Chapter 1

I’d filed for divorce from Ethan Reid ninety-nine times.

Every damn time, he waited me out. Silent. Distant. Like a king watching his servant grovel. And I always did—grovel, beg, break my own pride just to get him to let me stay.

But not this time.

When I stood up from the courthouse bench, the clerk behind the glass gave me a look like I was a regular at a failing coffee shop.

“So… when are you coming back to cancel it again?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My eyes were fixed on the man walking away from me—tall, sharp, cold as ever. Ethan didn’t even flinch. He just got into his stupid black Maybach and drove off without a glance back.

The wind outside the downtown Chicago courthouse hit me like a slap. It cut through my coat, howling right through the cracks in my chest. I stood there, numb, watching the taillights disappear.

It was really over.

After thirty days, the cooling-off period would end and the divorce would be finalized.

And for once… I wasn’t going to stop it.

Then—screech.

Tires. Fast.

Before I could even react, something slammed into me. My knees cracked against the pavement, and my palms scraped raw against the concrete. Pain exploded through my leg.

Voices. Familiar ones.

“Shit, we hit her! We hit the sister-in-law!”

“Don’t call her that!” one snapped. “They’re getting divorced, remember? Ethan hasn’t canceled it yet.”

I pushed myself up slowly, wincing as fire shot through my knee. My hair fell into my eyes, but I could still see it—that tinted back window of the Maybach, rolling halfway down.

And there he was. Ethan.

Profile perfect as ever. Expression unreadable. Eyes hidden in shadow.

One of his so-called “brothers” leaned toward the window. “Boss, should we take her to the hospital or head to the party first?”

The air went still.

I stared at that half-open window like it held all the answers.

“Go to the party,” Ethan said. Just like that. Like I wasn’t even there.

Three words. Light as air. Heavy as hell.

Then the car pulled away, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust and silence.

I bit my lip until I tasted blood and forced myself to stand. My knee throbbed with every limp, but the real pain? It wasn’t physical.

It was knowing I’d spent seven years loving a man who didn’t even blink when I was bleeding on the pavement.

By the time I got home, my mind was made up.

I started packing.

One by one, I tossed every stupid little memory into the trash—bracelets he’d thrown at me like cheap tips, the lighter I’d stolen from his car, the 999 paper stars I folded like some lovesick teenager.

And then… I pulled open the bottom drawer.

There it was.

That manila envelope.

My fingers shook as I picked it up. I’d seen it before—once. Locked in his safe. Buried deep like a secret.

Inside were letters. From Ethan.

Handwritten.

“You brought me breakfast again today. You don’t know I wake up at five just to watch you tiptoe to my window.”

“Your handwriting sucks, but I kept that letter anyway. I plan to laugh at it with you on our 50th anniversary.”

“That red dress you wore today was beautiful. But I hate how everyone else saw it too.”

“This is your third year chasing me. I almost gave in. But I wanted to enjoy the feeling of being wanted a little longer.”

God.

I clutched the papers to my chest and sank to the floor. They felt like knives. Every line, every word—proof that he had liked me. Maybe even loved me.

But he never told me.

Instead, he made me beg. Again and again. Ninety-nine times.

The first time he asked for a divorce? My cooking was “too salty.”

The second? He didn’t like my dress.

The ninety-eighth? I sent him one too many goodnight texts. Literally. One.

The ninety-ninth time, I knelt in his study all night. He finally agreed to drop it.

That same night, I found the letters. Letters he wrote back when I was still chasing him, still believing love meant sacrifice.

So what was it, Ethan?

Did you like seeing me beg? Was that the game?

Because that’s what it felt like. Like I was a toy you didn’t want—but didn’t want anyone else to have either.

And just when I thought I couldn’t be more humiliated…

He asked for divorce number one hundred.

Because I ate a cookie in his car and left a few crumbs.

That was the moment I stopped recognizing him.

Seven years of loving him. For what?

This time, I wouldn’t beg.

I kept packing, wiping at my face with the back of my hand. No more tears. No more chasing.

Until I noticed something was gone.

My mother’s necklace. A simple silver chain. The only thing she left me.

I tore the room apart. Under the bed. In the closet. Nothing.

Only one person besides me had been in this room.

And I remembered the party. I’d heard them mention it at the courthouse.

So I grabbed my coat and left.

Meanwhile, across town…

In the VIP lounge of the most exclusive club in Chicago, laughter echoed against the soundproof walls.

