“Is JP here?” I shout.
He smirks at me and responds with a nod. I hate that smirk. He motions toward the epicenter of the chaos—the living room.
The noise grows louder as I move further in, each unfamiliar face, each intrusive burst of laughter, increasing the knot of apprehension in my stomach.
My stomach clenches with anxiety. It screams, urges,Turn away. Go home. This isn’t worth it.
But do I listen? Of course not.
A guy tries to strike up a conversation but I brush him off. A woman sashays past me to the bathroom looking like a supermodel. She leaves behind a cloud of expensive perfume and questions.
Finally, I make it into the living room, and it’s a scene straight out of a wild movie. Bodies writhing to the music, people laughing and shouting. There are so many people everywhere. The whole room looks like it’s on coke and a million other drugs. Are these people his friends?
What’s this, a fucking orgy he’s having? Underwear and bras have gone optional for some people. Jesus.
Like a sickening punch to the gut, I see him—JP. He’s sprawled across his plush leather couch, the couch where we cuddled so many nights, his eyes shuttered against the world, oblivious to the ongoing chaos.
A naked woman saunters over to him.
I feel the ground beneath me wobble.
“Don’t you dare touch him!” I scream inside my head. She tilts her head upward, making me wonder if my silent cry leaked out. But no, she disregards my existence and drapes herself over him, trying to stir him from his stupor.
His eyes flutter open—hazy, unfocused.
His gaze lifts, meets mine, and I feel my soul crumble. It’s the indifference that shatters me. It’s like he’s seeing through me, and it cuts me like a knife. I’m a ghost at his party.
His lids lower again, shutting me out.
The woman’s fingers playfully dance along JP’s chest. Her voice, laced with sultry promise, cuts through the din. “Come on, JP, you’re missing all the fun.”
He stirs as she playfully slaps his face. He opens his eyes and stares at her, then moves his focus back to me. Once again, it’s like he’s looking straight through me. Like I’m an unwelcome stranger in his debauched playground.
I stand there in shock.
He lied. He promised that he’d stopped. That I could trust him. He swore he’d chosen me. He had me convinced—this ordinary, plain Lucy—that I was enough. That I was his world.
But I was never enough.
I’m just dependable old Lucy, foolish enough to think a man like him could love me.
Plain little Lucy, not quite enough to get promoted. Lucy-the-doormat, Lucy-the-yes-woman, always bending over backward for everyone—Mom, Andy, Matty, Spider, Dave the real estate jerk.
It started as sex. Raw, primal, unforgettable sex.
And that’s when he presented me with the finest version of himself, the facade. He reeled me in gradually, exposing a gentle, nurturing side. He stripped away the layers of his moody exterior, showing me something unique, a side I was convinced nobody else had glimpsed.
The flawless boyfriend act. Sweet, caring, intoxicating. The dinners, the comic conventions, the shared evenings, weekends, stolen moments in the office that made me lower my guard. He made me trust him, and I let him into my heart.
Then the curtain lifted on his clandestine double life.
A night in my arms, followed by a night in the grip of his high. JP Wolfe, the billionaire playboy with an inclination for snorting lines of white and whatever else suited his whims. Not quite an addict, but close enough to fracture our budding relationship.
At first, when it was just sex, I looked the other way. Who was I to dictate his lifestyle?
But it started to gnaw at me. So he swore he was changing. That he fell into this lifestyle when he moved to Vegas at twenty-one. That he was going to prove it tome and stay away from drugs, the party lifestyle and all that comes with it.
I believed him. Like a doormat.
