“He suggested we find a room. Nostalgia, apparently.”
Her expression shifts, but only briefly. “He was drunk.”
“Does it matter?”
She regains her footing, chin lifting again. “Even so, this is bigger than you.”
“No. It isn’t. All of this revolves around me, which is why you blew in here, trying to make it sound as if it were all about you. You’re petty and jealous and mean, and I hope you find a really good therapist one day.”
Silence stretches between us. For the first time, she studies me not as a nuisance but as a variable she miscalculated. “Do you think love excuses your behavior?”
“I’m not here to make excuses for myself. I just came here to get some quiet, and then you barged in.”
Her laugh is brittle. “You are not built for this world.”
“I could not possibly care.” It’s the truth. I’m so over this bullshit.
For a moment, I think I’m going to cry again. Not the quiet, leaking kind from earlier—the kind that slips out without permission—but the ugly kind. The kind that caves in your face and makes your voice tremble and hands your enemy exactly what they want. I can feel it building behind my eyes, the pressure tightening, the sting sharpening.
Amber sees it. Her mouth curves just slightly, not in sympathy but in satisfaction.
And that is just what I needed to stop me from crying. I swallow around the hard knot in my throat and straighten my shoulders, forcing the reaction down. I will not give her that. Not here. Not now.
I need her to leave before I lose my composure. “You don’t have to worry,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I expect it to be. “Damian wants nothing to do with me anymore.”
Amber studies my face carefully, searching for weakness. “Is that so?”
“I told him everything. He walked away. So, you can let go of your little snit and fuck off.”
For a split second, something in her expression flickers—relief, maybe, or recalculation. The lines in her forehead smooth slightly as she exhales through her nose.
“Well,” she says stiffly, adjusting the fall of her sleeve as though restoring order to her body restores order to the world. “Good. He’s made enough questionable decisions lately,” she continues, her composure rebuilding layer by layer. “He doesn’t need another.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing I can say, and I’m too tired to argue further. My heart is still racing from the bathroom, from the confession, from everything that followed.
She gives me one last assessing look, the kind women like her use when deciding whether someone is worth further engagement. Apparently, I no longer am. “Try not to ruin anything else today, dearie,” she adds lightly, as if she’s offering polite advice. Then she turns and leaves, the door shutting behind her with a soft but decisive click.
Damian wants nothing to do with me.The sentence loops in my head. Saying those words out loud cost me a piece of my soul, but at least she left. I drag in a slow breath and open my eyes, forcing myself to look at my reflection. My makeup is slightly smudged. My hair has loosened from the earlier chaos. Red rims my eyes.
A knock hits the door. Sharp. Impatient. Before I can answer, it swings open. Jason stands there, flushed and furious, tie loosened, eyes blazing.
And suddenly, Amber feels like the easier opponent.
He stands in the doorway, chest rising and falling too quickly, tie loosened, collar slightly crooked. There’s fury in his eyes. It’s a familiar look, the kind he used to wear when something threatened his control.
His voice is hoarse. “So it’s true?”
I don’t answer immediately. I study him the way I used to when I was trying to decide whether an argument was worth having. “Is what true?”
He steps inside. “You’ve been sleeping with my dad?”
“Yes.” There’s no point in pretending otherwise.
His jaw tightens. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse today.”
He laughs harshly. “You couldn’t handle me moving on with your sister, so you went for my dad?”
