Chapter Three

“It’s the men’s room,” he says, pointing at the sign on the door.

I freeze, staring at him. Men’s room. My brain refusing to process.

“You… you are joking,” I manage.

His smirk only widens, like he’s enjoying my discomfort. “Not joking, sweetheart. Looks like you got the wrong door.”

I take a step back, heart thudding. Everything about him—tall, dark, sharp eyes, that infuriating smirk is unsettling, yet… I can’t look away.

“Why… why are you here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

He leans lazily against the sink, sleeves rolled, one eyebrow raised. “Why do you think?” His voice is low, smooth, velvety. A little dangerous.

I glare.

“Besides, I should be asking you that,” he adds.

Heat rises to my cheeks, and I look away, pretending to fix my hair, though I can feel him watching me. Every instinct tells me to run—but something about him… something about this encounter… makes me want to stay.

I clear my throat, finally finding words. “You should leave.”

“And if I don’t?” he asks, his voice softening in a way that makes my chest tighten.

“Then… then you are not a gentleman.”

“I never said I was,” he smirks, stepping close and into my space.

I step back, heart hammering, trying to put distance between us, but there isn’t much room. My back brushes the counter.

He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. “Relax, I’m not here to hurt you… unless you want me to,” he adds, voice teasing.

I swallow hard, fury and curiosity warring inside me. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he smirks, “here you are, standing in front of me instead of walking away.”

I grit my teeth and decide to walk away.

My heels catch slightly on the floor, making me wobble. He reaches out instinctively.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I… I can manage,” I say, steadying myself with the counter.

“That would be ungentlemanly of me,” he says, voice low and teasing.

“I thought you said you weren’t a gentleman,” I shoot back, a smirk tugging at my lips despite myself.

“I never said I wasn’t,” he replies, stepping back just enough to give me space, but still close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him.

I shake my head and begin walking toward the main room, and he follows silently, matching my pace.

We meet Emily halfway.

“Who are you? What are you doing with my friend?” she asks, defensive.

He holds up his hands, calm, charming. “Easy. She just… walked into the men’s room by mistake. I was just making sure she didn’t fall.”

Emily blinks, then exhales sharply. “Oh… sorry. My bad.”

She shakes her head, smiling faintly.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” she says, taking my arm gently.

“Uh… thanks,” I murmur, glancing briefly at him as we walk away.

I glance at him once more as I start to walk away. His gaze doesn’t waver. He’s still standing there, calm, composed. There’s something unreadable in those dark eyes.

I don’t linger.

I turn and leave.

As I watch them walk away, I can’t help but feel a quiet pull settle in my chest.

Her friend steadies her arm, murmuring something I can’t catch over the music, and she lets out a soft laugh.

She doesn’t look back immediately.

But then she does.

Just once.

Our eyes meet briefly, and in that fraction of a second, the world narrows down to just her.

Then she turns again.

And she’s gone.

“She’s gone,” one of my friends says, breaking the moment.

I turn back toward the table, sliding into my seat like nothing happened.

“Who was that girl, Xander?” another asks, eyebrows raised.

“That was… different,” one of them adds. “You don’t usually… engage.”

I pick up my drink, my expression unreadable.

“Someone from another time,” I say.

And leave it at that.

I wake up to a dull throb at the back of my head, the room spinning slightly. Sunlight streams through the curtains, harsh and uninviting.

I groan, rolling onto my side, tugging the blanket closer, willing the pounding to fade.

My head feels like it’s hosting a marching band.

Ugh… the club. The wine. The dancing. The hot, mysterious stranger.

It all comes back in a dizzy, pounding rush.

My phone vibrates on the bedside table. I squint at the screen—an unknown number.

I hesitate… then answer.

“Anna,” the voice says, and I freeze instantly.

That smooth, controlled tone that makes my skin crawl. I know her.

My chest tightens, a sinking feeling twisting my stomach.

“You need to get to the house. Now.”

It’s her. My stepmother.

I press my lips together, unwilling to let her hear the discomfort in my voice. “Uh… okay,” I murmur, trying to sound casual. “What’s… going on?”

“No time to explain,” she says, clipped, urgent. “Just come. Your father is waiting, and it’s… important.”

The line goes dead.

I groan and bury my face in my hands. Of course. Of course it’s her. Nothing in that house is ever simple.

I push myself out of bed and start getting ready, keeping my movements slow, careful, my mind already bracing for whatever is waiting for me.

I stumble into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The reflection staring back at me is pale, disheveled, slightly hungover—but determined.

I brush my teeth, take a quick shower, and dress simply—boyfriend jeans, a pink polo, my bag thrown over my shoulder.

I grab my keys and step out.

Emily is at the counter, sipping coffee.

“Where are you going, babes?” she asks.

“Family house,” I reply.

She gives me an apologetic look.

“Want me to come with you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Mhm… wait.” She hands me a thermos. “Hangover tea.”

I take it, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “You are the best, Em.”

“Be fine, chica.”

I nod and head out.

The family house sits at the end of a long driveway, grand and imposing.

White pillars frame the entrance. The black front door gleams. Manicured hedges line the path with unnatural precision. A fountain gurgles softly in the courtyard.

Everything is perfect.

Too perfect.

Sterile.

I step inside.

Marble floors shine beneath crystal chandeliers. Expensive art lines the walls. The air smells faintly of vanilla and polish—presentation, not comfort.

It’s familiar.

But it’s never felt like home.

There’s no rush of memories. No warmth.

Just a suffocating feeling.

I make my way to the dining area. Staff greet me quietly as I pass.

The smell of breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

“Anastasia, good, you’re here,” my father says.

Too calm.

Too composed.

I stop in the doorway.

I see them.

Something in my chest tightens.

My stepsister.

And my fiancé.

No.

My ex-fiancé.

Sitting next to each other.

Her hand in his.

Fingers intertwined like it belongs there.

Like she belongs there.

Like I don’t.

The world tilts.

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, silent rush.

They’re smiling.

Smiling.

Like this is normal.

Like nothing is broken.

Like I am not standing here, watching everything I thought I had slip into her hands.

My heart pounds, loud, uneven, drowning out everything else.

For a second, I can’t move.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t think.

“Anna…” my father begins.

But the sound barely reaches me.

Because something deep inside my chest cracks—

quiet,

sharp,

final.