Page 14 of Shattered In Darkness

I hold up a hand. “Don’t bother. I’m not hungry.”

Not for food, anyway. Inside, the other appetite glowers and smolders. I cannot get the image out of my skull: Lola, center stage, grinding her hips slowly over a stranger, mouth open in a practiced gasp. The way she lets them look, lets them paw, like it means nothing. Sells herself for a camera flash, a few hundred bucks, maybe less.

The hate rears up again, dark and familiar. For a second, everything goes white around the edges.

Why do you let them touch you, Lola? Why do you crave their eyes on your body? Why do you act like you have no shame? Why wasn’t I enough for you?

It’s the same question I asked over and over on the night she ruined me.

Enemy, I remind myself. She’s the enemy now. A poison that needs to be purged.

Sophie says something about Richard, about him running late, but I barely process it. She eyes me then, her gaze flicking from my hands to my face, reading the micro-expressions like she always did. “You’re tense,” she murmurs. “Is it the work?”

“Always is.”

She nods, skeptical. “You know… you don’t have to do what he asks. You could⁠—”

“I could do what?” The words snap, colder than I mean. I rein it in. “You know how it works, Soph. Dad needs results.”

Her mouth twists. She doesn’t push it further. Smart girl. I drum my fingers on the counter, restless. My mind cycles back to that party, to the betrayal, to the aftermath.

Lola’s eyes wide, lips smeared with someone else’s taste. The look she gave me; confused, begging, or maybe just bored. I can’t fucking decide.

I thought I was her protector. I thought I mattered. Turns out, I was just another mark. Another idiot lining up to worship at the altar of her ass.

Sophie is still watching me, so I shift gears. “What’s new around here?”

“Not much.” She shrugs, arms folded, trying to appear casual. “Lola’s modeling, you know. She’s doing well, I think. She’s coming over tomorrow, actually. I hope that’s… I hope it’s not awkward for you.”

I let the words wash over me. Modeling? Is that what it is? Looks like she would have fucked that guy if he asked nicely. I school my features and force a smile. “No problem.”

She relaxes a little, her shoulders unknotting. If only she knew. If only she could see what her friend really is when the makeup peels off and the lights fade.

Sophie tries for small talk. I answer in clipped monosyllables, keeping her at arm’s length. I don’t want to be seen. Not really. Observation suits me better. The Observer. The Outsider.

Inside, the promises churn.

I will watch Lola. I will trace every move. I will catalog every fuck-up, every lie, every time she lets someone have a piece of her. I’ll wait until she thinks she’s untouchable, thinks I’m neutralized.

Then I’ll make her pay for what she did.

She destroyed me. Left me empty, sick, obsessed. What’s the point of pretending otherwise? It’s the only truth that ever felt honest.

I fidget with my cufflinks, keenly aware of how staged the moment is. A family tableau, all of us pretending we aren’t monsters. I picture Lola walking in tomorrow, curves on display and smiling sweetly. Maybe she’ll look at me and remember how it used to be. Or maybe she’s too far gone for that.

Doesn’t matter.

She’s a bitch. A whore. She’s the enemy.

But she’s also the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive. The only heat I ever tasted.

That’s why I can’t let go.

After dinner, I go to my room. The sheets are crisp, but there’s nothing personal here, nothing lingering from before. It’s all been erased.

Except memory. Memory is what I have left.

I stare at the ceiling, replaying Lola’s dance, frame by frame, until all I see when I close my eyes is her body, her eyes, her mouth. All I hear is her laughter. I tell myself I hate it—hate her—but my cock betrays me, stiffening at the thought of splitting her open, making her scream my name, making her beg for mercy.