Four

I turned off the water and stepped out, my skin still humming from the warmth. Grabbing a towel from the rack, I dried myself quickly, my breath unsteady as I walked to the mirror.

The towel slipped from my grasp, pooling at my feet.

I stared at my reflection, running my hands over my bare skin. My breasts were full, swollen with a need that had long gone unanswered. My hips curved in perfect symmetry, a silent invitation—one that had never been accepted.

I had the body of a vixen and the mind of a nerd. Two sides of a coin that never should have fit together. But it was those two sides that had made Adonis swoon.

A wistful smile tugged at my lips.

Adonis.

He had never tried to suppress my fire. He had wanted me exactly as I was—brains, beauty, and all the chaos in between.

I sighed, shaking the thought away as I reached for my phone on the dresser. My heart did a stupid little jump, hoping for a missed call or a message from Layden.

Nothing.

I groaned in frustration, tossing my phone back onto the dresser before slipping into a silk nightgown. The cool fabric kissed my skin as I padded toward the bed, where Andra lay sprawled out, breathing softly.

The room was dimly lit, the glow of the city bleeding through the sheer curtains. The scent of vanilla and fresh linen filled the air, wrapping me in familiarity. A bookshelf stood against the far wall, cluttered with novels, old notebooks, and framed photographs from our college days. The bedside table held a lamp, a stack of magazines, and Andra’s ever-growing collection of half-used lip glosses.

I paused, debating whether to wake her.

But she was already fast asleep, one leg hanging off the bed, her arm thrown dramatically over her face.

Shaking my head, I climbed onto the other side of the bed, tucking myself beneath the cool sheets. The moment my head hit the pillow, a wave of nostalgia washed over me, pulling me back to the very first day I met Andra—Sandra Latisha John.

Westrum University, New York 2015 – Freshman Year.

The campus had been a maze of towering brick buildings, sprawling lawns, and students buzzing with the energy of new beginnings. I had been hopelessly lost, clutching a crumpled map in one hand and a backpack stuffed with textbooks in the other. My hair was a mess, my face flushed from the late summer heat, and my nerves were frayed. I had been wandering in circles for what felt like hours, trying to find the humanities building, when she appeared.

Sandra Latisha John.

She was a whirlwind of confidence, her dark curls bouncing as she strode toward me, a smirk playing on her lips. She was wearing a cropped leather jacket over a band tee, ripped jeans, and combat boots that clashed with the preppy aesthetic of Westrum. Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief as she took in my frazzled state.

"Need a tour guide, Snow White?" she had teased, her voice dripping with amusement.

I had stammered something incoherent, and she laughed—a loud, unapologetic sound that made a few passing students turn their heads. Without waiting for a proper response, she grabbed my arm and pulled me along, launching into a rapid-fire commentary about the campus.

"Over there’s the library—great for naps, terrible for studying. That building? Avoid it unless you want to get stuck in a conversation with Professor Hargrove about the 'philosophical implications of postmodernism.' And that," she said, pointing to a nondescript building, "is where they keep the good coffee. You’re welcome."

And just like that, we clicked.

When we found out we shared the same writing major, we became inseparable. She was the brawn, and I was the brains. She pulled me into trouble, and I pulled her out. We were opposites in every way, but it worked. Andra was the kind of friend who made life feel like an adventure, even when it wasn’t. She dragged me to parties I never would’ve gone to, convinced me to skip class for spontaneous road trips, and once talked me into streaking across the quad at midnight. (We got caught, of course, but she charmed our way out of trouble with a story so outrageous the campus security guard let us go with a warning.)

Layden had been different.

We met in a debate seminar during my sophomore year. He was Westrum’s golden boy—tall, lean, with glasses that always seemed to slide down his nose and a perpetually serious expression. He was the kind of person who carried a leather-bound notebook everywhere he went, jotting down quotes from philosophers and poets like they were sacred texts.

We were the academic power duo—winning debates, dominating essay competitions, ruling the intellectual battlefield. He was the nerdy genius at the top of the school board until I came along, and suddenly, Westrum had two prodigies.

At first, it was more of a competition. We were constantly trying to one-up each other, our rivalry fueling late-night study sessions and heated debates. But over time, it became something else. We bonded over our shared ambition, our love for literature, and the quiet understanding that we were each other’s equals.

