Chapter Five
1111 Words
I woke up with something unusual lodged in my chest: triumph.
Not the kind of victory you win with medals or applause, but the quiet, secret kind that makes your pulse race for no clear reason.
My mother noticed it immediately. Her gaze followed me down the stairs, sharp enough to scorch, as though she knew I was carrying something she couldn’t name.
I’ve always prided myself on being disciplined, careful, exacting with everything I do. Yet the chaos of yesterday — every unplanned word, every reckless move — had left me exhilarated instead of unravelled. Maybe it was because I’d dared to step outside the blueprint I’d written for myself. Maybe because I’d actually spoken to someone after what felt like centuries of self-imposed silence. Or maybe — and this was the part that unsettled me most — it was because I’d discovered even the “untouchable” people bled too.
I had said goodbye to my mom with that thought still stirring in my head and left the house in search of fresh air and breakfast.
Bad decision.
The café I picked was all golden light and soft chatter, its exterior dressed in climbing ivy and little flower pots, the kind of place couples would call theirs. The walk there had been short, but my legs felt heavy.
Inside, the air was rich with the scent of warm bread and butter, the kind of smell that lures you into forgetting the world. Hunger tugged at me, so I slipped into a chair, ordered something sweet and filling, and let my eyes drift across the small, charming space.
That’s when I froze.
Sam Matthew.
But it wasn’t his presence alone that knocked the breath out of me — it was the girl sitting on his lap. A redhead I recognized from school, draped over him like he belonged to her, fingers toying with his hair as his hand claimed her waist.
The image gutted me.
Yesterday, he had sat across from me broken, fragile in a way that demanded sympathy. I’d believed him. Believed his story, his grief, his vow to make his mother proud. I had allowed myself to see someone worth saving. And yet here he was — laughing, touching, making promises with his hands to someone else as though nothing had happened.
My food arrived, a plate set down with a smile I could barely return. Appetite vanished.
I forced myself to eat a little, trying to appear normal, though every glance toward him tightened something inside me. He had duped me. That was the only explanation.
By the time I stood to leave, my irritation had fermented into anger. Of course fate had one more cruelty left in store: Sam’s table was right by the exit. Distracted by my own storming thoughts, I tripped on the uneven flooring. My hand shot out for balance — and I stumbled practically into his table.
Mortification set me on fire. Every pair of eyes in the café swung toward me.
“Sorry,” I whispered, barely audible.
Sam glanced at me, cool, detached. The redhead’s glare could’ve sliced me open, but I refused to acknowledge her.
“It’s fine,” he said simply, his tone dismissive.
Heat rushed up my neck. Yesterday he had needed me. Today I was nothing. Did he really forget me that easily? I waited, hoping for even the smallest flicker of recognition. Finally his eyes locked with mine, brow lifting — not in memory, but in challenge.
The words slipped out before I could cage them.
“Wow. You really are the school's playboy aka the biggest manipulator s***h liar.”
Gasps rippled nearby. My hand shot up to cover my mouth, but it was too late.
Sam rose from his chair slowly, each movement deliberate. He stepped toward me, and instinct forced me back until the edge of another table pressed into my spine. He leaned in, one hand braced on either side of me, his body caging mine.
“You should be more careful with your words, Alif,” he murmured, low and dangerous.
My pulse thundered.
“Oh, so you do remember yesterday?” I hissed back.
His brows drew together. “When did I say I forgot?”
My laugh was sharp, bitter. “Careful, Sam. For someone desperate to impress his mother, sitting here like this doesn’t exactly scream devoted son. You want my help? Forget it.”
His expression shuttered, cool boredom replacing the storm for just a heartbeat.
“So that’s it? You drag me from Amber just to lecture me?” he asked.
“Amber?” I scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. And for the record, I wasn’t lecturing. I was trying to help. God, you’re clueless.”
Something flickered in his eyes — irritation, maybe curiosity. Then, flatly: “Are you always this uptight?”
The word detonated in me. Uptight? After this? After the favour he had begged?
My voice came out sharp, venomous. “I try to help you, and you repay me by calling me uptight? No, Sam — the truth is you can’t stop being a manwhore.”
Silence thickened. His gaze darkened, the navy in his eyes deepening into something dangerous.
“Amber, I think you should go home” he growled, not even looking at the redhead.
She flinched. “It’s Avery,” she corrected in disbelief, voice nasal.
“Go.Home.” His tone was steel, unbending.
Her mouth snapped shut. A second later, she scrambled for her bag and bolted.
I swallowed hard, heart slamming as I stared at him.
“You didn’t have to be so cruel,” I whispered, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me.
His focus never wavered. He leaned closer, voice low enough to scrape across my skin. “What did you call me?”
Every instinct screamed at me to shut up. But I couldn’t. He wasn’t going to scare me into silence.
“A manwhore,” I repeated. “That’s what you are. Do you want me to spell it out? You sleep with girls, then toss them aside. You make me sick—”
The crack of his fist against the wall beside my head silenced me instantly. Dust fell. My gasp caught in my throat as I flinched. His knuckles bled, but he didn’t even wince.
“Don’t mistake what you think you see for truth,” he said coldly. “You don’t know me.”
And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving the whole café buzzing with whispers and me frozen, breathless, trembling.
He was right about one thing.
I didn’t know him at all.
- Writer
