Throne of Sin

The Discovery

Eve Pov

The shift at The Vault ends at 1:47 AM.

I'm exhausted, my feet aching in my heels, my body still humming with the residual energy of the dungeon. But tonight, instead of going straight home, I decide to surprise Marco.

It's been three days since I've seen him. Three days of texts and promises to meet up that never materialized because of our conflicting schedules. He said he missed me. Said he couldn't wait to see me.

So I drive to his apartment in the city, a modest one-bedroom in a building that's nicer than mine but not by much. I park on the street and take the stairs to the third floor, my heart doing that stupid flutter thing it does when I think about him.

I'm an i***t.

I realize that the moment I unlock his door with the spare key he gave me two months ago.

The apartment is dark except for a sliver of light coming from under his bedroom door. I hear something—a sound that makes my stomach drop.

A woman's laugh. Breathy. Intimate.

Then Marco's voice, low and rough: "f**k, you feel so good."

I stand frozen in the hallway, my hand still on the doorknob, my brain refusing to process what I'm hearing.

It can't be.

But it is.

I push the bedroom door open.

The scene that greets me is so f*****g cliché it's almost funny.

Marco is in bed with a blonde woman I've never seen before. She's straddling him, her head thrown back, her hands braced on his chest. He's gripping her hips, thrusting up into her with the kind of enthusiasm he hasn't shown me in weeks.

They don't notice me at first.

I stand there for what feels like an eternity, watching the man I thought I loved f**k someone else in the bed we've shared.

Then Marco's eyes open.

He sees me.

For a split second, his face goes blank. Then panic floods in.

"Eve—f**k—Eve, wait—"

The woman gasps and scrambles off him, grabbing the sheet to cover herself. She looks at me with wide, horrified eyes.

I don't say anything.

I can't.

My throat is closed, my chest tight, my entire body vibrating with a rage so intense it feels like I'm going to explode.

Marco stumbles out of bed, naked, his d**k still half-hard, reaching for his boxers. "Eve, baby, please—let me explain—"

"Explain?" My voice comes out flat. Cold. "Explain what, Marco? That you're a lying piece of s**t?"

"It's not—it's not what it looks like—"

"It's exactly what it looks like." I take a step back, my hands shaking. "You're f*****g someone else."

"Eve, please—" He moves toward me, and I hold up a hand.

"Don't. Don't f*****g touch me."

He stops, his face crumpling. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was a mistake—"

"A mistake?" I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to my own ears. "How long?"

"What?"

"How long have you been f*****g her?"

Marco's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer.

The blonde woman—God, I don't even know her name—wraps the sheet tighter around herself and edges toward the door. "I should go—"

"Yeah," I say, my eyes never leaving Marco. "You should."

She grabs her clothes from the floor and practically runs out of the room. I hear the front door open and close a moment later.

Now it's just me and Marco.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at me. "Eve, I didn't mean for this to happen—"

"How long?" I repeat, my voice sharper now.

He hesitates. Then, quietly: "Two months."

Two months.

The same amount of time he's been distant. The same amount of time he's been "too busy" to see me. The same amount of time I've been making excuses for him, telling myself he was just stressed about school, about his family, about his future.

I was so f*****g stupid.

"Get out of my way," I say.

"Eve, please—let's talk about this—"

"There's nothing to talk about." I push past him, heading for the front door. "We're done."

"Eve—"

I spin around, and whatever he sees in my face makes him stop mid-sentence.

"You don't get to do this," I say, my voice shaking now. "You don't get to make me feel like I'm not enough, like I'm boring, like I'm the problem—and then f**k someone else behind my back. You don't get to do that."

"I never said you were boring—"

"You didn't have to." My throat tightens, tears burning behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. "I wasted six months on you. Six months I could have spent on literally anything else. And for what? So you could cheat on me with some random b***h?"

"She's not—"

"I don't care." I turn and walk toward the door. "Lose my number. Lose my address. Lose my f*****g name. We're done."

"Eve—"

I slam the door behind me before he can finish.

I make it to my car before the tears come.

I sit in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel, my entire body shaking with rage and humiliation and something that feels dangerously close to grief.

How did I not see it?

How did I let myself believe that someone like Marco—someone from a wealthy family, someone with connections and a future—would actually want someone like me?

I'm a bottle girl at a b**m club. I'm broke. I'm damaged. I'm the daughter of a woman who f****d men for money and pills.

Of course he cheated.

Of course I wasn't enough.

The thought makes me want to scream.

Instead, I pull out my phone and text Brea.

Me: Going out. Don't wait up.

Her response comes almost immediately.

Brea: You okay?

Me: No. But I will be.

I don't wait for her reply. I start the car and pull out onto the street, my vision blurred with tears I refuse to acknowledge.

I need a drink.

I need to forget.

I need to feel something other than this hollow, aching emptiness in my chest.

Obsidian is an upscale nightclub in the heart of the city—three stories of glass and chrome, pulsing lights, and a line that wraps around the block.

I've never been here before. It's too expensive, too exclusive, too far outside my world.

But tonight, I don't care.

I park in a nearby garage and walk to the entrance, my heels clicking against the pavement. The bouncer—a massive man with a shaved head and arms like tree trunks—looks me up and down.

"Cover's fifty," he says.

I pull out my wallet and hand him three twenties. "Keep the change."

He raises an eyebrow but steps aside, unhooking the velvet rope.

The music hits me the moment I step inside—a deep, throbbing bass that vibrates through my chest. The main floor is packed with bodies, the air thick with sweat and perfume and something darker, something electric.

I push through the crowd toward the bar, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting and flashing strobes.

The bartender—a woman with short pink hair and a septum piercing—leans over the counter. "What can I get you?"

"Whiskey. Neat. Make it a double."

She nods and pours, sliding the glass toward me. "Rough night?"

"You have no idea."

I down the whiskey in two swallows, the burn searing down my throat and settling in my stomach like a fist.

It's not enough.

"Another," I say, pushing the glass back toward her.

She pours again, and I drink again, and the edges of the world start to blur.

Good.

I want the blur. I want the numbness. I want to forget Marco's face, his lies, the way I let myself believe I mattered to him.

I order a third drink and turn to face the crowd, leaning back against the bar.

The club is a sea of bodies—people dancing, grinding, losing themselves in the music and the heat and the anonymity of it all.

I should leave.

I should go home, crawl into bed, and let myself fall apart in private.

But I don't.

Instead, I stay.

I drink.

And I wait for something—anything—to make me feel alive again