6

I don't wait for a response. I walk back toward the hallway, my bare feet cold on the hardwood, and I feel their eyes on my back—both of them, for different reasons. I make it to my bedroom door before I hear footsteps behind me.

"Bella."

Caleb's voice. Low. Careful.

I stop with my hand on the doorframe. I don't turn around.

"What?" The word comes out flat. Tired.

I hear him take a step closer. Then another. His presence fills the hallway behind me, warm and familiar and unbearable. "You okay?"

"Peachy."

"Bella."

I turn then, and I don't bother hiding the hurt in my eyes. He's standing three feet away, his hands in the pockets of his sweats, his jaw tight. He looks as wrecked as I feel. But that doesn't change the facts.

"You're taking another girl to a sex club tonight," I say. Flat. Hard. "After last night."

His jaw tightens further. "It's not—"

"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Don't explain it to me. I get it. You're Caleb Alexander. You don't do commitment. You don't do virgins. I'm a complication you didn't sign up for."

"That's not—"

"It's fine." It's not. My voice cracks on the second word, and I hate myself for it. "I knew what I was getting into."

He takes another step toward me, and now he's close enough that I can smell him—soap and coffee and that clean, warm scent that's been haunting my dreams for years. His hand comes up, and for a second I think he's going to touch my face. But he stops. Lets his hand fall.

"It's not what you think," he says.

"Then tell me what it is."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Something flickers in his eyes—guilt, hunger, regret—and then he steps back. Puts distance between us.

"I can't."

The words hit me like a slap.

"Okay." I turn and push open my bedroom door. "Have fun tonight, Caleb."

I close the door before he can respond.

The lock clicks into place, and I lean my forehead against the cool wood, breathing hard. My chest aches. My eyes sting. I will not cry. I will not cry over a boy who's spent years perfecting the art of not being caught.

But the tears come anyway.

I press my palm against my mouth and let them fall, silent and hot, and I hate myself for wanting him even now. For picturing him at some club with his hands on Jade the yoga instructor, his mouth on her neck, his fingers—

A knock at the door makes me jump.

"Bella." Callum's voice. Soft. Concerned. "You sure you're okay? You look pale."

I wipe my face with the back of my hand and take a shaky breath. "Yeah. Just tired. Promise."

A pause. I hear him shift his weight. "Okay. I'm gonna head to the facility. Left some pancakes in the fridge if you want them later."

"Thanks."

More silence. Then footsteps, retreating. The front door opens and closes, and the penthouse goes quiet.

I wait until I hear the elevator ding in the hall before I let myself breathe.

And then I think about what Callum said. The club. A place some of the guys go. Private. Members only.

I know what club he's talking about. I've heard whispers—Callum's teammates, late-night conversations I wasn't supposed to overhear. A place called Lux. Underground. Invite-only. The kind of place where NFL players go to disappear for a night, where everything is off the record and nothing leaves the building.

And Caleb is taking some other girl there tonight.

I sit down on the edge of my bed, my robe pooling around me, and I stare at the rumpled sheets. I can still smell him on my pillow. Still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips, his mouth between my thighs, his voice in my ear telling me how long he'd wanted me.

I could fight for him.

The thought lands like a stone in still water, sending ripples through me. I could show up. Find him. Remind him what he's trying so hard to run from.

It's reckless. It's desperate. It's the kind of thing the old Isabella would never dream of.

But the old Isabella also never spent a night in Caleb Alexander's arms, trembling on the edge of something that could break her open.

I reach for my phone. My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I type a single search: Lux private club downtown.

The address pops up immediately. A warehouse district. No website. No contact info. But I know my brother. I know where he keeps his spare key cards, his invites, his wallet when he's too lazy to carry it.

And I know I'm about to do something incredibly stupid.

The shower can wait. I pull my robe tighter and walk to Callum's room. His door is half-open, and I slip inside, heading straight for the nightstand where I know he keeps his club card—the black one with no logo, just a serial number embossed in silver.

It's there. Right where he always leaves it.

I pick it up. It's heavier than it looks. The edges are smooth, worn from use.

I slide it into my robe pocket and walk back to my room, my heart hammering in my chest.

Caleb thinks he can push me away with a yoga instructor and a dark room full of strangers.

He doesn't know me at all.

I grab my phone and text the one friend who owes me a favor. The one who knows someone who knows someone who can get me in the door.

I need a dress. Something that will make him forget his own name.

The reply comes back in seconds: Say less. I'll be there in an hour.

I set the phone down and look at myself in the mirror. Dark hair tangled. Eyes red-rimmed. Silk robe that doesn't quite cover the thigh where his hand had been.

Tonight, I'm not going to be the girl he left behind.

Tonight, I'm going to make sure he remembers exactly what he's trying to walk away from.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll finally get what I've wanted since I understood what wanting meant.