I froze near the threshold, my heartbeat drumming loud in my ears. My hand instinctively tightened around my clutch, as if it could somehow protect me from everything Dominic had ever broken.
I took a cautious step and hissed, “We’re over. What do you want, Dominic?”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just stood there in his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up like he belonged in the pages of some polished magazine—except tonight, he looked haunted. Tired. Like whatever mask he wore out there had started to crack from the inside.
“I needed to see you,” he said simply, swirling the goblet in his hand like he owned the place.
“That’s not an answer,” I snapped. “I can sue you for trespassing.”
He gave a bitter laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes. “Trespassing, my ass. You really think locks and passwords can keep me out? I know your patterns, Therese. Every code, every habit, every soft spot you try to bury.”
I clenched my jaw. “You knew the woman I was before you left me for dead. That version doesn’t live here anymore.”
He took a slow step forward, his voice dangerously soft. “But she still looks at me the same way.”
“I don’t,” I said through my teeth.
“Yes, you do,” he said, daring to close the distance. “You look at me like you’re waiting to be disappointed, like you’re bracing for the moment I shatter everything again.”
I turned away. “Then you already know what will happen next. Get out.”
He didn’t move. I could feel his gaze like heat crawling up my spine.
“I saw the way he touched you,” Dominic said tightly. “At the hotel. In that bar. His hands were all over you like he’s earned that right.”
“He has,” I said.
Dominic’s voice dropped to a rasp. “Don’t lie to me.”
I whirled to face him, rage bubbling past the years of buried grief. “You don’t get to stand here like you didn’t destroy me. You don’t get to act like you still have a claim over me just because you're jealous now.”
“I’m not jealous.”
I laughed coldly. “You’re seething. You chased us in your car like some deranged lover in a soap opera.”
“You think you’re safe with Lance,” he spat. “But you don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“Oh, but you’re a beacon of trust and moral clarity?”
His mouth opened, but I cut him off. “I died for you, Dominic. I took a hit—emotionally, physically, literally. And you didn’t even show up to the funeral.”
“That wasn’t—” he began, but his voice cracked.
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re totally strangers now, so keep the fuck out of my life.”
He stepped closer until I could feel the storm radiating off his chest. “I won’t give up on us.”
I held his gaze. “There is no us.”
For a second, the room was silent except for the sound of our breaths. The weight of history between us was unbearable—like walking barefoot across glass we both helped shatter.
Then he stepped back, nodded once, and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “I hope he’s everything I never was.”
“That’s none of your damn business, Mr. Sullivan.”
The door clicked shut behind him. And I collapsed onto the couch like every breath I’d held since the courtroom was finally exhaled. I didn’t know how long I sat there.
The city lights blinked outside my window, oblivious to the war unraveling inside my chest. My phone vibrated against the table, dragging me out of my fog.
Lance.
Just checking in. Did you make it home safe?
I texted back with shaking fingers:
Yes. But Dominic was here when I arrived.
His reply came fast:
That asshole. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in a few.
I should’ve said no. I should’ve insisted I needed space, clarity, time. But the truth was—I didn’t want to be alone tonight. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell chimed. I opened it to find Lance standing there in jeans, a hoodie, and holding takeouts.
“Didn’t know what you ate after exorcising demons,” he said with a soft smile. “But I brought pizza and nachos.”
I smiled faintly. “Come in.”
He toed off his sneakers at the entry, like he’d been here before. Like nothing was forced. He didn’t demand to be let in—he waited for the invitation. And that difference alone made my eyes sting.
We sat cross-legged on the couch, boxes of pizzas between us, and silence stretching like old friends. After a few minutes, Lance glanced over.
“He say anything that got under your skin?”
I nodded and replied, “The bastard still thinks I’m his property.”
Lance didn’t flinch. “Nice try. Always a delusional guy.”
“He also said you’re not who I think you are.”
He arched a brow, then shrugged. “He’s right about one thing—I am different now. But that doesn’t mean I’m hiding something. It means I’ve been through hell, same as you.”
I agreed, nodding wordlessly. We talked a little more. About work. About the news. About Cola’s chaotic dating life. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of things that remind you the world doesn’t end just because someone tried to ruin yours.
Then my phone buzzed. I ignored it.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Lance leaned over. “Do you want me to check it first?”
“No,” I whispered. “I’ve got it.”
I reached for it, expecting another message from Lance or maybe Cola.
But instead—ISABELLE TAN tagged you in a story.
My blood roared into my ears as I unlocked the screen. And there it was—
A grainy, clearly edited photo of me entering Lance’s hotel the night of the ballroom incident. Hair messy. Eyes wide. A freeze-frame of chaos—but manipulated to look like seduction.
The caption burned in my eyes...
She faked her death and slept her way back into society. I wonder how many graves she’ll crawl out of for attention. #NotTheVictim
