002

Abigail’s POV 

For a moment, none of us moved.

The only sound was the soft tick of the clock on the wall—the same one Luke had insisted we didn’t need. Funny how loud it felt now, marking every humiliating second I had to stand there and look at them.

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “What the actual hell?”

Luke flinched. Melanie fumbled to collect her scattered clothes, cheeks flushed with shame. There was fear in her eyes as she scrambled past me—fear that maybe I’d tell her father.

She didn’t have to worry. I wasn’t a tattletale. And most importantly, I didn’t care. She was twenty. A full-grown adult.

If anything, I was just disappointed that the sweet, innocent-looking Melanie had the nerve to shag my boyfriend in my own house.

God. This was embarrassing. I felt like I’d just walked into a Telemundo novela.

“Abigail, I can explain—“

He reached for me, and I stepped back so fast the air between us snapped.

“Don’t.” My voice came out low, steady. Calm enough to scare even me.

Because inside, everything was vibrating—fury, disgust, disbelief—all tangled in a knot I couldn’t undo.

“I can’t believe this,” I muttered, more to myself than to him.

Luke’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Just a useless stammer, a hand dragging through his hair.

God, he looked pathetic.

The absurdity of it hit me again—all those mornings he’d kissed me goodbye before work, all the late nights he’d blamed on deadlines, and here he was, tripping over his own pants in my living room.

I could have screamed. Thrown something. Broken every glass within reach. But instead, I inhaled slowly, the way I used to when I tried not to cry during fights that weren’t worth having.

“Get out,” I said finally.

“Abigail—”

“I said get out.”

The words didn’t rise in volume, but they landed heavy, leaving no space for argument.

He hesitated, then started gathering his things—his shirt, his phone, the jacket I’d bought him last Christmas.

As he stumbled toward the door, I caught my reflection in the window—calm face, dry eyes, steady hands. But underneath that stillness, something fractured. Not cleanly. Not quietly.

The door shut behind them, and the silence that followed was deafening.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the couch—the scene of betrayal still imprinted in the cushions—and for the first time, I realized I wasn’t heartbroken.

I was done. 

Just done.

I couldn’t sleep here tonight. The rage would choke me before morning.

I reached for my phone and dialed the only number on my emergency contact list.

*****

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along?” Trevor asked, grabbing his car keys from the table.

“Yes, Trevor,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Now go.”

Trevor and I had grown up together. He was like the older brother I never had.

When I called and told him about the Luke-couch situation, he didn’t even hesitate to let me crash at his place. He almost canceled his plans, too—something about not wanting me to be alone in my darkest moment.

I told him I was fine. And I was. I wasn’t about to cry over that jerk.

“You can order pizza for dinner. The fridge—“

“Don’t make me kick you out, Trevor Wilde.”

He grinned. “Okay, okay. À plus tard, Abigail.”

“À plus tard, Trevor.”

It had been our thing since high school—French goodbyes no matter the situation.

Once the door shut behind him, I exhaled and grabbed the pint of ice cream in the fridge. Mint chocolate chip. My favorite. I smiled. Trevor hated it. He said it tasted just like toothpaste. 

I settled onto the couch with the TV remote, scanning for a sappy rom-com to end the evening the way I’d planned.

Then my phone buzzed.I grimaced upon seeing the caller. 

Luke.

He had already sent sixty-two texts. 

I groaned. Couldn’t he just let me be?

I stared, my humb hovering over the screen. I ignored it. Just like I ignored his texts.

I needed a distraction. A big one.

“Fuck it,” I muttered, shoving off the couch.

*****

Minutes later, I stood in front of Eclipse, the bar’s neon sign glowing hot pink overhead.

Inside, bodies swayed, music throbbed, lights pulsed. I wove through the crowd until I spotted Trevor’s booth.

“Looking gorgeous as ever, Abigail,” Chase, one of his friends, whistled as I slid in beside them.

“Thanks, Chase,” I replied with a faint smile.

Jude and Parker, the other two at the table, introduced themselves, and soon laughter and clinking glasses filled the space.

“I’m glad you came out,” Trevor murmured.

“Me too,” I said, emptying my glass.

Eclipse was plenty of distraction. And I was here for it. 

I scanned the room, gliding over the crowd of people. Some were dancing. Some were laughing at what their partners said. Others were making out in dark corners. Everyone seemed to be having fun.

And then my eyes landed on him. 

A pair of chocolate-brown eyes across the bar.

He was beautiful—the kind of beautiful that hurt to look at. Under the neon glow, his cheekbones looked carved from marble, his lips firm but soft-looking, a faint scar slashing through his left brow.

The faintest smirk curved his lips, arrogance glinting there, like he knew exactly what that look was doing to me.

He had company—some man gesturing wildly beside him—but his eyes had already found me.

And stayed there.

They roamed over me in a way that felt like a touch. My skin tingled under his gaze, every hair on my body standing in awareness.

It was almost impossible to look away. But I did.

How could a stranger have that kind of effect?

Every now and then, I’d glance back—and every time, his eyes were still on me.

Other girls might’ve found it creepy. Other girls might have even left the bar. Other girls who caught their boyfriends cheating on them just a few hours ago would probably stay away from men—especially like him.

But me? His silent appraisal felt like a touch I wasn’t ready for—but craved anyway.

When I looked again, he was gone.

A surprising pang of disappointment bloomed in my chest.

“Are you okay?” Trevor’s voice broke through my thoughts.

I turned to him, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. I just need another drink.”

Before he could answer, I slipped away toward the bar.

I needed something strong.

“A dirty martini, please,” I told the bartender.

“She’ll have water,” said a deep, rich voice beside me.

I turned—and my breath caught.

Chocolate eyes.

He slid onto the stool next to mine like he belonged there, a slight curve at his lips.

“Miss?” the bartender prompted.

“A dirty martini,” I repeated.

“Water,” he said again.

The bartender hesitated, eyes darting between us.

“I’m perfectly capable of handling my drinks,” I said, facing him squarely.

“I’m sure you are,” he murmured, voice smooth as smoke. “But you’ve had enough for tonight.”

God, he sounded just as beautiful as he looked.

I snorted. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on me.”

“Well,” he said, leaning in just enough that his scent—something dark and expensive—brushed against me. “You’re not easy to ignore.”

The air between us went taut. Heat pooled low in my belly.

“I’ll have water,” I told the bartender finally.

He smiled. “Good girl.”

The words slid through me, all command and promise, and I knew—just knew—I’d found my perfect distraction.