I don't know how long I sat there staring at him. I even checked the photo Lila posted to make sure I wasn't mistaken. And yeah, it was definitely him.
The club was chaos, flashing lights, pounding bass, grinding bodies, but all I could see was the man Lila had dumped me for. And the fact that Lila wasn't anywhere near him made my brain hurt even more.
So where was she? Home? Here somewhere? Or did this bastard have some other toy lined up tonight?
He didn't look like he came with anyone. But the bastard wasn't alone either. People hovered around him, smiling, laughing, trying to get his attention like he was the damn sun and they were all desperate plants.
The bouncer by the staircase lifted the rope, and just like that, Mr. Tall, Rich, and Probably Emotionally Unavailable disappeared into the upstairs VIP section.
I watched him go, my stomach churning like I'd swallowed a live grenade. He didn't even look guilty. Not the tiniest bit. Just waltzed through the club like he hadn't just ripped two years of my life out of me and flushed it down a gold-plated toilet.
I turned back to my drink, seething.
What was so special about him?
Okay, sure, he was tall. And disgustingly handsome. And dressed like a Bond villain who could get away with murder just by flashing a smirk.
But so what?
I bet he'd had work done. No one looked that good naturally. He probably got baby Botox while doing investment deals on yachts. Probably had filler. A nose job. Hairline restoration. A whole damn factory under that flawless skin.
And he probably didn't even work. Just another spoiled nepo baby skating through life on his daddy's dirty money, sipping overpriced whiskey and pretending he built something. People probably bowed at his feet because they wanted something. Not because he earned it. Because money talks. And apparently it also makes people blind.
I scoffed into my drink.
I could be like that too, if I had that kind of money and privilege. Bet I'd be even better-looking. Probably more interesting. Probably more fun in bed. The guy probably didn't even know how to text back.
Mr. Handsome-Tall-Rich-Dick has nothing on me.
I turned to sneak another glance upstairs, ready to continue hating him in silence, but he wasn't there anymore.
My eyes scanned the railing and, there. He was talking to a woman by the edge of the upper floor, his hand resting lightly on the glass, his posture effortless and annoyingly perfect.
Then he moved.
Down the stairs. Smooth. Calm. Like he was gliding through the crowd with a built-in path of clearance around him.
He was heading out.
And that's when the thought hit me.
That very bad thought. The kind of thought you have when you're drunk, heartbroken, and dangerously full of spite.
Follow him.
Before I could even talk myself out of it, I was slipping off my barstool and weaving through the crowd, heart pounding like a war drum.
I was going to do something stupid.
And it felt amazing.
Getting through the crowd felt like trying to walk on a treadmill made of glitter, sweat, and judgmental stares.
"Sorry, excuse me, my bad, don't touch me, sorry again, ow, "
Every step was a stumble, every turn a mistake. I bumped into people, got cursed out, nearly tripped over a purse someone dropped on the floor, and accidentally elbowed a guy in the ribs who looked like he could break me in half. But I kept going. Fueled by cheap alcohol and petty rage.
Eventually, I found the door. The one he walked through.
I pushed it open, and immediately, the music died. It was like slamming a door on a hurricane.
For a second, the silence was too much. My ears rang in the absence of bass. My heart was still thumping like it hadn't gotten the memo.
I stepped out.
It was quiet. Dim. We were behind the club, probably the staff exit or some side alley for VIPs who needed to breathe their expensive air. The backlot was lit by weak overhead lights and smelled faintly like asphalt, cold night, and the ghost of regret.
Ahead of me, I spotted him.
Mr. Tall-Handsome-Life-Ruiner.
He was leaning against the brick wall, one leg slightly bent, like he was modeling for a secret cologne ad. He pulled out a sleek, expensive-looking cigar, because of course he smokes cigars, and lit it with the kind of casual elegance that should've been illegal.
He muttered something under his breath, maybe to himself. Maybe to God. I don't know. I didn't care.
All I knew was that I hated him and had the overwhelming urge to rip the smugness off him.
I took a shaky step forward. My legs didn't love that idea. My brain was swaying. But my pride said: Keep going.
What was I even doing?
Would yelling at him bring Lila back? Would it fix everything? Make me feel better?
No.
But maybe, just maybe, giving him a piece of my mind would feel damn good.
I staggered forward again, my shoes crunching slightly against gravel.
He heard me.
He turned his head slowly, exhaling a lazy cloud of smoke. His eyes locked on mine, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
Up close, he was… worse. Worse in that he looked better. Even more godlike than the photo. His face was sharp, cut like it had been designed with a sculptor's vengeance. His jawline could end nations. His eyes were cool, narrowed, and already full of disinterest.
Wait, wait… Aren't I supposed to be dissing him?
He looked at me like I was some lost, drunken tourist who'd wandered into the wrong zip code.
"What," he said flatly, "you want a picture or something?"
I blinked, not sure if I heard him right.
"Tsk!" He rolled his eyes and flicked ash from his cigar. "I don't have a bone to give you, stray. Go beg somewhere else."
My blood boiled. Who does this bastard think he is?
"You, " I started, stepping closer. "You think you can just, you ruined everything! You think you're some goddamn prize just because you're tall and rich and look like that? You think you can just steal someone's girl and act like you didn't do anything?!"
He raised a brow like I was beneath him. "Don't recall stealing anything." And then, a bloody infuriating smirk. "Maybe she just got tired of sharing a bed with a soggy doormat."
I don't know what snapped in me.
Maybe it was the way he talked. Maybe it was the look he gave me, like I was filth.
Maybe it was the fact that he wasn't even taking me seriously, like I was some pathetic little bug buzzing around his ear.
But without thinking, I swung.
My fist connected with his face in a wild, messy, uncoordinated punch. And it landed. Perfect!
The cigar flew from his mouth and hit the ground. He reeled back a step, hand brushing his cheek in surprise.
Oh. Sh*t. It hit me.
I just punched a man who probably could crush me with his fists or had enough money to sue me into another dimension.
But my hand was throbbing and my chest was heaving and,
God, that felt good.