People forget.
But money?
Money always speaks.
Settling into the comfort of my car, Ares started the wheel, his eyes sharp on the road.
While my hand found the pendant, fingers brushing over the cold metal. A familiar weight. A piece of her.
I rolled it between my fingers, tracing its smooth edges, feeling the sharp sting of longing settle in my chest.
The metal was cold, but her warmth still lingered in it, like she had only just held it before pressing it into my hands.
She wasn't coming back. Not now. Not after I had destroyed everything.
When I finally returned to the mansion, after being discharged from the hospital, something was waiting for me.
A box. Simple. Unassuming. Placed right in front of my bedroom door.
My heart clenched. My fingers twitched.
I picked it up carefully, as if it might vanish at my touch. There was no return address, no sender, but I knew.
I knew before I even opened it.
Inside, nestled against soft black velvet, lay a key shaped pendant.
And a letter.
Her handwriting.
My pulse thrummed in my ears as I unfolded the delicate paper, my breath slowing to read each curve, each letter that her hands had traced.
“Dear Ace,
Your birthday is coming soon, so I wanted to give you something before I go to Newark. Consider this my gift. Use it when you're in danger. Take care of yourself for me.”
My mysterious girl.
The one who always seemed to know more than she let on, who kept parts of herself hidden, just out of reach.
I could handle hatred. I could handle rage. But this? This lingering warmth, this unspoken thread still tying us together—this was worse.
Because it made me want.
Want something I couldn't have.
I found myself longing for a chance. A fucking miracle.
A reality where things were different— where our paths weren’t tangled in blood and pain, where I hadn’t ruined her, where she wasn’t terrified of my touch.
A future where she could look at me and see something other than a foul monster.
But that wasn’t how our story went.
She despised me.
She had every reason to.
And maybe that was what I wanted.
Hate was easier than love.
Hate was predictable, something I could control, something I could manipulate.
If she hated me, she would run far, far away, find some idiot too naïve to see the storm in her. Maybe she already had.
Maybe she had someone by now… someone who held her when she cried, someone who wiped her tears instead of causing them.
Someone who kissed her.
No.
A sickening heat crawled under my skin at the thought. My stomach twisted, my pulse hammering against my skull.
I can't imagine those things. I won’t.
I wanted her to hate me, to push me away, because if she hated me, then maybe she could move on, maybe she could find someone who deserved her.
Maybe she would have someone by now…hugging her…ugh…
I don’t even wanna imagine those things.
I clenched the pendant so hard it bit into my palm, the metal cool and unyielding, grounding me before my thoughts spiraled into something ugly.
But at the same time…
I wanted her to love me. Still.
To wake up thinking about me, to sleep with the ache of my absence, to reach for me in the night, only to remember I wasn’t there.
To miss me so much it hurt.
To want me. To need me.
To never be free of me.
It was cruel. It was selfish. But I had never been anything else.
And I never fucking would be.
"Boss."
A voice yanked me out of my spiral, tearing through the thick fog in my mind.
Ares stood by the door, waiting. Expecting me to be present. In control.
I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to nod, shoving the emotions down where they belonged. Buried. Forgotten. Unfelt.
I pushed the car door open, stepping out with the cold, calculated efficiency I had mastered long ago.
Drowning into my work, I kept myself busy, letting the cold efficiency of my duties wash over me.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Seated in the restaurant, I let the seconds crawl by, my fingers lazily trailing over the rim of my empty wine glass.
Clara was late.
Not that I gave a damn.
She had expected me to pick her up. Expected me to play into the ridiculous dance of courtship—flattery, attention, charm.
Expected me to cater to her whims.
I don’t cater to anyone.
I exhaled slowly, glancing at my watch. Five minutes late. I’d give her ten before I walked the hell out of here.
Yet, as I sat there, my mind inevitably drifted back to thoughts of her— my sweet Mini.
I wondered if she ever thought of me, if I ever crossed her mind the way she constantly invaded mine.
Doubt it.
By now, she probably had someone new in her life.
