4

Tamara

My hands shake against the steering wheel as I sit in my car outside Viktor's building, the engine running but going nowhere.

The tears won't stop coming— ugly, choking sobs that leave my chest aching and my vision blurred. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and hate what I see. Mascara streaks down my cheeks, my lips are swollen from biting them, and my eyes look hollow.

"She's gone now, sweetheart," Viktor said, pulling the blonde bitch, Melissa closer, and trapping her bottom lip with his. "I did what you asked me to do. Be a prick. Now I have you..."

I had gone back inside to apologize. To beg him to be more understanding of my situation. But when I saw Melissa, who'd probably been hiding somewhere around in the house, while Viktor and I argued, I realized how much of a fool I'd been for even wanting Viktor to give me a second chance.

The words echo in my head, sharp and condescending. I did what you asked me to do. Be a prick. So, it all was intentional. He didn't care for my suffering. After sharing a bed, planning a future, building what I thought was love— and he can reduce my agony to nothing. He can move back to his ex-girlfriend like we meant nothing. It was all a lie.

The cramping in my pelvis pulses with each heartbeat, a constant reminder that something is deeply wrong with my body. But now it's joined by a different kind of pain, the kind that comes from realizing the person you trusted most doesn't trust you at all.

I should call Dad.

He would listen.

My father always listens when I need him, never dismissing my concerns or making me feel dramatic for having emotions. He's been my anchor since childhood— the one person who sees me exactly as I am and loves me anyway. When I scraped my knee at seven, he sat with me for an hour explaining why crying was brave, not weak. When I failed my calculus final in college, he drove three hours just to take me for ice cream and remind me that one grade didn't define my worth.

But the thought of telling him about tonight makes my stomach twist with shame. How do I explain that the man he's grown to like— the man he plays golf with twice a month and discusses business strategies with over dinner— just accused me of cheating, and then I found out he has a new girl already in his place? How do I tell him that I think Viktor isn't such a great guy after all?

There's something else, too. Something that's been bothering me for weeks, but that I've been pushing aside. The way Dad and Viktor talk sometimes, in low voices that stop when I enter the room. The way they exchange glances during family dinners, like they share secrets I'm not privy to. I've told myself it's just male bonding, the natural evolution of a relationship between a father and his daughter's boyfriend.

But tonight, with Viktor's cruel words about deliberately causing our breakup still burning in my ears, I can't shake the feeling that there's more to their connection than casual friendship.

Stop it, Tamara.

You're being paranoid.

Dad wouldn't keep secrets from me— not important ones. And whatever Viktor is hiding, whatever darkness is eating at him from the inside, I won't drag my father into it.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand and shift the car into drive. I need to move. I need to be anywhere but here, parked outside the building where the man I thought I loved just shattered my heart into a thousand pieces.

The streets of Boston blur past as I drive without a destination, letting muscle memory guide me through neighborhoods I've known since childhood. The pain in my abdomen flares with each bump in the road, but I barely notice it anymore. Physical pain is manageable. It's the emotional devastation that's threatening to pull me under.

I'm stopped at a red light when I see it— a building I've never paid attention to before, though I must have passed it dozens of times. The sign glows in deep red neon: Fatal Seduction. Something about the name tugs at me, draws my attention like a magnet. The exterior is understated but elegant, dark brick with tall windows that reveal warm light spilling from within.

On impulse, I turn into the small parking lot. This isn't me— I don't drink alone at strange bars, don't make reckless decisions when I'm emotionally compromised. But maybe that's exactly what I need tonight. Maybe I need to be someone other than the woman who just got screwed up by her boyfriend.

Screw him!

Fixing my make up with jerky movements, I swing open the door and get out of the car.

The interior of Fatal Seduction is nothing like the sports bars and trendy cocktail lounges Viktor prefers. This place feels like a secret, all dark wood and burgundy velvet, soft jazz flowing from hidden speakers. The lighting is warm and intimate, casting everything in golden shadows that make the space feel like a sanctuary.

The bartender notices me immediately— tall, dark-haired, with an easy smile that reaches his eyes. His rolled-up sleeves reveal forearms marked with intricate tattoos, and there's something about his presence that feels both professional and genuinely welcoming.

"What can I get you?" he asks, sliding a cocktail napkin across the polished bar.

"Something strong," I say, my voice still rough from crying. "Something that will help me forget the last two hours of my life."

He studies my face for a moment— not in a creepy way, but with the practiced assessment of someone who's seen plenty of heartbreak walk through these doors. "Whiskey neat, or something with more sugar to take the edge off?"

"Whiskey. Definitely whiskey."

He pours two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass and sets it in front of me. The first sip burns, but it's a clean burn that cuts through the fog of hurt and anger clouding my thoughts.

"Rough night?" he asks, wiping down glasses as he looks up at me.

"Stupid boyfriend drama," I say, taking another sip. The alcohol is already warming my chest, loosening the tight knot of tension between my shoulder blades.

Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding that goes beyond casual bartender sympathy. "Ah. One of those."

"One of what?"

"Guys who think their stupidity is your problem to solve." He leans against the bar, lowering his voice slightly. "Been there. Not fun."

The whiskey is making me bold, or maybe it's just the relief of talking to someone who doesn't immediately dismiss my experience. "How do you know it's his stupidity and not me just being hopeless?"

"Because hopeless people don't cry like you've been crying. They don't even come to a place like this. They retreat into their shells. Stay back in their beds, because they feel there's no use trying anymore." He gives me a casual glance over his shoulder. "You look like someone who's been kicked while they were already down, but you refuse to stay down, and that's really admirable."

The observation hits harder than it should. I drain the rest of my whiskey and push the glass toward him for a refill.

"I'm Jack, by the way," he says, pouring another generous measure.

"Tamara."

"Nice to meet you, Tamara. And for what it's worth, stupid boyfriends usually reveal more about themselves than about their girlfriends."