“I bet five days. Sierra Hart won’t last more than five before she comes crawling back.”

“Five? Please. She’ll break in three.”

“I say one. Remember last time? She was on her knees by nightfall.”

They all turned to Ethan, who sat at the center of it all—whiskey glass in hand, face unreadable.

“What about you, Ethan?” someone asked. “How many days this time?”

Silence.

He opened his mouth to speak—

And the door slammed open.

I stood there, my voice cutting through the room like ice.

“I bet a lifetime.”

Chapter 2

“I bet a lifetime.”

The words had barely left my lips when that sugary voice I knew too well sliced through the air like nails on glass.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Olivia Monroe strutted into the private lounge like she owned the damn place. Her heels clicked on the polished floor with that deliberate, smug rhythm, instantly snapping all the guys’ attention her way.

Without missing a beat, she slid her arm through Ethan’s and leaned her perfect little head on his shoulder, like they’d rehearsed the move backstage.

My stomach twisted.

I gripped the strap of my purse so tight my fingers ached. I had to shut my eyes just to keep from reacting.

Of course she was here. Olivia had always been there. The ghost haunting our relationship from the start. Childhood friend, my ass. She was always a little too close, always crossing lines I had to pretend weren’t there.

And Ethan? He never stopped her.

If anything, he let her do it. Like he enjoyed it—like watching me squirm somehow thrilled him.

I used to wonder if he was in love with her. But after I found those letters, I finally understood.

It wasn’t love.

It was manipulation. Olivia was a prop. A pawn in his little game of emotional torture.

Only now did Ethan even bother to glance at me. His expression didn’t shift much—just a faint frown. “What are you doing here?”

Wow. He hadn’t even heard me speak.

“I lost a necklace,” I said, keeping my voice calm, steady. “Came to ask if you’ve seen it.”

He blinked. Just once. There it was—a flicker of something. Recognition? Guilt? I couldn’t tell.

“You came here… just for that?”

“What else?” I fired back. “Thought I was here to beg again?”

His eyes darkened immediately.

Yeah. I knew that look. That exact expression. I’d seen it every time I dared to go off-script—off his script.

“Oh, the silver one?” Olivia chimed in sweetly, blinking at me like we were besties. “I said I liked it the other day, and Ethan gave it to me.”

Then she added, with an innocent shrug, “But I must’ve misplaced it when I got home. Sorry.”

Everything around me went muffled.

“You gave her my necklace?” My voice trembled despite my best effort to keep it steady. “That belonged to my mom.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “It’s just a necklace. Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll buy you ten more.”

Just a necklace?

My heart cracked wide open.

“That was the only thing I had left from her,” I snapped, my voice rising despite myself.

The room went still. You could’ve heard a pin drop.

Ethan paused for a moment—just one heartbeat. Then his cold indifference came rushing back like a mask snapping into place.

“Well, it’s gone now. What do you want me to do about it? Let’s not turn this into a scene.”

I bit down hard on my lower lip. Hard enough to draw blood.

He knew what that necklace meant to me. I told him. And he still handed it over like it was nothing.

That’s what I was to him. Nothing.

I turned and walked out before I broke in front of them all.

I barely made it past the lounge before I heard the scrape of chairs and Ethan’s voice behind me. “That’s enough. Let’s go,” he said to Olivia.

Then I heard his footsteps. He was following me.

Outside, the night was cruel. Wind slashed against my face, biting through my coat. But I didn’t slow down. I kept my head low, wiping the tears away as fast as they fell.

No one was going to see me cry. Not him. Not her. Not any of them.

Then I heard someone scream.

“Watch out!”

I looked up.

A billboard panel—massive, metal—was coming loose above me.

Time froze. My body locked up. All I saw was white-hot fear.

And then, Ethan moved.

He lunged. For a second, I thought—no, I hoped—he was running toward me.

But at the last second, our eyes met—and he swerved.

He dove toward Olivia. Covered her with his body like some goddamn knight in shining armor.

The impact hit me like a train.

Boom.

Everything went black.

Sierra lay unconscious for two full days.

The hospital room was quiet, the beeping of machines slow and steady. The overhead lights glared against the white tile, too clean, too bright.

When she finally blinked awake, her head throbbed and her vision swam.

“You’re awake?” a nurse asked, entering with a tray. “Thank God. You’ve been out for two days. Honestly, it’s a miracle—just a mild concussion and a few bruises.”