Some guy who bought her flowers.
Who held her when she cried. Who rubbed her feet after a long day.
Some guy who wasn’t me.
My jaw clenched. I reached for my wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid before knocking it back in one swift motion.
I could almost see it—her with him. Laughing. Smiling.
Letting someone else kiss her. Letting someone else hear those soft, breathy sounds only I had ever—
I slammed the glass down a little too hard. A few heads turned.
Mind your damn business, retards.
“Excuse me.”
The voice cut through my thoughts, pulling me back into the present.
I blinked. Slowly.
Like I had all the time in the world, because honestly? I did.
Lifting my gaze, I found Clara standing there.
5’7”. Long legs. Pale, flawless skin. Green eyes shimmering with interest.
She had the kind of beauty that demanded attention.
Her red lips curled into a smile. All practiced. All intentional.
The half-shoulder gown she wore accentuated her hourglass figure
"Hello," she greeted me, voice soft, almost coy.
I merely nodded, offering her a cold, indifferent acknowledgment. I didn’t feel like pretending to care.
The effort was too much.
She hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing her face before she took the seat across from me.
And then?
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind. Not the kind where words aren’t needed.
The suffocating kind.
The kind that left too much space for my mind to wander.
Back to her.
To the girl who wasn’t here.
"So, you came here empty-handed," Clara finally broke the silence, her voice tinged with disappointment.
My eyes flicked to her, watching as she frowned, clearly expecting some grand gesture—a bouquet, a gift, some shallow, meaningless proof that I cared.
"Yeah," I replied flatly. I didn’t even try to mask my disinterest.
Her lips parted slightly, like she hadn’t expected that. Like she was re-evaluating her decision to be here.
Good.
She tried to cover it quickly, shifting the conversation to safer topics.
She talked about the weather. About work. About her latest shopping trip. Anything to fill the silence.
Her words were meaningless, hollow, bouncing off me like raindrops against a windshield.
The waiter approached, and Clara ordered a steak and fried rice, her voice laced with a hint of pride, like her choice of food somehow said something about her.
I didn’t bother ordering anything solid. Just kept the wine flowing, letting the alcohol settle in my veins, warm and numbing.
And then—when the food finally arrived—I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
Because the sight of it, of the pale, lifeless steak sitting on her plate, was just so goddamn absurd.
"What's so funny about the food?" she asked, her confusion evident in her voice.
"Your food looks like a dead person—bland and colorless," I said, my laughter escaping despite the bitterness that clung to it.
She let out a forced chuckle, clearly unsure how to respond.
She kept talking, endlessly, about herself, her work, her hobbies—anything that kept the spotlight on her.
And I sat there, drinking, nodding occasionally, but never really listening.
At some point, she reached across the table, fingers brushing against the back of my hand in what I assume was meant to be a soft, gentle touch.
I almost recoiled.
Her skin was warm, delicate. Soft.
But not the right kind of soft.
Not her kind of soft.
After what felt like an eternity, the dinner finally came to an end. I paid the bill without a second thought and led Clara back to my car.
The drive to her penthouse was silent, the tension between us palpable, though I suspected she was too caught up in her own narrative to notice.
Clara sat beside me, her legs crossed, her red nails tapping idly against her knee.
She hadn’t spoken much since we left the restaurant, but I could feel her eyes on me, watching, waiting.
I exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
"You were quiet tonight," she finally said, her voice smooth, measured.
"I don’t talk when I have nothing to say."
She let out a soft chuckle. "You never have anything to say, Ace."
I hummed in response, eyes fixed on the road.
"I wonder why you even bother seeing me," she mused, stretching out in her seat. "You clearly don’t enjoy my company."
"You assume I enjoy anyone’s company."
"Good point."
We pulled up in front of her building. I shifted the car into park but made no move to turn it off. I wasn’t planning to stay.
She unbuckled her seatbelt but didn’t get out immediately. Instead, she turned to me, her green eyes searching my face. "So, you wanna come inside?"
