I pull it back on withstiff, angry fingers.
Phone. Purse. Keys.
Everything else can rot here with him.
I walk back downstairs without looking at him again.
The cool night air hits my face as I walk to my car. My hands stay steady long enough to start the engine, but by the time I pull into a CVS parking lot three blocks away, I’m sobbing so hard I can’t see. Mascara streaks down my face, snot dripping into my mouth.
Two years.
Two years of mediocre sex, half-hearted compliments, and constantly being compared to his ex.
I wasn’t the problem.
He was just an asshole.
My phone buzzes. Derek again. I decline, then text Gretchen with shaking hands:
Derek cheated again. Caught him mid-fuck. I’m getting drunk.
Before she can respond, I slam the car into gear and head toward the one place loud enough to drown out everything inside me.
***
The Velvet Room glows in warm amber light; rich, quiet, expensive. Everyone here probably wipes their asses with bales of money.
Derek always called it “pretentious,” which is exactly what cheap people say when they can’t afford to belong.
I slide onto a leather barstool. The bartender gives me a quick once-over, but doesn’t flinch.
“What can I get you?”
“Something that’ll make me forget the last two years of my life.”
His mouth quirks. “Whiskey sour?”
“Make it a double.”
The drink appears almost instantly. I take a sip, then another. It burns in the best way.
“Rough night?” comes a deep voice from my left.
I turn.
Maybe it’s the rebound haze, maybe it’s the lighting—but he’s gorgeous.
Tall. Broad. Clean jawline. Thick, sunlit hair.
Green eyes with a steady, unsettling focus.
He smells like cedar and something I can’t name—but would happily drown in.
He gestures to the empty stool beside me. “May I?”
“It’s a free country.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, steady and unblinking.