Sierra swallowed, her throat dry like she’d inhaled sand. “Who brought me in?” she rasped.

“Your husband,” the nurse replied while adjusting the IV. “He was a mess. Covered in your blood, yelling at every doctor like it was their fault. I thought he was going to tear the ER apart.”

Sierra stared at the ceiling, not saying a word.

“But,” the nurse added, a little hesitant, “the second the doctor told him you’d be okay, he left. Said something urgent came up. It was… weird.”

Sierra closed her eyes.

It wasn’t weird at all.

That was Ethan Reid in a nutshell—passionate panic when no one’s looking, but never enough to stick around once the spotlight’s on.

Because God forbid anyone, especially me, ever see how much he might actually care.

Chapter 3

Ethan Reid didn’t show his face for days.

Not a single call. Not a single message.

Typical.

I didn’t see him again until the day I was discharged.

And of course—he didn’t come alone.

He showed up at the hospital room door with Olivia Monroe wrapped around his arm like some overpriced accessory, her cheeks flushed like she’d just stepped out of a damn romance novel.

“SiSi, you’re recovering so fast,” she cooed, lips pouting like she cared. “Not like me—I’ve always been fragile. Just caught a little cold, but Ethan totally panicked. Dragged me in for a full check-up.”

Cute.

I didn’t respond. Just kept folding my clothes, sliding them neatly into my suitcase. Zipped it shut with a calm I didn’t feel.

Ethan stared at me like he was waiting for something—a flinch, a glare, a jealous outburst. He wouldn’t get one.

“We figured we’d pick you up while we’re here,” he said, all casual arrogance. “Liv’s condo’s being renovated, so she’ll be staying at the house for a few days.”

“Oh.” I stood up, brushing imaginary dust off my jeans. “Do whatever you want.”

And I meant it.

In fifteen days, the mandatory waiting period would end, and this nightmare marriage would finally be over.

He could move Olivia, her cat, her family, and the entire cast of The Bachelor into the house for all I cared.

He didn’t like that.

His expression tightened. He wasn’t used to this version of me—the one who didn’t grovel, who didn’t ask permission to breathe.

When we got back to the villa, it became crystal clear what his new game was.

Every second Olivia was in the room, he turned into Mr. Perfect Boyfriend—pulling her chair out, tucking her hair behind her ear, whispering god-knows-what in her ear like we were all stuck in some cringey teen drama.

Me? I just smiled politely. Ate in silence. Acted like I was watching strangers perform on stage.

At dinner, he peeled shrimp for her like it was some grand romantic gesture. Fed them to her piece by piece.

The food turned to sawdust in my mouth.

Then it happened.

“Ahh!” Olivia gasped, clutching her arm like it was on fire. “It itches… Oh my God—it itches so bad!”

I looked up.

Hives. Angry red ones blooming up her neck and chest like wildfire. Her breathing was turning shallow.

Ethan jumped up like he’d been shot. In a blur, he scooped her into his arms and yelled, “Call the doctor!”

The housekeeper scrambled. Their private doctor was there within minutes.

Peanut allergy. Severe.

And then all hell broke loose.

Ethan stormed into the kitchen like a hurricane. “How many times have I told you? Liv’s allergic to peanuts! Who the hell put peanut sauce in the food?”

The housekeeper stood there, pale and shaking. But she didn’t look at him.

She looked at me.

“I—I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered. “Mrs. Hart told me to add it. I didn’t mean to—”

What?

I pushed back my chair, the scrape against the tile sharp and loud.

“When did I ever—”

“Ma’am, please don’t deny it,” the housekeeper suddenly raised her voice, eyes wide. “You said it yourself—you didn’t like Miss Monroe staying here. You were jealous of how much Mr. Reid cared about her. You wanted to teach her a lesson.”

My brain couldn’t even process it fast enough.

What the actual hell?

“Sierra Hart.”

Ethan’s voice was like a knife—cold, hard, and unforgiving.

He walked toward me slowly, each step measured, dangerous.

“Ever since we left the courthouse, you’ve been quiet. I thought maybe—just maybe—you’d finally learned your place.”

He stopped right in front of me, looking down like I was something stuck to his shoe.

“But it turns out you were just waiting to strike. This is what it was all building to? Poisoning Liv?”

I opened my mouth to defend myself—

And froze.

Because I saw it.

For just a second.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

A smile.

