PROLOGUE
DISCLAIMER:
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations, and locations are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events, places, or incidents is purely coincidental.
This work contains explicit s****l content, strong language, and mature themes intended for adult readers. It is recommended for audiences 18 years of age and older.
All characters depicted in s****l situations are consenting adults. The scenarios, dynamics, and behaviors portrayed are fictional and created solely for narrative purposes; they do not reflect or promote real-life practices or expectations.
Reader discretion is strongly advised.
PROLOGUE
My skull feels like someone stored fireworks inside my brain and forgot to warn me before lighting the fuse.
There’s yelling in the hallway. Or maybe it’s just Manila being loud again. Either way, every sound slices straight into my headache. I peel my face off the pillow and instantly regret existing.
The room spins. The air smells like stale gin and bad decisions.
My phone vibrates beside me.
Bright screen. Blinding light. Face ID. Unlock.
My call logs appear.
His name sits at the top.
Outgoing call. Thirty-two minutes. Past one in the morning.
My stomach drops so fast it might as well fall through the mattress. I close my eyes like that will erase the evidence.
I called him.
Of course I did. Because apparently I turn into a tragedy whenever gin is involved and he exists somewhere in the world breathing like oxygen on legs.
A groan escapes me. I bury my face in my hands like I can hide inside my palms. I want to time travel. Undo. Unsay whatever I said. But the universe is cruel and I have always been the punchline.
Whenever he is near, I become someone I don’t recognize. Someone messier. Softer. Stupid.
I hate that.
Because he walks into a room and everything inside me goes inconveniently poetic. My pulse forgets its job. My brain forgets mine. He is ruin in tailored suits and I keep volunteering to fall apart in front of him.
I should be over him.
Years have passed. Entire universes of healing. Entire pep talks. Entire therapy bills.
But knowing better has never stopped me from wanting what hurts.
I clutch the edge of the bed. My pulse kicks against my ribs, angry. I stare at the glowing screen like it betrayed me personally.
Maybe it did.
Why can’t I be normal around him.
Why do I always act like a version of myself I don’t respect? Why do I crumble the second his name appears? Why do I still care.
The memory flickers. Him. Stepping out of that bathroom. Steam following him. Looking at me like I was a decision he did not want to make.
I knew then. He would be the death of my peace.
I let myself get addicted. Not to him. To the way he made me feel seen and ruined at the same time.
A whisper escapes my throat.
“When will I stop wanting you?”
No answer. Just the screen glaring back at me, cold and honest.
