Chapter 3 – Trouble in the City

Aria’s POV

The city blurs past the tinted glass of my limo, lights bleeding into one another like a cruel joke.

I press my palms to my face. God, Aria. What the hell were you thinking?

The driver glances in the mirror. “Everything alright, ma’am?”

“No,” I snap, then soften. “Just drive.”

I drop my hands, staring at my reflection in the window. The woman staring back looks composed— perfect hair, flawless makeup, red dress still hugging her like armor. But inside? I’m shaking.

He looked at me like I’d betrayed him. Like I was nothing, like I was a stranger. No—worse. Like I was a liar.

And maybe I am.

But that look in his eyes… it gutted me.

He was angry, yes, but there was hurt too. A raw kind of betrayal, like I’d ripped something out of him without asking.

And yet… his smile still lingers in my head. That cocky grin, the way his hand gripped my waist before he realized the truth. The way he said my name like it belonged in his mouth.

“Pathetic,” I whisper. My chest tightens. “I should hate you,” I mutter to the glass. “I should delete the app. Delete you.”

But I don’t.

Instead I sit here like a fool, skin buzzing where his touch lingers, thighs pressing together because even in my humiliation, my body is betraying me.

“Pathetic,” I mutter. My chest tightens. I should hate him. He flirted with that waitress like I was nothing. Like I hadn’t been the woman he’d stayed up texting at two in the morning.

I should hate him but I don’t. I want him.

And that’s the worst betrayal of all.

Hours later, I should be in bed. But instead I’m parked in the corner booth of another bar, a glass of bourbon sweating between my hands.

And there he is.

Logan.

Across the room, leaning back with that lazy, infuriating confidence. Black T-shirt clinging to muscle, dog tags glinting under the dim light. Maya, the bubbly waitress from earlier, perched at his table, giggling at something he said.

He laughs too, tossing his head back, that grin flashing wide and bright. Too wide. Too bright. It’s forced. He’s performing. I can see it even from here. His jaw tics between smiles, his shoulders never quite relax. He’s trying to look unbothered, but he’s wound tight.

“Pretending you’re fine, are you?” I mutter into my glass. “Newsflash, soldier, you suck at pretending. Asshole,” though my pulse stutters anyway.

He lifts his glass, clinks it with Maya’s, and for one insane moment I want to march over there, drag him out by his collar, and remind him who the fuck he was texting every night for two months.

Instead, I stay hidden, sipping bourbon, watching.

Hours pass. He’s had more drinks than he should. I see it in the way he sways slightly when he stands, reaching for his wallet.

He pulls out his wallet, flips it open. His mouth tightens.

“Uh oh,” I whisper into my glass.

“Card’s declined,” the bartender announces, flat and unimpressed, holding the little piece of plastic between two fingers like it’s diseased.

Logan frowns, digging back into his wallet. “Run it again.”

The bartender sighs. “Sir, I ran it twice. It’s not working.”

“Bullshit. Try another one,” Logan snaps, rifling through his pockets. He checks his jeans, his jacket, the table. His movements get sharper, more frantic.

“I swear I had cash—” His voice drops, curse sliding out between clenched teeth. “Fuck. My other wallet. Where the hell’s my wallet?”

Maya giggles nervously beside him. “Maybe you dropped it?”

“Or maybe you spent it,” the bartender says with a roll of his eyes.

Logan’s head whips up, and that dangerous grin I’ve seen before curls across his mouth. “You calling me a thief now?”

The bartender shrugs, unimpressed. “All I know is you can’t pay. So here’s your choice, big guy. You leave your watch, your chain, or you get security involved. Simple as that.”

My eyes flick to the dog tags glinting at Logan’s chest. His hand curls around them protectively like the idea of giving them up isn’t just laughable, it’s offensive.

Logan’s laugh is sharp and humorless. “You want my tags? Over a couple bourbons? Yeah, not happening.”

The bartender doesn’t flinch. He signals the bouncer instead.

“Sir, you can’t stay if you can’t settle your bill,” the bouncer rumbles, stepping forward, arms like tree trunks crossed over his chest.

“Relax,” Logan growls, squaring his shoulders, puffing his chest out. “I told you, I had it when I walked in. Check your staff before you accuse me of being broke.”

The bouncer moves closer. Too close. He shoves Logan back with one big hand.

My breath catches.

Logan stumbles, then comes back swinging, shoving the man right in the chest. Chairs scrape, voices rise, the air crackles like a live wire about to snap.

“Fuck off, Get your hands off me before I break them,” Logan snarls, eyes blazing. His fists curl, ready.

Oh, perfect. Just perfect. The man has the self-control of a firecracker. One spark and he’s ready to explode. And like an idiot, my heart races. I set my drink down, push out of the booth, and mutter, “You’re going to get yourself killed, soldier.”

And God help me, I know I should stay out of it. I should let him deal with the mess he’s making. But my legs move before my brain agrees, heels clicking across the floor like a goddamn war drum.

The scene is unraveling fast. Logan’s squared off with the bouncer like he’s back in combat, muscles tight, jaw clenched, eyes wild. The whole bar is watching now, waiting for fists to fly.

Beside him, Maya shifts awkwardly, her giggle finally dying when she realizes the spotlight isn’t flattering anymore. She glances at her tray, at Logan, at the bouncer, then huffs softly, embarrassed. Without a word, she slinks away, head ducked. Good.

“Enough!” My voice cuts through the noise like glass shattering.

The bar goes still. Heads whip around. Logan freezes mid-snarl, his fist clenched, the bouncer’s hand still pressed to his chest. His eyes find mine instantly, like he’s been waiting for me all night.

And God, that look. Heat. Surprise. A flash of something darker that punches straight through me.