Page 27 of Captive Ruin

Neither option appeals, but before I’ve made a decision, my phone dings with a message. It’s Scott, and I almost delete it unread. Then I grit my teeth and swipe it open.

I’m sorry I treated you badly. I’m sorry I haven’t been honest with you. I’ve come to realize that I’ve acted very poorly, and you’re better off without me. Hope everything goes well for you. Scott.

Okay.

Weirdest breakup message ever… and also my first, by text at least.

And what does he mean he hasn’t been honest with me? In admitting this wasn’t a relationship at all, but just an easy way of getting occasional sex?

I shrug and delete it, blocking his number for good measure. At least it’s now official—we’re done. That’s a part of my life I won’t miss.

I’m single again, and it’s like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I’m young and free, yet I’m sitting here on a beautiful fall afternoon, working. I should be taking long walks arm-in-arm with someone, smiling at cute passing children and kicking up leaves.

I haven’t opened my dating app in a while. When I do, there are a few hundred messages and an assortment of dick pics to choose from. After five minutes, I close it in disgust.

Out of desperation, I call Christine. We haven’t spoken in weeks and we’re not that close, but we’re still friends and she’s always going to parties. It’s not my usual scene, but it appeals far more than responding to app messages with low-effort pickup lines. Worst case, it’s a short-term distraction.

That’s what I need right now.

“Amelia!” She answers with her usual exhausting extroversion. “What’s happening?”

“Not much, just saying hi. Doing the good friend thing.”

“Awesome! Want to hang out? There’s a party tonight. Are you free?”

“Uh… sure.” That was easy.

“Great! I’ll text you the location. Drinks at nine, and a club afterward?”

“Looking forward to it.” Could I say that with any less enthusiasm? I try again, with a bit more effort. “Sounds good, see you then.”

“Wear something sexy! Bye!”

I set my phone down with a shudder. Okay, that was impulsive. I’m regretting it already.

But who knows, perhaps it’s the best thing for me. It’s just one night. I’ll try to have a good time and pretend I like people.

Christine texts me the name of the bar. Cocktails then a club that’ll be loud enough that conversation requires leaning in too close, and I’ll leave with a headache.

Is it too late to back out?

Come on, Amelia. This is what you wanted.

Resigned, I putter about my apartment for a while, even reading my book for a bit. Make some dinner even though I’m not really hungry, but I’ll need something in my stomach for all the tequila Christine will push on me. Then I run a bath, laying out my go-to little black dress. How long has it been since I wore it?

I lie in the bath for a long while, reflecting on my life. As usual, my thoughts go back to the terrace. It’s been five days, long enough that the shock and outrage have lessened, and it takes conscious effort to feel anger for what happened. That’s not acceptance, it’s perspective. Instead, my mind focuses on other things. The promise he made to keep Serranto away. The words he used. The choices he gave me.

His hands on me.

His body, his cock, the feel of him.

It’s not healthy fantasizing about that encounter, I know it isn’t. But I’ve made it mine: my memories, my mind, safe in the knowledge that it’ll never be repeated.

Part of me regrets that.

Reaching for my razor, I spend some time making sure I’m smooth everywhere that matters, then get out and pull the plug. I braid my wet hair on the way through to my bedroom; by nine it’ll have dried into waves I can’t get any other way. Then I stand there, eyeing the black dress I’ve laid ready. I’m still not sure this is a good idea, but what the hell.

It’s still early, barely past eight.