I leaned back in my seat, studying her. She was poised, confident, but I could see the flicker of uncertainty beneath her cool exterior.
"You want to have sex with me, Clara?" My words were blunt, slicing through the space between us.
Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by my directness, but she recovered quickly. "I didn’t say that."
"But you were thinking it."
She smirked, tilting her head. "Maybe. Maybe not. But the real question is, would you?"
"No."
She arched a brow. "No?"
"I am taken, Clara."
"Taken?" she echoed, as if the word itself amused her.
I didn't repeat myself. I just watched her, waiting.
Her smirk widened. "By who?"
My jaw tightened just slightly, but I kept my expression unreadable. "Does it matter?"
She tilted her head, studying me now like I was the puzzle. "If you were really taken, you wouldn’t have asked me that question in the first place."
I smirked, slow and sharp. "Or maybe I just wanted to see how desperate you’d be to hear 'yes.'"
Her expression flickered, just for a second. Then she rolled her eyes, forcing another laugh. "Please. You wish."
She gave me one last look before stepping out, her heels clicking against the pavement.
She took two steps, then paused, turning back.
I didn’t even bother looking back as I drove off, her figure growing smaller in the rearview mirror until it disappeared entirely.
Clara was beautiful, no doubt. Any man would be lucky to have her.
She was poised, intelligent, and bold—yet utterly insignificant in my world.
She was just another person passing through, another voice I’d forget by morning.
Because she wasn’t my Mini.
She never could be. No one could.
I arrived back at my mansion, the towering walls rising like a fortress, yet offering no comfort.
The grand entrance loomed before me as I stepped inside.
No laughter. No soft footsteps. No small figure moving through the halls, stealing glimpses at me like she used to.
I tossed my keys onto the marble table with a sharp clink, the sound echoing through the cavernous space.
The place felt hollow, a beautiful prison of my own making.
I stalked toward the living room, shrugging off my jacket before sinking onto the leather couch.
My fingers twitched with an old, restless need—a habit I had never shaken.
I pulled out my phone.
And there she was.
Four pictures. That was all I had.
Four stolen moments, frozen in time.
Iris, with her wide, spellbound eyes, staring at something just out of frame. Iris, scowling at her reflection. Iris, caught mid-laugh, golden flecks in her brown eyes catching the light.
I traced the screen absentmindedly, my thumb brushing over the contours of her face.
The rabid desire to see her again gnawed at me, fangs sinking into my ribs, twisting deep.
I could find her. Easily.
Just a flick of the wrist, a single command, and she’d be in front of me again.
But she wouldn’t come willingly.
No, she would run.
Because I had made sure of that.
I had saved her by letting her go. A noble act.Tsk.
A rare moment of selflessness from a man who didn’t believe in such things.
But what a joke that had turned out to be.
I had saved her. And in return, I had damned myself.
I shut my eyes, pressing my fingers against the bridge of my nose as if that would somehow erase the thoughts clawing their way through my skull.
Every right minded man wanted a woman like her. I knew that much. She was unique, one of a kind.
But I was a fool— a selfish, stupid dick who had let her slip away without a second thought.
And now, I was left with nothing but ghosts.
The sudden ringing of my phone snapped me out of it. I blinked, exhaling slowly as I glanced at the screen.
Susan.
I debated ignoring it.
But she was relentless. And I wasn’t in the mood to deal with her leaving five voicemails just to irritate me.
I answered.
"How was the date?" Her voice came through the line, casual, but laced with something sharper.
I hummed in response, noncommittal.
"Come on, Ace, you have to move on," she pressed. "You can’t keep doing this to yourself."
Doing what, exactly? Breathing? Existing?
It was all the same shit, just another day of drowning in a sea of nothing.
Her next words sliced through me.
"It’s not love, Ace. It’s an obsession— a toxic obsession."
A low, humorless chuckle left me. Toxic?
She didn’t understand— couldn’t understand— the depth of what I felt for Iris.
How could she?
She hadn’t been there, hadn’t felt the feelings that had formed between us.