The sickest, coldest, most twisted smile I’d ever seen.

He was enjoying this.

I wasn’t even sure what was real anymore.

Then he turned to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and set it down in front of me with a sharp clink.

“Well,” he said, unscrewing the cap, “since you were so eager to mess with Liv’s allergy, maybe it’s time you got a taste of your own.”

My heart stopped.

He knew.

He knew I was allergic to alcohol. Violently.

I backed away, but it was too late.

Two of his guards stepped forward. Each grabbed one of my arms like I was a criminal instead of his goddamn wife.

“Let go of me!” I screamed, twisting, kicking, anything—

But the bottle was already at my lips.

The whiskey burned like acid. It scorched down my throat, igniting my lungs and stomach in white-hot fire.

I choked. Cried. Tried to scream, but nothing came out but a strangled cough.

Tears streamed down my face. My skin prickled, hot and itchy, then burning.

The bottle was halfway empty by the time they stopped.

And then the hives came.

Fast.

My neck. My arms. My chest. My breath caught.

Everything spun.

And just before I blacked out, I saw him—Ethan—standing in the shadows.

Smiling.

Like this was all some twisted little show.

That smile was the last thing I saw.

When I woke up, the world was dim and quiet.

One wall sconce flickered, casting a warm, low light across the room. The sheets beneath me were soft. Clean.

My body ached. My throat felt like I’d swallowed a handful of sand.

Then I saw him.

Ethan, sitting at the edge of the bed with a folder in his lap, flipping through it like we weren’t in the aftermath of an attempted murder.

He looked up when I stirred.

“You’re awake,” he said, setting the papers aside like this was normal. “Don’t do that again.”

Like I had chosen to nearly die.

I sat up slowly, each muscle screaming in protest. My eyes found his face.

And then it hit me.

He didn’t care about Olivia’s allergic reaction.

He didn’t give a damn.

What got under his skin… was me. Being cold. Being distant.

He didn’t want my love—he wanted my breakdown.

My jealousy. My desperation.

Just like those letters he’d buried in the safe.

This wasn’t about love.

This was about control.

But not this time.

I wasn’t that girl anymore.

Fifteen days.

In fifteen days, I’d be free.

And Ethan Reid?

He could burn in hell.

Chapter 4

Two days later, Olivia Monroe won some big-shot design award—Gold, apparently. Go figure.

To celebrate, Ethan threw her a massive party at one of Chicago’s fanciest hotels. The kind with crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, and people who pretend they actually care about fashion.

He didn’t leave her side all night.

Held her hand, tucked her hair behind her ear, adjusted her dress straps like they were some swoony couple from a rom-com. Every move was so perfectly curated it made me sick.

And the crowd? They ate it up.

“Mr. Reid treats his childhood sweetheart like royalty. But his wife? Cold as ice.”

“If Sierra Hart had any self-respect, she’d stop humiliating herself and just leave already.”

I stood in the shadows near the champagne bar, swirling my glass, pretending not to hear them. Pretending the bubbles in my drink were louder than their whispers.

Eventually, I stepped outside for some air. My head was buzzing from cheap alcohol and even cheaper conversations.

The man-made lake shimmered under the moonlight like something out of a fairy tale. Too bad my life was a horror story.

Then I heard her.

“Well, well. Couldn’t handle it anymore?”

Olivia.

I didn’t need to turn around to recognize that smug voice.

She strutted up beside me in Louboutins so high I was tempted to pray for gravity.

“If I were you,” she said, flashing her signature venomous smile, “I would’ve packed up and left a long time ago.”

I didn’t even look at her. “Move.”

She laughed. “Drop the act, sweetheart. You chased Ethan for four years, married him for three, and he still barely looks at you. That’s just pathetic.”

She leaned in closer, her whisper colder than the night breeze. “Wanna bet? If I pushed you into that lake right now, he wouldn’t even blink.”

I didn’t get the chance to respond.

Because the next thing I knew—

SPLASH.

Ice-cold water crashed over my head.

I went under in a second, the weight of my dress dragging me down. My lungs screamed. My limbs flailed. Water filled my mouth, my nose, my chest.

It burned.

Everything burned.

And then I saw it—blurred through water and moonlight—a figure sprinting across the grass.

Charging straight for the lake.

Then—

“STAR!!!”

Ethan’s voice cracked like a whip, wild and panicked.

He dove in after me like his life depended on it.

