ONE
WITH THIS RING, I thee trap.
The thought is a shard of glass lodged in my throat, making every breath a jagged pain.
I twist the diamond between my thumb and forefinger, its sharp edges biting into my skin.This stone, once a symbol of his love and commitment, is now a shackle.A constant weight of his lies and broken promises.A suffocating reality I’d tried to breathe through.
Rough brick scrapes against my bare back as I retreat into the shadows.The flimsy fabric of my dress offers little protection against the night’s chill, but the cold is a needed distraction.
The street throbs.Impatient engines, drunken laughter, honking horns.Each blast jolts my frayed nerves, mirroring the anxiety coiling in my gut.
Car after car releases a parade of sleek dresses and tailored suits.They flow towards Hydra Nightclub, faces flushed, eyes bright with the promise of oblivion.My fingers tighten around the ring until the diamond digs into my flesh.
Should I leave?
Walk away.
Go home.
Pretend I was never here.
But a morbid need to know, to finally stop second-guessing, keeps my feet rooted.I need to face the truth whispering in the back of my mind, threatening to shatter the fragile illusion of my happiness.
My stomach clenches.
He’s late.
Or maybe he’s not coming.
Maybe this was all a mistake.
I push off the wall, ready to turn back.Then—
A flash of burgundy catches my eye.
Oxblood.
His favorite blazer.
He strides down the street, far from the office where he’d claimed he’d be buried in paperwork.Chin high, smug grin, eyes scanning the crowd with a predatory gleam.The entitlement radiating off him makes me sick.
James.
The bouncer greets him with a wide smile, instantly unclipping the rope.
He’s in.
It’s a confirmation and a condemnation.
An icy fist to the gut.
I cross the street, heels clicking sharp against the pavement, each step a hammer blow.The front entrance is out of the question.Too much light.Too much risk.
It has to be the back.
The alley beside the club looms, dark and cavernous.The stench of stale beer and rotting garbage assaults me.
I recoil, smoothing my hands down my dress in a futile attempt to reclaim some composure.My sweet perfume clashes with the rot, a nauseating reminder of where I am.
