Chapter 26

THEA

One second, his mouth was on mine, not kissing, but devouring me. The next, he pulls away like he’s been burned.

No—worse. Like he’s the one afraid of me.

For a moment, all I can do is stand there, breath catching in my throat, lips tingling, heart racing like it’s trying to tear out of my chest. My fingers curl slightly where he'd pressed them to his… his chest, like he was trying to show me something.

And then it hits me.

The heat. My lips.

My fingers fly to my lips. They’re wet. Swollen. Tingling. And when I look down at them—

Blood.

I set my lips in a thin line while my hands move to his head which is resting on my shoulder. 

I pull him back until he's directly before me, but he still hasn’t opened his eyes.

He’s braced like he’s holding back something unholy, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon.

“Ezra…” I whisper.

No response.

“Ezra, what the hell was that?”

His breath hitches.

Still no eyes. No words. No explanation. Just tension coiled tight, like if he so much as looks at me, the world might implode.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my own voice shaking. “Why did you—why did you bite me?”

Shit Thea. I wasn't even worried he kissed me out of the blue but that he bit me.

After what feels like eternity, he finally opens his eyes. The pale blue looks darker.

It looked red earlier. It's definitely the light.

He places his hand on my wrist, my palm still on his cheeks. He guides it slowly toward his chin. 

Then, I hurriedly dropped my hand. A shuddering breath slips past my lips as I try to steel myself. 

He takes a step back. And then, two. And all I can see is him. As if we are the only ones present.

When he's a few meters away, I cross my arms on my chest. “You kissed me.” 

He clears his throat, jaw flexing. 

“I know.” 

I hear nothing except the sound of my heart thumping in my chest.

He didn't even meet my eyes. “I shouldn't have done that.”

My eyes search his face as I take a step closer. “Why are you acting like that kiss… was some sort of mistake?”

He shoves his hand in his pocket. “It was.”

My breath catches.

God, what have I gotten myself into?

“I was just… trying to make it more believable.” He adds, tilting his chin forward.

That's when I finally turn, just to see that we are surrounded by the guests now. Some eyes were fixed on us as if this is a fairytale, some even had their phone's out, taking pictures.

‘Awww, this is so cute’ flies around, accompanied by low murmurs.

Shit.

When he said I was his, I'd forgotten he's a good actor, I'd forgotten that I get easily attached and that this charade is just like me gambling with my heart.

Maybe it's because I wasn't served love on a silver platter, and now, I have to lick it off knives.

Then, he turns away and flashes the crowd a dazzling, toothpaste-commercial smile.

I choke down a sob. I want to slap it right off his face.

How can he look so at ease? Like he didn’t just devour my mouth, and then act like kissing me was a tax he had to pay?

He walks closer to me and laces our fingers together like we’re that couple—the ones everyone roots for—and leads me back toward our table.

I let him. Because what else can I do with all these damn eyes on us?

The crowd parts as he leads me through.

The warmth of his hand makes it worse somehow. Like my body didn’t get the memo that I’m pissed at him. And myself.

By the time we sit, the music picks back up, conversations resume, and it’s like no one even remembers our little public meltdown.

Lucky them.

Meanwhile, I want the ground to crack open and swallow me whole. Maybe twice. Just to make sure.

I sink into my seat and lean in, whispering, “What the hell was that?” while I try to hold back tears.

Ezra leans back with all the smug calm of someone who didn’t just humiliate me in front of a room full of rich people. “That,” he says smoothly, “was acting. You’re welcome.”

“You kissed me without warning,” I hiss, cheeks still on fire, eyes definitely red now. “And then bit me, and then pulled away like I was a cockroach that crawled onto your face. You think that’s part of the damn script?”

He shrugs, not even staring at me. “The goal is to sell it right? Us.”

“Not auction off my dignity.”

He didn't stare into my eyes as he looks at me. “Relax. It worked. We’re the talk of the room.”

“Oh great. So glad to be trending in the Humiliation category just so our breakup could slap.”

We’re halfway into the bickering spiral when one of the pot-bellied men in a stretched tux sidles up to our table.

“Mr Harrington,” the man says with a nod that somehow manages to be both respectful and vaguely condescending. “It’s time.”

Ezra stands up but I didn't even glance at him this time. I can feel his eyes on me and I hear him sigh before he says,

“I'll be back. It's time for the CEOs’ meeting. The event will be over soon.” 

I didn't answer, the tears already starting to spill.

God, I hate that I cry too fast.

He sighs one last time.

And just like that, I’m alone.

I blink at the empty space where he stood. The laughter around me feels like it’s coming from underwater.

God, I’m so stupid.

I press my fingers to my temples like that might stop the humiliation from seeping deeper into my bones. But it’s already there. Settling in. Making itself comfortable.

He bit me. Then kissed me like I was the last cigarette on a stressful night—and dropped me like the habit he’d promised to quit.

And I just stood there.

I didn’t slap him. Didn’t walk away. 

No. I remembered kissing him back. Like a fool.

Because that’s what people like me do, isn’t it?

We mistake attention for affection. Intensity for intimacy. A scene for something real.

I should’ve known better.

I always know better.

But damn it, knowing better doesn’t stop the ache.

I drag in a shaky breath and reach for the glass of water in front of me, hands trembling like I’m holding memories, not crystal.

This is why I'd promised not to do vulnerability.

Because one second you’re in control, and the next you’re bleeding out—emotionally and literally—and everyone’s smiling like they didn’t just witness your unraveling.

I glance around the room. No one’s looking anymore. They’ve moved on. Champagne glasses clink. Someone’s laughing too hard a few tables over.

Of course they’ve moved on.

They weren’t the ones who got kissed and discarded like a prop in someone else’s play.

Why does this always happen? Why do I always end up the one who cares more?

I knew this was fake.

But I told myself I could handle it.

And there’s something about being wanted—even if it’s pretend—that breaks down all the walls I’ve spent months building.

I feel a tear roll down my cheek and swipe it away quickly, like that’ll undo everything.

Too late.

I close my eyes for a second, just long enough to breathe. 

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

I’ve been humiliated before. Lied to. Left behind. Cheated on. Rejected. 

This isn’t new.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part—because for a moment, it felt real.

And for someone like me, who’s always had to earn affection, who was never handed softness without cost, even pretend love feels intoxicating.

But here’s the thing about pretending: it only hurts when you start to believe it.

And God help me—I’ve already did.

Damn it.

I down the rest of the water before turning back to the crowd.

My eyes latches onto a waiter holding a tray filled with champagne flutes.

Perfect.

I signal him over.

I grab one.

When I'm done, I signal another waiter over again.

And I grab two.

Rinse.

And repeat.

And again.

Until I can no longer feel my legs, or the ache in my chest.