His arms wrapped around me underwater, pulling me up, holding me so tightly I thought we’d fuse together.

I caught a glimpse of his face through my water-logged lashes—his eyes weren’t just worried. They were terrified.

Was it real? I didn’t know anymore.

Back on land, Olivia stood frozen, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

She hadn’t expected this.

None of us had.

Ethan Reid—stone-cold, emotionally-constipated Ethan—was holding me like I was something precious.

He dropped to his knees beside me, his hands shaking as he started CPR.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, again and again.

When I finally coughed out a lungful of lake water, he let out a ragged breath, his shoulders sagging.

But that moment? It didn’t last.

He straightened. Cleared his throat. And just like that, he slipped back into his ice-cold mask.

“You fell into a lake at a party. How careless can you be?”

Right.

That’s the story we’re going with?

I pushed myself up on trembling arms, water still dripping from my hair. My voice came out sharp and steady.

“I didn’t fall. Olivia pushed me.”

Olivia gasped like she’d been slapped. “SiSi, I didn’t! How could you accuse me of that?!”

I let out a cold laugh and pulled my phone from my clutch, fingers trembling but determined.

“Cool. Then let the cops figure it out. Attempted murder’s not exactly a slap-on-the-wrist, Liv.”

I’d just tapped 9–1– when Ethan’s hand clamped around my wrist.

“Enough.”

His grip was tight. Controlling. Familiar.

“Liv didn’t mean it. Don’t blow this out of proportion.”

I jerked back, shocked. “She almost killed me!”

“And yet,” he snapped, “you’re still standing, aren’t you?”

I felt something inside me snap. Something final.

“You’re seriously defending her?” My voice shook with rage. “I’m not making a scene, Ethan. I’m pressing charges.”

“I SAID ENOUGH!”

His roar echoed across the lake.

In one swift move, he grabbed my phone and hurled it.

Then he turned to the men in black standing by the gate like shadows.

“Take her to the confinement room. She doesn’t leave until she learns to think straight.”

I froze.

“What the hell did you just say?”

But the guards were already moving.

“Ethan—are you insane? She tried to kill me!”

They didn’t care. Their hands were on me, dragging me like I was some wild animal.

I fought. Kicked. Screamed.

My heels flew off. My nails dug into arms. I didn’t stop until my voice was hoarse and my arms were sore.

No one listened.

They dragged me across the lawn, down the back path, and into the shadows of the estate.

The door slammed behind me.

Click.

Locked.

The confinement room was barely ten feet wide. No windows. Just a single light that flickered out after five minutes.

Darkness closed in like a coffin.

“Let me out,” I whispered at first.

Then louder. “Let me out!”

But no one answered.

I curled into a corner, my fingers digging into my palms until they bled.

Rats scurried across the floor.

It was happening again.

I was ten years old, trapped in my stepmother’s basement for three days because I’d spilled orange juice on her dress.

That same suffocating panic wrapped around my throat.

Time stopped existing. I knocked over the water they gave me. Refused the food. Curled into myself like I could disappear.

And then—finally—after maybe a day, maybe a lifetime, the door creaked open.

Light stabbed my eyes. I flinched.

And then I heard his voice.

“Still planning to press charges?”

I blinked slowly, my vision adjusting.

Ethan stood in the doorway, polished and pristine. Not a hair out of place.

While I looked like I’d been dragged out of a war zone—soaking wet dress torn at the hem, bruises blooming on my skin, mascara streaked down my face.

And I laughed.

I laughed so hard it shook my ribs and made my tears sting.

“No,” I said quietly, my voice hollow. “I’m done.”

“I won’t press charges.”

“I won’t do anything.”

Because I don’t care anymore.

I just want out.

Out of this marriage.

Out of this madness.

Out of his reach.

He frowned, just slightly, like something about my smile unnerved him.

But he covered it up fast.

“Good,” he said flatly. “Stick to that.”

And then he turned and walked away.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t see the fire in my eyes.

Didn’t realize what he’d just done.

Because this time? This time I wasn’t going to be the one on her knees.

Next time, he would beg.

Chapter 5

I stumbled into my bedroom and collapsed face-first onto the bed, my face buried deep into the comforter like it could hide me from everything.

I really thought the tears were done.

They weren’t.

The pillow soaked through in silence, just like I had—quiet and pathetic.

I curled up like a shrimp, my whole body aching in ways I didn’t have words for. Breathing even hurt. Not like heartbreak poetic-hurt. No. Physically. Like my ribs had forgotten how to expand without pain.