"Look, I know you still love her. We all know. That’s why we’re telling you to move on," Susan continued, her voice softer, like she was offering me some kind of mercy.
I gritted my teeth.
"I hated Iris when I first met her," she admitted after a moment. "But slowly, I realized she’s too naive for this world. She’s too naive and innocent for you."
The words slammed into me like a hammer.
Too innocent for me?
I thought that too. Once. In the beginning.
But I had been wrong.
Iris wasn’t innocent. Not in the way Susan meant.
Naïve, yes—too trusting, too foolish, too willing to believe in love when it had been the very thing tearing her apart.
But innocence? That was a lie.
A lie people told themselves when they saw her big, spellbound eyes.
A trick of the light, an illusion that made them underestimate her.
She wasn’t.
Her love was like mine.
Raw. Obsessive. Consuming.
People thought I had ruined her, and maybe I had.
Maybe I had taken that softness and twisted it, left my fingerprints on her soul until she could never wash them away.
But deep down, she had always been this way.
The kind of girl who would rather destroy herself for love than walk away from it.
And wasn’t that the most beautiful kind of devotion?
The kind that consumed her, rotted her from the inside out, made her bleed for me?
That’s why I couldn’t move on.
That’s why no one else would ever be enough.
They didn’t break the way she did. They didn’t shatter, looking up at me with those desperate, teary eyes, like I was both her savior and her executioner.
No woman could ever look at me that way.
No one else could.
They would all try to fix me, try to tame me like I was some wounded, tragic thing.
Iris never tried. She let me destroy her instead.
She understood.
She was mine.
"Ace, find someone else and live your life instead of wasting it on some little girl," Susan’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, laced with irritation.
With that, she ended the call, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.
Fucking idiot.
No one else would look at me the way Iris had, with resignation and love intertwined so deeply that they were inseparable.
She was scared of me.
She loved me anyway.
She let me ruin her, piece by piece, and still begged for more.
That kind of love didn’t die.
That kind of love didn’t fade, didn’t soften, didn’t let you move on like some fucking fairytale ending.
It rotted inside you. It devoured you.
I felt it— felt the way it gnawed at my insides, this sickness I couldn’t shake, this craving I couldn’t satisfy.
Even now, even with miles between us, she was inside me. A part of me.
I tossed my phone aside, letting out a frustrated sigh. Bitch.
If I could see Iris again—just once—without her knowing.
If I could just watch her, see if she had truly left me behind, if she had really managed to pull herself out of the abyss I had dragged her into.
Would she be happy?
Would she smile like she used to, before I touched her, before I tainted her?
Or would there be something missing?
Something broken?
Maybe that would be enough.
Maybe seeing her would be enough to quench the hunger burning inside me.
Maybe then, I could finally let her go.
But I knew it was a lie.
Seeing her wouldn’t change anything. It would only make things worse.
It would only make me want to take her back.
Lock her away.
Make sure no one else ever got to see that smile, that warmth, that love that was meant for me and me alone.
I dragged a hand down my face, inhaling sharply.
Why the fuck did Iris ever come into my life?
Iris POV:
The moment those words left Jeremy's mouth, they hit me like a lightning bolt.
But not in the way he probably intended.
“What?” I blinked at him, my voice a mix of genuine surprise and confusion.
Was this really happening?
"Yes, Iris," he repeated, his tone now devoid of the fake warmth. "You were just a bet. That’s why I proposed to you."
His words hung in the air, heavy, final. Meant to cut deep.
I stared at him.
I should have felt devastated. Crushed. Betrayed.
But instead—
Relief.
Sweet, overwhelming relief.
Oh, my jesus.
I wanted to fall to my knees and kiss the ground, weep tears of gratitude.
Jeremy had just solved every problem in my life with one sentence.
I had spent weeks agonizing over how to break things off, torn between guilt and obligation, trying to find a way to tell him that I didn’t love him.
That I couldn’t love him. Not when my heart belonged to someone else.
And here he was—handing me a get-out-of-jail- freecard like some kind of saint.
God, I love you!
