Birthday Heartbreak

The loud music blasting from the club’s speakers banged through my ears, causing more heartache than healing.

I stared at the whiskey in front of me, taking the third shot.

“Do you plan on killing yourself?” Dante, my male best friend, asked.

“Am I ugly?” I slurred, clearly drunk.

“Don’t ask stupid questions. You know how many men would kill to have you,” he said, sipping his beer. I looked at him and saw pity clearly shining in those blue orbs of his.

“Jason is dead meat when I catch him,” Dante said. “And Mia? I never trusted that bitch. I warned you about him.”

Yeah, he did. Dante never liked Jason. Since the five years I dated that cheater, he always pointed out how miserable and fake Jason was. But I never saw it—I was too blinded by love. I gave Jason what he wanted as a privilege: rich, last baby. Jason never really did the spending while we were dating.

“Happy fucking birthday to me,” I said, clearly in a drunken state.

Yeah, today was my 23rd birthday. I walked in on my man buried ball-deep into my best friend. Even my bestie had been fucking my man during our five-year relationship. God, the truth was really hard to believe. I never thought Mia could betray me—I trusted her the same way I trusted him. When I walked in on them, they acted like I didn’t exist, like I was a distraction—which I clearly was.

“Dante, my heart is aching,” I said to him.

“Hey, B… come here,” he said as he pulled me into a warm embrace.

Dante had always been there for me, like a brother and best friend—even when I bad-mouthed him with that motherfucker Clara, accusing him of not wanting good things for me and Jason, not seeing it was the bitch who was fucking my man and supporting me.

Dante’s phone buzzed.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” Dante said as he picked up the call and walked out.

I looked around to see people—some making out, some dancing, some drinking. A blonde guy seated at the edge of the bar winked at me as he raised his drink. I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Men…”

I stood up, adjusting my silver shirt gown, trying to navigate my way to the toilet when I crashed into a body.

Not just any body—a hard one.

“I’m—” I started, looking up at him, interrupted by his beauty. They say no one is perfect, but the features of this man changed that saying.

His grey eyes, perfect cheekbones, and those perfect lips—words that could make any woman drop her guard. His black sleek hair, dressed all in black, commanding power. Dangerous tattoos and a well-built, sexy body like he stepped out of a magazine.

“Are you lost, Red?” His deep, sexy voice wrapped around me, his hand on my waist holding me steady. His voice sent waves through my stomach.

He called me “Red,” hinting at my red hair.

“I’m about to go out,” I said, about to step in the other direction, ready to walk away.

“You seem drunk. Let me sober you up.”

“Okay,” I said, taking his hands as he offered. I should have said no and walked away, avoiding this stranger, but something about him kept pulling me back.

We sat in his VIP booth—the space clearly made for him—as he offered me a bottle of water.

“Here, this will help,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the water. “What’s your name?” I blurted out as I sipped.

“Damien,” he said, running his long, sexy fingers on my thigh and staring at my lips before meeting my eyes again. “So, what’s your story?” he asked.

“No story. Just a broken heart for my birthday,” I said, looking into his unreadable eyes. I searched for pity but found none. Instead, there was something I couldn’t place.

“We can mend that broken heart…” he said with a playful smirk, hinting at something more.

“Not bad,” I said, wanting to loosen up and forget that bastard Jason.

He signaled a man wearing all black standing at the corner of the booth—clearly his bodyguard.

Here I was, sitting in a black Maybach, his hands on my thighs after swearing off men hours ago.

The door of the elegant, luxurious penthouse opened, revealing a manly and elegant view.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt and walking toward a door.

My feet followed him, not knowing why, as he stepped into a room with me.

“You really aren’t scared of walking into the devil’s den?” he asked, walking up to me, his hands going around my waist and pulling me close. I inhaled his manly cologne as his fingers ran down my face.

“Should I be?” I asked. Clearly, I should. I didn’t even know him, but here I was, allowing him to touch me.

He smirked an evil smirk as he leaned down and slammed his lips on mine. The kiss was powerful, demanding, and hungry—like a man starving for food. I kissed him back, my hands finding their way around his broad shoulders as tingles sparked between my legs, begging for more than a kiss.

This shouldn’t be happening. But whatever it was, it was just a fling—a one-night stand—because I wasn’t ready to give my heart to anyone again.