I take a deep breath, lowering my voice. “Demi. Please. Let’s just go.” I push my glass away. “I just want to leave.”
Demi stares at me, mouth gaping, as though I’ve offended every value she holds dear. “Are you kidding me right now?” Her voice pitches up in pure outrage. “She wins again?!”
Her finger jabs toward Ashley, who remains at the bar, unbothered and out of place in the most infuriating way. “You’re gonna let her dictate where you can and can’t go? Babe. Babe. Do I need to shake you?”
I rub my temples. “Demi—”
“No, you listen to me. You are SableFuckingHawthorne. You are hot. You are successful. You are capable of murder if required—”
“That’s… not the pep talk I need right now.”
“—and this? This is your damn town. Your turf.” She leans in, eyes blazing. “You do not run. You do not hide. Let her haunt the corners of this world, playing the deranged ex-side piece ghoul while you live. Let her watch. But you are not leaving this damn bar on your birthday because some desperate gym rat doesn’t understand boundaries.”
My grip tightens on her wrist, keeping her from charging into whatever she’s got brewing inside that wild brain of hers.
I want to leave.
But… she’s right.
Demi sees it too, the way my hesitation is giving Ashley exactly what she wants.
I unclench my jaw. “Fine.”
Demi bares her teeth. “That’s my girl.”
I push past Demi and out of the booth, my pulse hammering against my throat. Confrontation has never been my thing.I do not want to do this.I don’t get into fights. I don’t cause scenes.
Thinking through my approach, I know I should keep it civil. Don’t escalate. She’s clearly a tick short of sane,kill-me-and-wear-my-skinlevels of crazy, and I have no intention of poking the feral animal.
I straighten, about to make my move, but Ashley’s already moving.
She’s crossing the floor, heels clicking against the wood in a steady death march. Her foundation is caked on thick enough to crack, and she’s wearing a cheap, too-tight, too-short strapless number that belongs under a flickering motel sign. Her overprocessed blonde hair lies flat against her head in a way that makes me think it hasn’t been washed in days.
But it’s the traps that do it for me. Those things are too big. I have no idea how she’s keeping that fabric up. Probably with a combination of industrial-strength double-sided tape and sheer spite.
I set my jaw as she reaches the table, stopping close enough to violate every concept of personal space.
She smirks, gaze flicking over me, then Demi, then back to me again. “Wow,” she drawls, crossing her arms under her overinflated chest. “Didn’t think I’d see you out tonight. Let me guess, early birthday celebration? Andrew didn’t tell me.”
There it is. The bait. Andrew’s name drops, a lit match in gasoline.
I don’t flinch. Ashley wants me to believe they’re still screwing like rabbits.
“Probably because it’s not relevant to him." I offer her a tight smile. “Or you.”
Her smirk twitches. “Oh, come on,” she coos, tilting her head. “You don’t have to pretend. I know you still think about us.”
I arch a brow. “I assure you, I do not.”
She laughs—an ugly, breathy sound that makes my skin crawl. “Sure. That’s why you’re looking so bothered right now.”
My fingers curl into my palms. I can feel my pulse in my ears, my body wired tight with restraint. I inhale sharply, count to five. I will not engage.
I open my mouth to deliver something appropriately mature and dismissive—but before I can get a word out, Demi steps up onto the seat of the booth and launches herself off the table.
Full WWE-style aerial assault.
One second, she’s nestled safely behind me, gripping her glass. The next, she’s flying, clearing the table with terrifying ease and landing on Ashley, arms locking tight in a full takedown.
