Falling In Love With You

Chapter 9

Sera

I was vibrating.

It wasn’t just the caffeine from earlier or the adrenaline of being in a neighborhood I didn’t belong in; it was pure, unadulterated fury. I sat in the back of the taxi I’d managed to flag down, my hands clenched so tightly in my lap that my knuckles were turning as white as my blouse.

"You okay back there, lady?" the driver asked, glancing in the mirror. "You look like you’re ready to spit nails."

"I am fine," I clipped out, though my voice was tight enough to snap.

Cupcake.

The word echoed in my head, mocking me. Who did she think she was? She didn’t know me. She didn’t know a single thing about my life, my pressures, or the fact that I spent every waking hour trying to be exactly what everyone else needed me to be. To her, I was just a "bored rich girl." A prop.

I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes, but all I could see was her. I saw the way the light caught the gold in her amber eyes. I saw the arrogant tilt of her head and the way she’d looked at me like I was a piece of trash she needed to sweep off her floor.

I had never been spoken to like that. In my world, people were polite. They were indirect. They stabbed you in the back with a smile and a "thank you." But that girl—Kay—had just walked straight up to the front door and kicked it down.

"Rude," I whispered to the empty car. "Arrogant. Prejudiced. Cruel."

By the time I reached my building, the anger had settled into a cold, hard knot in my stomach. I marched past the doorman, ignoring his greeting, and rode the elevator up in a vacuum of silence.

I let myself into my apartment and threw my $300 handbag onto the designer sofa like it was a piece of junk. I didn't pour a drink this time. I walked straight to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

My makeup was still perfect. My hair hadn't moved. I looked exactly like the "Princess" she called me.

"Is that all I am?" I asked the mirror.

The thought made my throat ache. I had spent my entire life building this image. I had gone to the right schools, worn the right clothes, and dated the right "suitable" men to satisfy my father’s brand. And in five minutes, a stranger in a basement had stripped all of it away and made it feel like a costume.

I hated her for being right. I hated that I was a tourist in the real world. But more than that, I hated the way my heart had hammered against my ribs when she stepped into my personal space. It wasn't just fear. It was a jolt of electricity, a sudden realization that I was standing next to something dangerous and alive.

I walked into my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. I should be planning my revenge. I should be calling my father to complain about the "unsavory" businesses in the district. I should be forgetting she ever existed.

Instead, I found myself reaching for my phone. I opened a search engine, my fingers trembling slightly.

Inked by K. Lower East Side.

The results popped up instantly. A minimalist website. A gallery of work that made my breath catch—dark, intricate, soulful designs that looked less like tattoos and more like pieces of someone’s heart.

I scrolled down to the "About" section. There were no photos of her, just a short sentence: Everything is permanent. Choose wisely.

"I'm not going back," I told the empty room, my voice firm. "I'm never going back there."

But even as the words left my lips, I knew I was a liar. If she wanted to treat me like a joke, fine. But I was going to show her that this "rich girl" had a hell of a lot more bite than she bargained for.