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Me? I feel like I’m floating slightly above my own body, trying to pretend this is just a fun night out—not a feeble attempt to scrape together the shattered pieces of my pride.

She flew in Wednesday morning, suitcase in one hand, chocolate in the other, announcing she came “to see the sights.” But I know better. She came to pull me out of that goddamn hotel room before I completely disappeared.

When I told her about Theo's invitation, she didn’t ask many questions—just raised one brow, gave me that look, and pulled out the sexiest dresses we had packed. Silk, satin, dangerously short.

I protested, of course. She rolled her eyes, shoved me onto a chair, and started doing my makeup before I could stop her.

“You’re not allowed to look sad tonight,” she told me, dabbing shimmer onto my cheekbones. “Not for a second. You walk in there like a woman who doesn’t give a single fuck.”

And now here I am. Pretending.

The club is packed, bodies swaying in every direction. The DJ is spinning something that thumps in my chest. Lights flash hot white and deep violent. It’s humid with heat and perfume and proximity.

London nightlife is chaotic luxury, and it shows.

Theo’s beside me at the bar, casually magnetic in his all-black suit, one hand wrapped around a glass of something dark.

His tie is loose, tattoos peeking just enough to intrigue every woman that walks by. They look. And he doesn’t even notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

I take a few photos—of the club aesthetic, the lighting, the layout—and send them to Liam and Zayn.

Family

Sierra: Inspo for your next opening.

*photos attached*

I text with a smirk. They both respond instantly.

Zayn: Where are you?

Liam: Are you okay?

I snap a selfie with me and Thalia, both of us laughing, holding drinks. My smile is real enough to convince them.

Sierra: All good.

They back off. For now.

I feel Theo lean in slightly. "You alright?” he asks low, barely audible over the music.

In nod, giving him a smile that probably fools no one. “I’m fine.”

The truth? I’m not. I haven’t been in months. I still see his eyes when I close mine. And I still hear the way he said, “You can leave now,” a week ago—like I wasn’t already standing there with every part of myself exposed and raw.

But I can’t let that run me. Not tonight. Not when I’ve finally started to breathe again.

After a few toasts and rounds of drinks with his friends—who, by the way, are as charming and cocky as he is—Theo turns toward me with a soft smile.

“Wanna dance?” he asks, eyes twinkling with a teasing glint.

I hesitate, half-smiling, unsure if that’s a good idea. But he chuckles and raises both hands like he’s surrendering.

“Sierra, I’ve seen the rings on your finger. And say what you want about me—I don’t cross lines. Ever.”

There’s something warm in his tone. Something solid and safe. He winks and offers me his hand.

So I take it.