I stayed like that the rest of the day. Just existing in a fog of exhaustion and numbness.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I finally sat up, moved like a broken wind-up doll to the kitchen, and forced down half a piece of toast and some water.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from my college alumni group chat lit up the screen:

[7PM tonight – Reunion at the Crown Hotel! Everyone try to make it!]

I stared at it for a few seconds, brain not quite catching up.

I was leaving soon anyway. In fifteen days, I’d be free. Gone. Erased from this version of my life.

So why not go?

Say goodbye to the people who knew the before version of me.

That night, I pulled on the plainest white dress I owned, something soft and shapeless. I dabbed concealer under my eyes, just enough to hide the swelling.

No heels. Just flats. Low effort. Low expectations.

The Crown Hotel glittered like a dream. Too many lights. Too many mirrors. Too many fake smiles.

“Sierra!”

Emily Lin—my old roommate—waved like we hadn’t just survived a pandemic of emotional damage together.

She looked the same—loud, warm, real. She grabbed me and pulled me toward a round table full of vaguely familiar faces and even vaguer small talk.

“So how’s life?”

“What’ve you been up to?”

“Still in Chicago?”

Then came the kicker.

Emily elbowed me and grinned. “Back in college, you chased Ethan Reid like it was your full-time job. Did you ever actually get him?”

I froze just slightly as I set my glass down.

Back then, I was the punchline of every love-sick joke. The girl who followed Ethan Reid like a shadow. But what nobody knew was he didn’t officially agree to date me until after we graduated. And even then… no ceremony. No vows. No pictures. Just a signature on a goddamn paper.

He said weddings were “too much of a hassle.”

I smiled. Thin. Controlled.

“Didn’t get him.”

And if I could go back? I’d walk the other way the first time I saw him.

“No way! Even you couldn’t land him?” someone gasped. “He must be seriously impossible.”

“Don’t worry,” Emily said, already pulling out her phone. “I know a few decent guys. You want me to introduce you?”

Before I could say anything, a voice cut through the room like a blade dipped in ice.

“Introduce who?”

My body locked up.

I turned—and there he was.

Ethan Reid.

Black tailored suit. Diamond tie pin. Looking every bit like the heartless CEO fantasy the world worships.

And clinging to his arm? Olivia Monroe, in a red dress so tight it might’ve been sewn onto her skin.

“Oh my God. Is that Ethan Reid?!”

Someone at the table nearly choked on their wine.

“Wait—are you guys… dating?” another whispered.

Olivia dropped her gaze with that perfect little bashful expression she must’ve practiced in a mirror. Ethan didn’t deny it.

Of course not.

The room exploded into excited chatter.

“Campus king and queen finally together! You two are gorgeous!”

I kept my head down and sipped my water like it was the only thing anchoring me to the planet.

But I could feel his eyes.

Ethan wasn’t watching anyone else.

He was watching me.

The party buzzed along, awkward laughter and clinking glasses filling the air. Someone suggested Truth or Dare.

Because apparently, we were all fifteen again.

I watched the bottle spin lazily across the glass tabletop until it landed—of course—on Olivia.

“I’ll pick dare!” she chirped, all sweetness and sparkles.

Someone shouted, “Kiss any guy here for ten seconds!”

The table roared.

Olivia blushed. Twisted the hem of her dress. Played it like she was on The Bachelor.

Then, without even hesitating, she walked straight toward Ethan.

He was lounging on the couch like he owned the building. Legs crossed. Hand on his jaw.

But his eyes weren’t on her.

They were on me.

I didn’t look up.

Didn’t blink.

I just sat there in the corner, scrolling my phone like he wasn’t even in the same zip code.

And something shifted in his expression.

Colder.

Sharper.

Darker.

“E…” Olivia stood in front of him now, her voice all breathy and bashful.

He reached up, grabbed the back of her head, and slammed his mouth onto hers.

The crowd gasped. Someone cheered.

It was loud. Messy. Over-the-top. All for show.

And I finally looked up.

I gave it one glance.

One second of eye contact.

And then I went right back to my phone.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t care.

Ethan’s jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle twitch from across the room.

His kiss didn’t stop because of passion. It stopped because he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

Because I wasn’t giving him the reaction he needed to feel alive.

And in that moment, I knew I’d finally won.

He didn’t break me.

He couldn’t.

Not anymore.