Chapter 2

❤️Sophie❤️

I must have flown, or maybe I walked—I don't even know.

The only thing I remember is one moment I'm rushing out of Mrs. Davis’s office, and the next I'm pushing through dancing bodies toward the large counter where a bartender is busy serving drinks.

I flop onto a stool, my insides burning with anger—so much anger it feels like it could melt metal.

The bartender pauses, looking at me intently. I must look like a mess: red eyes, puffy lips, mascara smeared on my cheeks, messy hair.

If I looked in a mirror right now, I’d probably burst into tears.

A long, heartbreaking one.

“Whiskey, please,” I say to the bartender, and he nods.

A few minutes later, I'm gulping down a glass of alcohol, relishing the burn as it slides into my stomach, and trying hard not to cry.

But every second I stay inside this club makes it worse. Maybe I should just cry it out.

I grab the bottle of whiskey, pour myself another, watching the liquid fill the glass, my gaze lingers on the bottle like something of interest suddenly pops up on it.

Everything angers me. Honestly. The fact that he could easily choose her over me. The fact that she’s an older woman—not even my age. Am I that low? That cheap?

My hand tightens around the glass, and I fear it might break.

Three years. I thought I meant something to him, but he’s out there enjoying the company of a woman old enough to be his mother.

Have I been so blind? So stupid that I couldn't see what was happening?

I sniffle back tears. I should have done something worse—hit him, maybe shoot him in the head and watch his head splatter across the office. I should have shot Mrs. Davis too.

Too bad I could not even move, I stood there like a foolish human.

A sharp pain spreads through my chest. Is this what heartbreak feels like? Like someone’s reached into my chest and ripped my heart out with their bare hands.

I laugh bitterly, wiping at my face. What a joke.

Three fucking years of being the perfect girlfriend. Three years loving Sebastian. Three years believing every promise he made.

And in the end, he still chose her—not just another woman, but Mrs. Davis. The woman I trusted with all my heart.

The woman who smiled at me every day, pretending to care—while she was busy sleeping with my boyfriend behind my back.

A fresh wave of anger crashes over me. I grab the bottle, pour another drink.

This is what I need right now—to drink my brain out, to drink until I don't feel this pain anymore, until I stop feeling altogether—I feel useless to myself and the world.

Eventually, my vision blurs, and the music grows louder.

The stool beside me scrapes against the floor. I don't look up; I don't even care enough.

“That’s your fourth glass,” a young, calm, and annoyingly amusing male voice says.

I take another sip. “So?”

“So maybe you’re celebrating something, or trying very hard to forget something.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. Definitely the second. Slowly, I turn my head.

The man sitting beside me looks around my age—maybe twenty-three—with dark hair, sharp features, wearing a nice black shirt rolled up to his forearm.

He’s handsome.

Unfortunately, I don't have the energy to appreciate handsome right now.

“Mind your business,” I mutter, irritation rising.

The whiskey swirls inside the glass, calling for my attention. I grab it, gulp it down, then slam the glass down harder than I intended. The sharp sound rings in my ears for a moment.

The man’s lips twitch. “Fair.”

I expect him to leave me alone, but instead, he signals to the bartender. “One more for her.”

My eyes narrow. “Trying to get me drunk?”

“You seem to be doing a great job of that yourself.”

Despite everything, a reluctant smile forms on my lips. I hate it—maybe I hate him for causing it.

Probably the alcohol. Because with everything happening to me right now, I shouldn’t find anything amusing.

The stranger lifts his glass. “To terrible days.”

I stare at him for a moment, then lift mine. “To terrible days.”

“So, tell me, what happened?” he asks.

I remain silent for a moment—probably because my heart is shattering. “Nothing serious,” I lie.

The words sound stupid even to my ears, but I don't care. Talking about my heartbreak feels more embarrassing than admitting a grown woman wets the bed.

Like, who on earth chooses an older woman over his three-year girlfriend?

It’s stupid. So utterly stupid.

“Nothing serious? Judging by your face, I guess someone was stupid enough to lose you.”

I pause and stare at him. “That’s a horrible line.”

“It worked.”

I roll my eyes, and he grins. The action stirs something stupid inside me. I clench my thighs together.

“He cheated on me,” I blurt out before I even think.

“Sounds like he’s stupid,” he replies.

I nod. For some reason, I feel a flicker of vindication—at least someone else understands.

“Yeah, he is. He cheated on me with our English professor—an older woman, old enough to be his mother.”

The guy nearly chokes on his drink. “Your professor?”

I nod, finding it hard to believe myself. “Our English professor.”

A look of disbelief crosses his face. “Okay, I was prepared for a lot of things, but that definitely wasn’t one of them.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. My gaze briefly darts to the man. He seems nice and warm, more handsome than Sebastian, and he seems to like me.

I shake my head. Maybe it’s the alcohol. There’s no way he really likes me. I'm not good enough—my ex already proved that today.

I should focus on forgetting him rather than noticing another man.

“It’s insane,” I finally say.

“Completely insane. Your ex is an idiot. Lots of men would be happy to have you as their girlfriend.”

No.

“That’s a lie,” I shake the bottle of whiskey. There’s only a little left. I pour it into the glass and drink it all at once. “I'm not good enough. I'm the worst girlfriend in the world. I can't even satisfy my boyfriend sexually.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret it. But I’m done caring.

The man’s eyes widen. “That’s not true.”

“Unfortunately, it is. My ex chose an older woman over me—that means I'm a total wreck in bed.”

Then he laughs—low and long. For a moment, I think he’s laughing at me, at how pathetic I am. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Nope. The thing is, the sex isn’t really your problem. Your ex just isn’t good at it.”

That catches my attention. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’re good at it?”

“I am.”

A stupid jolt of electricity rushes in between my legs, “Will you fuck me then?”

The man’s jaw drops. “What?”

“I want you to fuck me. Do what Sebastian can’t.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“Make me come.”