Chapter 1 1
ARIELLE’S POV
“We’re forbidden lovers, bound by an ancient hatred our families refuse to bury. So isn’t it only fair to celebrate three years of secret dating and dangerously steamy, sex-free hangouts?” I muttered, glancing at the rearview mirror.
The taxi driver blinked—twice—looking at me like I’d just confessed a crime. Confusion and mild horror tangled on his face.
Poor old man. Clearly, he never had a thrilling young love. Pfft.
I twisted in my seat, checking my reflection in the mirror one last time. Hair perfect, makeup holding despite the afternoon heat. The little box I’d been clutching the entire ride felt heavier than it should.
The taxi’s vinyl seat stuck to my thighs as we lurched to a halt when the taxi pulled up in front of the neon-lit bar I’d tracked him to.
“This is it,” I announced, my voice a little too bright. I fumbled in my purse, pulling out a crumpled wad of bills. “Here. Keep the change.” I didn’t wait for a response, just shoved the door open and practically sprang onto the pavement. The humid city air felt like a welcome embrace after the cab's stale atmosphere.
For once, the dive bar's flickering neon sign, “The Rusty Nail,” didn’t look like a beacon. My fingers tightened around the little box in my hand. Three years. Three years of stolen moments and whispered secrets, all leading to this night.
Inside the box was my third anniversary gift for Logan, the key to his dream bike. It was a vintage, limited-edition model of his favorite motorcycle. I’d been scrimping and saving for over two years, which felt like a lifetime. I skipped lunches and picked up extra shifts so I wouldn't draw suspicion from my mother or be forced to ask her for money. The weight of this box in my palm was a physical reminder of all that time.
Pushing through the heavy door, the wall of sound hit me, a bass-heavy hip-hop track that used every beat to assault my nerves. Tonight, the thumping crowd felt like a celebration, the music loud and vibrant. I weaved through the crowd, a smile playing on my lips as I scanned the familiar booths and the packed bar for a glimpse of Logan’s familiar leather jacket and that shock of sun-bleached hair.
My eyes skimmed over a guy at the end of the bar. Nice back, broad and tapered in a tight black t-shirt. But please, no. It definitely couldn't be that of my boyfriend. I’d rather drink straight from a gutter puddle than admit that any back in here was hotter than Logan’s.
I rolled my eyes as the guy in the black shirt suddenly turned and hurried down the hallway toward the restrooms and VIP rooms. Typical. My phone felt useless in my pocket; Logan’s line had gone straight to voicemail for the last hour. He was probably in our usual spot, the secluded VIP room in the back, phone on silent, waiting. The thought sent a fresh thrill through me.
The hallway was quieter, the music muffled to a dull throb. I headed for the last door on the left, the one with a small dark shape vaguely like a dog's head. But as I got closer, I heard it. A low, throaty moan, followed by a breathy giggle. It was definitely coming from our room. My smile widened. That idiot. He’d probably found some raunchy movie on TV and was so predictable. I’d give him a real surprise.
I pushed the door open just a crack, the scene unfolding in a sickening, silent movie for a heartbeat. A girl with shockingly pink hair was pinned against the far wall, some guy devouring her neck.
It was Angel. I recognized her instantly. Of course, she was here, slutting around as usual with some random dude. I almost laughed.
Then the guy pulled back, his hands gripping her hips, yanking her skimpy skirt up around her waist. He turned her around, pressing her face-first against the wall, and I saw his profile.
The world didn’t slow down. It shattered.
It was Logan.
His movements were rough, frantic. One hand was tangled in that neon pink hair, while the other was working between her legs, his fingers moving in a way that made Angel gasp and writhe against the wall.
“Logan, yes… just like that,” she moaned, her voice a slur of pleasure.
“You taste so good, Angel,” he groaned, strands of blonde hair sticking to his damp forehead.
She arched her back, tilting her head, pressing herself against him. “Wait?” she purred, twisting her head to look at him. Her eyes, glazed and triumphant, glittering like some depraved little creature, slid past his shoulder, and for a split second, I swear they met mine in the crack of the door.
A smirk twisted her lips. “Really? More than Arielle?”
He didn’t even hesitate. He drove into her harder, making her cry out. A low, dark laugh rumbled in his chest. “So much more than Arielle.”
They laughed together. The sound wasn’t joyful, it was condescending, cruel, a private joke at my expense.
The little box in my hand felt like a lead weight. Two years of saving. Three years of believing his lies. The bass from the main bar thumped in my chest, a frantic, dying heartbeat. I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t scream or cry. I just stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching the beautiful, fragile fiction of my life shatter into a million unrecognizable pieces against a grimy wall.