I wanted to scream, but not to Jeremy.
This was for whatever divine force had looked at me and thought, Alright, sweetheart, let's fix this mess for you.
I could feel the corners of my mouth twitching, my body vibrating with the effort of suppressing the giddy laughter clawing its way up my throat.
Don’t smile, Iris. Don’t you dare smile!
I bit my lip—hard—digging my nails into my palm under the table.
I needed to sell this.
I needed to look heartbroken.
It took every ounce of willpower I had to keep my face from breaking into an ear-to-ear grin.
I forced my lips into a wobbly pout, my brows furrowing just enough to pass as mildly upset.
Okay, now say something sad. Something tragic.
“No… I am sad,” I said.
Wait.
What the hell kind of response was that?!
I cleared my throat, scrambling to fix my very unconvincing act. I brought my hand up to cover my mouth, like I was trying to hold in a sob. “I mean… I can’t believe this.”
Better. More dramatic. Good job, ninjaty ninja.
Jeremy nodded slowly, like he was analyzing data, waiting for me to crumble.
Any second now, he was expecting me to cry, to beg him to stay.
I almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
“I said I am breaking up with you,” Jeremy repeated, his voice flat, almost bored now, like he was reading off a script.
I nodded, inhaling deeply as if processing the pain, trying to look hurt, maybe even shocked.
"I… I get it," I whispered. Soft. Vulnerable.
Jeremy crossed his arms, leaning back with pure arrogance. "You don’t seem that surprised," he noted, his eyes narrowing.
Think, Iris, think.
I quickly dropped my gaze, shaking my head slightly, adding a long, dramatic pause for effect.
"...I think a part of me always knew," I murmured, like some tragic heroine in a romance novel.
Jeremy exhaled sharply, like he didn’t expect that answer.
"Iris," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I didn’t mean for it to be like this. But let’s be honest—this was never real."
I let out a trembling sigh, gripping the edge of my sleeve like some shattered, betrayed woman. "So… was any of it real?" I whispered.
Jeremy hesitated. I saw the flicker of guilt.
But then he squared his shoulders, schooling his face back into cold indifference. "It doesn’t matter now, does it?"
Oh, the drama.
I wanted to give him a standing ovation.
This was Oscar-worthy.
I swallowed hard, nodding like a girl who just had her heart shattered into a million pieces.
“…I understand,” I whispered, blinking rapidly.
Jeremy seemed satisfied with that, finally letting out a relieved breath. He had won.
“Look, don’t take it personally, alright? You’re a sweet girl, but you’re just not my type.”
His type?
Oh, buddy, if only you knew—
I wanted to lean in real close and whisper, I never even liked you.
The only man I’ve ever wanted is a precious sadistic psychopath who has made it his life's mission to ruin me.
But I refrained.
Instead, I just nodded again, swallowing the gleeful hysteria threatening to break free.
“I just… need some time,” I murmured, pressing a hand to my chest like I was struggling to breathe through the pain.
Jeremy looked pleased. He had won.
He had no idea I had won first.
Without waiting for his response, I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor with a loud screech that echoed through the café.
Heads turned. People stared. A barista mid-pour nearly overfilled a cup, and the old lady in the corner reading a paperback visibly flinched.
If I cared even the slightest, I might’ve been embarrassed. But I didn’t.
I was too busy choking on the sheer, unfiltered euphoria bubbling inside me.
Jeremy just broke up with me.Me!
After I’d spent weeks strategizing how to dump him without looking like the bad guy.
And now? Now, I didn’t have to feel even an ounce of guilt for breaking his heart because he had done it first.
I barely remembered my legs moving, but suddenly, I was outside.
The café door swung shut behind me with a soft ding, but I was already gone, nearly skipping down the sidewalk.
The second my feet hit the pavement, I felt it—pure, glorious, unburdened freedom.
The cool air kissed my flushed cheeks, and I inhaled deep, letting the fresh city scent fill my lungs.
And then, like an overinflated balloon, the energy inside me popped.
"THANK YOU, GOD!" I shouted to the heavens, throwing my hands up.
