Cain
I sat across from Rachel in that overpriced, chandelier-choked restaurant, the kind our parents booked for the optics. Crystal glasses. Cold bread. Fake smiles.
She twirled her wine, barely interested. “How’s Cyrus?”
The audacity in her voice made something primal twitch inside me. She spoke his name like it still meant something. Like she didn’t screw up everything. Like Cyrus would even give her a glance if he knew the things she did behind his back.
I didn’t even blink. I was too busy pretending I didn’t care about a girl who wasn’t mine.
I wish Cyrus would crawl back to her.
Because maybe—just maybe—then Saoirse would be free.
But I know better. I’ve made too many damn mistakes to deserve a girl like her.
“It’s whatever,” I muttered, shrugging.
Rachel pouted, then scoffed
