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I’m deranged, not suicidal.

So I destroy everything around them instead.

By the time I’m done, the studio looks less like a sacred space for art and more like the aftermath of a jealous psychopath’s remarkably productive nervous breakdown. Am I the jealous psychopath? That’s a rather accusatory question.

Breathing harder than I should be, I dig my phone out and text him again.

My prince: Might need new brushes.

My prince: Or pencils.

My prince: Accidentally cracked them all haha

I stare at the screen, but there’s no answer.

So I do the only sane thing left.

I stalk Instagram.

Again.

I open Sasha’s page first, because that bitch documents her life like she’s being audited by God. If Kento so much as breathed in her direction, she’d probably post six blurry stories.

But there’s nothing.

Yes, I’m a stalker.

Shut up.

At this point, denying it would just be insulting everyone’s intelligence, especially mine.

The next day, I go to the club I know he goes to, and before that I spent an embarrassing amount of time orbiting the art campus under the very noble excuse of seeing Alya. Which, technically, wasn’t even a lie. I do go there for her sometimes.

The place is already crowded. Bodies pressed too close together under red and violet light. Everyone here is either rich, dangerous, stupid, or some combination of the three.

My kind of place, really.

I find him immediately.

He stands near the far side of the room, dressed in black, looking offensively fucking good. I hate how much I like the way he dresses. Especially that stupid leather jacket, which has a direct line to my dick. My body’s already getting ideas when I spot Sasha. And just like that, my hard-on turns into a hard-off.

God.

That damn leech.

She’s on the other side of the room, already looking in his direction with that thirsty, determined expression I’ve come to deeply resent. I watch her start toward him.

Before she can get within arm’s reach of him, I’m there, sliding straight into her path and blocking her view. She shouldn’t have eyes to look at him with. In fact, I’m starting to think eyesight is a privilege she’s been abusing.

She startles. “Excuse me—”

“Scram, cunt.”

Her eyes go wide. “What’s your problem?”

I look her up and down slowly, letting every ounce of disdain show. “Go orbit someone else.”

She puts a hand on her hip like this is now some cute little social conflict instead of the opening scene to her public execution. “I wasn’t talking to you.”