I probably looked insane and mental.
I pressed my palms against my face, trying to smother the stupid, uncontrollable grin splitting my lips.
My cheeks ached from smiling. This wasn’t just relief—this was freedom.
No more pretending. No more obligatory texts or awkward dates. No more feeling guilty because my heart belonged to someone else.
Then—
“Iris!”
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I spun around, half expecting to see Jeremy storming after me, demanding to know why I wasn’t weeping over our tragic love story.
Instead, I found Quinn.
With some random guy.
I blinked. "Quinn, what are you doing here?" My voice came out higher than I intended.
Before she could answer, the guy beside her lifted a hand lazily, like he was calling dibs on the conversation.
"I called her," he said, completely unfazed by my obvious confusion.
I squinted at him. Who the hell was this guy?
Quinn didn’t look at him.
She just crossed her arms and stared at me—not with concern, but with the kind of expression someone wears when they know they’ve just caught you doing something naughty.
“You look… happy,” she mused, one brow arching.
“No,” I lied instantly.
Her smirk deepened. “Oh, you definitely look happy.”
I forced a stiff, awkward smile. “Little.”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed slightly.
The kind of look that said she knew exactly what was going through my head.
Because, of course, she did.
She knew I had been trying to break up with Jeremy. She knew that instead of misery, I was practically bursting with joy.
But the stranger? He didn’t know that.
“I thought you’d be crying,” he said, tilting his head slightly.
His tone wasn’t mean, just laced with curiosity—like he had expected drama and was now mildly disappointed not to see me wailing in the streets.
I gasped, slapping a hand over my chest. “Oh my jesus! Yes. Crying. Very sad.” I gave Quinn’s arm a firm yank. “Quinn, let’s go. I want to cry.”
She didn’t budge.
I tried again. “I need to… process this heartbreak. In private.”
Quinn hummed, tapping a finger against her chin. “Mm-hmm. Because you’re so devastated.”
“Yes. Devastated. Shattered, even.” I turned my back to the stranger, my smile twitching. “Quinn, please. I need… space to grieve.”
I dragged her away before the stranger could question why my idea of "grieving" looked an awful lot like skipping.
We hurried toward Quinn’s scooter, my heart hammering in my chest like I had just pulled off some great escape. And, in a way, I had.
The wind nipped at my flushed cheeks as I clung to Quinn’s waist, practically throwing myself onto the backseat. "Go, drive, drive fast."
Quinn didn’t move.
Instead, she turned her head slightly, just enough for me to see the deadpan look she was giving me over her shoulder. "Iris. Helmet."
"HELMET!" I echoed like a parrot, only this time in full-blown panic mode.
Quinn sighed like this was the most exhausting thing she had ever done, which was completely unfair.
She grabbed her helmet and secured it in place with a sharp click before pressing the ignition button.
Nothing.
The scooter sputtered, coughed, and then… died.
I felt my soul leave my body.
Quinn frowned, twisting the throttle like it would make a difference. It didn’t.
The scooter sat there, silent and unhelpful.
"Quinn," I hissed, gripping her shoulders. "This is not the time for your scooter to have an identity crisis!"
"Relax. It does this sometimes," she muttered, shaking the handles as if she could scold the machine into working.
I didn’t relax. In fact, I did the opposite of relaxing, because when I glanced over my shoulder, the stranger was still there.
Watching.
Smirking.
Like a goddamn villain.
"Who is he?" I whisper-hissed in Quinn’s ear, my grip tightening on her jacket.
She barely glanced back before responding, "Jeremy’s friend. Caleb."
I stiffened.
Caleb. As in, Jeremy’s friend? As in, the guy who knew everythingabout the drama?
I swear, I felt my stomach drop into the depths of hell.
Did Jeremy send him to spy on me? To catch me not crying?
Oh my God—what if he had seen my grin? What if he knew I wasn’t heartbroken but instead borderline euphoric?!
Mother Jesus!!
Before I could fully spiral, Caleb decided to speak.
