Chapter 3
802 Words
Camille
The neon Super 8 Motel sign flickered just ahead, buzzing like it was struggling to stay alive. Much like me.
But I wasn’t ready to stop.
The thought of sitting alone in a stale motel room, staring at the ceiling while the weight of betrayal crushed me, was unbearable. I needed something to dull the edges.
Something strong.
Something that burned.
That’s when I spotted the bar—a small, nameless place tucked between an old laundromat and a boarded-up pawn shop. It wasn’t the kind of bar that attracted tourists or business executives. It was the kind of place where people went to disappear.
Perfect.
I pulled into the nearly empty lot, turned off the engine, and took a deep breath before stepping inside.
The smell of cheap whiskey, stale beer, and something fried filled the air. The wooden bar was scratched and worn, the lighting dim enough to make everything look softer, hazier. A jukebox in the corner hummed out an old country song, the sound scratchy but strangely comforting.
A few scattered patrons sat at the bar and along the booths, lost in their own thoughts. No one looked up. No one cared.
I liked that.
I slid onto a cracked leather barstool, resting my arms on the sticky counter. The bartender, an older man with tired eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard, approached without a word.
"Whiskey. Neat," I said, my voice hoarse from hours of silence.
He nodded, poured, and set the glass down in front of me. I grabbed it before he even let go, taking a long, slow sip.
The burn was immediate. Sharp. But it didn’t come close to numbing the ache in my chest.
"Rough night?"
I turned my head slightly, meeting the gaze of the woman sitting a few seats away.
She was stunning in an effortless way—dark brown curls, smooth caramel skin, full lips painted with just enough gloss to catch the light.** But it was her eyes that got me. Sharp. Observant. Like she saw right through me.
I exhaled, setting my glass down with a little too much force. "You could say that."
She gave me a knowing smirk, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. "Man trouble?"
I let out a hollow laugh. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only because I’ve been there."
I studied her, something about her energy drew me in. She didn’t look like the type to get walked over. She looked like the type to set fire to the bridge after walking away.
I envied that.
She extended a perfectly manicured hand. "Charlotte."
"Camille."
We shook hands, and just like that, something shifted.
Charlotte took another sip of her drink before turning fully toward me. "Alright, Camille. Spill. What did the bastard do?"
I hesitated. I hadn’t said the words out loud yet, hadn’t let them exist beyond the chaos in my mind. But something about Charlotte—the ease in her posture, the way she didn’t offer fake sympathy but instead a challenge to talk, to get mad, to own my pain—made me trust her.
So I told her.
The moment I walked in. The tangled sheets. The way Vivian had smirked like she had won some unspoken game. The way Matt hadn’t even tried to fight for me.
By the time I finished, my second whiskey was empty, my fingers gripping the glass like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.
Charlotte let out a long whistle. "Damn. That’s some straight-up movie villain type of betrayal."
I scoffed. "Yeah, well, unfortunately, this isn’t a movie. This is my life. And I have nothing left because of them."
Charlotte leaned in, her voice dropping just enough to make me listen. "Then take something back."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
She arched a brow. "You think the best revenge is just moving on? Being the bigger person? Screw that." She tapped her nails against her glass. "You want to make them regret what they did? Don’t just disappear. Become someone they never saw coming."
Her words settled into my bones.
Because she was right.
I had spent the last several hours running—away from Matt, away from Vivian, away from the wreckage of my life. But why? Why did I have to be the one who left with nothing? Why did I have to be the one who suffered while they got to play house?
I didn’t want to be the victim in their story.
I wanted to be the storm they never saw coming.
Charlotte must have seen something shift in my expression because she grinned, raising her glass. "To fresh starts… and revenge."
I clinked my glass against hers, a small smirk forming on my lips.
"To revenge."
And just like that, I wasn’t alone anymore.
- Writer