Everything with Layden had felt right—safe, steady, predictable. He was my safe space, my anchor in a world that often felt chaotic. He was the kind of person who remembered my favorite tea, who noticed when I was stressed before I even said a word, and who always knew exactly what to say to make me feel better.

But Adonis? He was chaos.

The hot, rich, bad boy with a reputation, the temptation every girl was warned to avoid. I should have avoided him. I tried to avoid him. But fate had other plans.

He was in his finals, and seniors in their finals were usually assigned to mentor a freshman on a research project. And by some cruel twist of fate—he was paired with me.

I had known from the first moment I saw him that he was trouble.

He was too attractive. Too charming. Too much.

Everything he said made me blush. Every touch, every teasing smirk, every casual gift sent my pulse into a frenzy. And when he looked at me, it wasn’t with admiration or quiet respect—it was with raw, unfiltered want.

I had never been wanted like that before.

He was my first kiss and, in a way, my last.

Layden had always called it the "bad boy effect"—a reckless infatuation, an illusion of passion. He believed Adonis was just trying to get into my pants. And maybe, in some ways, he was right.

But Layden never knew who I had been paired with for the project. Not once did he ask. And even if he had known, I doubted he would have cared.

Or maybe... he just never saw Adonis as a threat.

But Layden didn’t understand.

Adonis didn’t just flirt, he invaded.

No matter how many walls I built, he always found a way in. And yet… I had chosen Layden.

Because why settle for a heart-wrenching bad boy when you had someone who was a safe space? Choosing Layden had been the best decision.

A nerd with a nerd—a classic love story. What could possibly go wrong? And in this love story, the good guy marries the good girl.

The night before Adonis graduated, he had given me a bracelet—delicate emeralds set in gold—and an offer: one hot, wild, untamed night.

"Because it matches your eyes," he had said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "And because you’re the best thing I'm yet to have."

Yet to have? His words had sent a dangerous tremor through me.

But I had known better.

I had known his type. Still, I had kept the bracelet.

Had he ever made it to my bed? No.

Did I regret it?... That was a question I wasn’t sure I could answer.

But Layden? He was love at first sight.

He was my choice.

And tomorrow, I would walk down the aisle and make that choice forever. I curled deeper into the blankets, my fingers absentmindedly brushing the bracelet still resting on my wrist. Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

Not with the ghost of a masked stranger still lingering beneath my skin, stirring something I hadn’t felt in years. And definitely not with the unsettling thought that, for the first time in six years…

I wasn’t so sure I had made the right choice. But I knew better. It was just pre-wedding jitters.

I thought of my parents—of the empty seats they’d leave behind at my wedding tomorrow—and a tear slipped down my cheek, then another, until I was crying shamelessly into my pillow.

I would walk down the aisle alone. No father’s arm to hold, no mother’s tearful smile. Just me.

They were still mad—at me, at Layden. I had turned down a billion-dollar publishing contract when Layden proposed, and they never forgave me for it.

Andra and my parents had been so proud. Their only child, finally achieving her dream. I was supposed to be the beginning of generational wealth, of legacy. All my days spent lost in Shakespearean tragedies and great American novels had finally paid off. And Layden? He had been my competition, my anchor, my inspiration.

But they didn’t see him the way I did.

They told me to focus, to build myself before thinking of marriage. But deep down, I knew—no one could love me like Layden. And if I couldn’t have the best of both worlds, I would choose my world.

I chose him.

To prove it—to him, to my parents, to the world—I walked away from my dream job. And since then, I hadn't picked up a pen, hadn't written a single word. But in the morning, when I stood before Layden, when I vowed to love him forever—it would all be worth it.

Wouldn’t it? A fresh wave of tears spilled over.

I had sent my parents an invitation last month, hoping, praying, that maybe—just maybe—they’d show up. That I’d see them sitting in the crowd, watching me with something other than disappointment. But the silence stretched. No calls. No texts. Nothing.

Would they really miss their only daughter’s wedding? I squeezed my pillow tighter, muffling the sound of my quiet sobs.

Whether they liked it or not, I was going to prove to them that Layden was worth it. That we were worth it. That his love for me was infinite and infinite was all I needed.