“Iris,” he called, his voice too damn amused for my liking. “I know about the bet, and that’s why I brought your friend here. But—” His smirk deepened. “You seem happy already.”
I froze.
Every neuron in my brain short-circuited. My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again like a malfunctioning fish.
He knew.
Of course, he knew.
I cringed inwardly, feeling like the dumbest girl alive.
So, naturally, I did the only thing that made sense in this situation—
I face-planted into Quinn’s neck.
"Drive," I whispered, my voice muffled against her jacket.
"Working on it," she muttered, twisting the throttle again.
The scooter finally roared to life, and I nearly burst into tears of relief.
As we sped away, I didn’t dare lift my head. I refused to look back.
I could feel Caleb’s smirk burning into my spine like a brand, searing my pride into oblivion.
But you know what?
I was free.
And that was worth more than any dignity I left behind.
NEXT MORNING
Roll, knead, roll, knead, roll, knead.
I pressed my fingers into the dough, watching it squish and puff back up like some kind of stress-relief toy.
Honestly, I needed the relief.
My brain had been on high alert since yesterday.
But at least here, in the warmth of the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of fresh bread, I could focus on something that wasn’t my questionable life choices.
I was just about to start imagining how good this bread was gonna taste—warm, soft, slathered with butter—when someone cleared their throat loudly.
Ugh. What now?
I stepped aside automatically, not even bothering to look up.
My unspoken rule here was simple: keep your head down, do your job, don’t get involved.
No conversations, no fights. Nothing except kneading, baking, and surviving.
Well… except for that one time with Jeremy, when he proposed to me without even talking to me before.
But then, a voice I did not expect called out my name.
“Iris.”
I paused, my hands still deep in the dough. The voice was male. Unfamiliar.
Which meant… not my problem.Meh.
I hummed in acknowledgment but kept my gaze locked on the dough like it held the secrets to life itself.
And then—
“Hey, Caleb!”
The second voice belonged to some girl, and it was way too casual for my liking.
Wait. Caleb?
I snapped my head up so fast my neck cracked.
And there he was. Freaking Caleb. Standing in the kitchen like he belonged here.
My eyes nearly popped out of my head as I watched him casually take a tray of cookies and shove them into the oven, like he did this for a living.
He works here?
When?! HOW?! And, most importantly— WHY?!
I stared at him, my brain desperately trying to reboot.
Meanwhile, he just turned to me with a smug little smirk, like this wasn’t absolutely insane.
“Hey,” he said, like we were besties bumping into each other at the mall.
Instead, I forced a stiff nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something I’d regret.
I needed to leave.
Now.
Without a word, I grabbed the dough and turned to walk away, my mind scrambling for an escape plan.
Maybe I could pretend I had food poisoning. Or an allergic reaction to dumb smirks. Or—
A hand shot out, fingers wrapping around my forearm.
I froze.
The sudden contact sent a jolt up my spine, my skin burning where his fingers had brushed against it. Too close.
I yanked my arm back instinctively, stepping away before I even processed the movement.
Caleb’s eyebrows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face. But I ignored it.
I ignored everything except the growing irritation bubbling in my chest.
“Yes, Caleb?” I asked, my voice flat.
He hesitated, watching me carefully. Then, with a sigh, he said, “I didn’t tell Jeremy that you were screaming happily outside the café.”
His voice was smooth, almost amused, but there was something else lurking beneath it. Something sharp.
My breath caught.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d been dreading that.
The idea of Jeremy knowing the truth—that I was happy about our breakup—was worse than if he had just screamed at me.
It would’ve fed his ego, given him proof that I was heartless or cruel or whatever else he wanted to believe.
But Caleb didn’t tell him.
Relief crashed into me like a wave, but I tamped it down.
I wouldn’t let Caleb see it.
So instead, I nodded stiffly. “Thank you.” My voice came out clipped, but I didn’t care.
With that, I turned and walked away, ignoring the way my hands trembled slightly as I gripped the dough.
But the questions wouldn’t stop circling in my mind.
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