I sink into the velvet booth, letting my head fall back against the cushion, the bass hammering a relentless rhythm into my chest. Around me, the club pulses with laughter and shouts, bodies pressed close, everyone determined to lose themselves in noise and movement. I’m no different. I want to drown out the echo of Matt’s name reverberating inside my skull.
Another drink. Tequila this time. It sears its way down, leaving fire in its wake. I welcome the pain. I want it to burn away the ache lodged in my chest.
My purse buzzes against my thigh, a sharp, persistent vibration. I already know what it is—notifications from my last post, fan messages begging for attention. Or worse, another photo, another headline, another reminder of the life that will never be mine.
I should ignore it, but I can’t.
I open my phone, and there it is—a close-up paparazzi shot of Gianna and Matt in the backseat of a sleek black SUV. Sitting opposite each other, but that damn smile like she’s already won is still painted on her face.
And she has, hasn’t she?
She has Ciaran's approval, soon she’ll have the ring, and wear the O’Malley name like it's her birthright while Matt moves into her home, leaving behind his life in London in favour of strengthening this new alliance.
A fault line splits down my chest, quiet but devastating.
I close my phone, my fingers trembling around the edges of the screen.
“Darling, come. Let’s dance,” Jamie coaxes, appearing beside me like a phantom conjured by my unravelling. His voice is gentle, nearly swallowed by the music, his gaze flicking to the hand clenched tight around my glass.
I shake my head, trying for a careless smile that feels too sharp, too fragile. “I’m not really feeling it.”
“You came to a club to sulk?” His brow arches, wry and incredulous. “Tragic.”
I laugh, but it’s a brittle sound, hollow as glass. Still, I force myself to stand, drain the last of my drink, and let Jamie pull me onto the dance floor. His hands settle lightly at my waist, trying to coax me into the rhythm.
It doesn’t mean anything. And that’s the entire point. This isn’t love or longing. It’s motion. Noise. A desperate attempt to fill the hollow space inside me so I don’t have to hear the echo of everything I’ve lost.
I tilt my head back, eyelids slipping shut as red and purple lights pulse behind them like a warning. For a few seconds, I almost believe it’s working. That the pounding bass might dislodge the ache in my chest, shake Matt’s name out of my bloodstream. That if I move my body fast enough, hard enough, he’ll finally stop haunting me.
But he’s there. He’s always fucking there.
His face rises like a blade behind my eyelids. And then memory hits me like a sucker punch—his fingers threading through my hair, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispered he’d burn the world to the ground for me.
How many times did I let myself believe him? How many times did I convince myself I could be the exception to rules older and crueller than either of us?
Before I realise it, tears are spilling down my cheeks, cool against my overheated skin. Neon blurs across my vision, sharp and fractured. Jamie’s voice cuts through the music, low and worried. “Lily?”
I can’t answer. My throat’s knotted, the words stuck somewhere behind my pounding heart.
I shove away from him, pushing through the press of bodies on the dance floor. Someone curses as I elbow past, the sequins of their dress scratching my arm. But I hardly hear them over the roar in my head, a roar that sounds like Matt’s name whispered against my skin.
I burst into the hallway and stumble into the bathroom, where fluorescent lights flicker like an accusation. The tiles are cold and slick beneath my fingers as I brace myself against the sink, chest heaving. I lock myself in a stall and press my forehead to the metal door, each breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
This wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to lose myself tonight, to drown the memory of him in music and alcohol and light. But it’s as if the more I try to numb myself, the louder he grows inside my head.
I hate that I still want him. I hate how my body remembers the heat of his touch, how my chest tightens when I recall the way he looked at me like I was a secret worth guarding. Like I was his.
But that look is hers now. Gianna’s. And the more I think about it, the clearer the truth carves itself into my bones—Matt and I were a story that never got the dignity of an ending. Juststolen chapters hidden in the margins of a life that was never going to be mine.
A sob rips out of me, jagged and raw, echoing off the stall walls louder than the bass pounding through the club. I sink to the floor, knees hitting the tiles so hard it rattles my teeth. The chill of the floor seeps through my bare skin as my skirt bunches around my thighs. My lipstick’s smeared, mascara running in black rivulets down my palms like ink bleeding from a pen crushed under too much pressure.
This isn’t glamorous. It’s not romantic. It’s the ugliest kind of heartbreak.
Yet I can’t stop remembering how he’d pull me close, pressing his mouth to my temple as though he was terrified I’d vanish. How he’d say my name like it was both a vow and a surrender. And how sometimes he’d look at me with a flicker in his eyes that made me believe, just for a moment, that we could rewrite the rules.
I wanted so desperately to believe that flicker meant something. That it made us real.
But maybe all it meant was that we were two people too fucked up to walk away.
