Bad Romance

Chapter 2

“Isla, please,” Mara said, blocking my laptop with a dramatic sigh. “It’s the first-year student party. Everyone’s going.”

“Everyone except people who value sleep,” I replied, nudging her aside.

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve been studying since dawn. One night won’t ruin your scholarship.”

That word—scholarship—always did it. It reminded me that I was allowed to exist here, but only on borrowed permission.

“Fine,” I said at last. “One hour.”

The party was already in full chaos when we arrived. Music rattled the walls, lights pulsed like a heartbeat, and bodies pressed together with reckless ease. I stuck close to Mara, gripping my drink like an anchor. After a while, Mara got lost in the crowd, and I was left alone in the corner.

I had been in the club for a while already, letting the music wash over me, swaying lightly near the edge of the crowd, content to simply exist in the noise. My margarita was nearly empty, the salt clinging to the rim, the lime long forgotten. I wasn’t looking for anything—just enjoying the beat, the anonymity, the rare freedom of not having to be careful.

When I turned toward the bar to get my drink refilled, I didn’t see him in time.

Then I turned too quickly—

And collided with someone solid.

My cup tipped. A strong hand caught my elbow before I could stumble.

“Easy,” a voice said, low and amused.

When I looked up at him, it was his eyes that held me first.

Blue—not the pale, forgettable kind, but deep and shifting, like the ocean just before a storm. The kind of blue that looked calm from a distance and dangerous once you were close enough to fall in. They moved over me slowly, deliberately, as if he were memorizing rather than assessing, and I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the surrounding crowd.

Up close, he was all contrasts—dirty blond hair that caught the light, skin warm and sun-darkened, not the sheltered white of boys who’d never known heat or hunger. He looked like someone who had lived under open skies, someone solid and real, someone who didn’t need to try to command a room because it already bent toward him.

And I was suddenly aware of myself.

The deep V of my top dipped lower than I was used to wearing, the fabric clinging just enough to feel daring. My sequined shorts caught the light every time I moved, scattering it in brief, reckless flashes. I could feel his eyes on me—his eyes—lingering, not hungry but attentive, as if he saw the intention behind my choice.

Petite. Brown-skinned. Curly hair falling loose around my shoulders, dyed a soft brown that glowed under the party lights. I wasn’t polished like the girls who floated through rooms like they belonged there. I was something warmer. Earthier. And standing in front of him, I felt it fully—for the first time, not as insecurity, but as power.

His gaze dipped briefly, then returned to my face.

“Sorry,” I said, breath catching. “I wasn’t looking.”

“Good,” he replied, lips tilting. “Neither was I.”

His hand dropped, but the heat of it lingered on my skin.

“I’m Sebastian,” he added.

Something shifted in his eyes then—like a wave pulling back before it crashed.

“Isla.”

Just names. Nothing more.

We ended up near the kitchen, standing closer than strangers should. Drinks disappeared faster than they should have. Conversation flowed too easily—teasing, light, threaded with something dangerous beneath it.

“You look uncomfortable,” he said at one point, eyes flicking over me with careful attention. “Like you’re deciding whether to leave.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me,” he said. “Yeah.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

He leaned closer, his arm brushing mine. “So are you.”

When the music slowed, thickened, he straightened and held out his hand.

The music shifted then—slower, heavier, the kind that pressed into your skin. Sebastian set his drink down and held out his hand.

“Dance with me.”

I hesitated. The room felt warmer. Smaller.

“Okay,” I said.

His hand slid to my waist as we moved onto the dance floor, fingers firm but unassuming. My hand rested against his chest, and I could feel his heartbeat beneath my palm—steady, controlled, nothing like mine.

We swayed. Closer than necessary.

His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against my back, each movement sending a quiet shock through me. Our faces were inches apart, his breath warm against my cheek.

“This alright?” he murmured.

“Yes,” I said, barely audible.

The tension was thick—coiled tight, humming beneath every movement. It felt like standing at the edge of something irreversible.

When the song ended, neither of us stepped away.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly. Not demanding but certain.

I didn't ask where.

I followed him out of the noise and into the night, the bass still echoing in my bones. We moved quickly—too quickly—through the exit, laughter and neon spilling behind us as the cool air hit my skin. Outside, a sleek red Ferrari waited at the curb, its engine already humming like it knew what was coming.

Sebastian opened the door for me, and I barely had time to climb in before he was behind the wheel.

The car roared to life.

We pulled away fast—reckless, breathless—tires biting into the pavement as the city surged forward. Streetlights blurred into streaks of gold and white, buildings melting into shadows, the night folding in on itself as if we were outrunning consequence.

I gripped the edge of the seat, heart pounding, laughter caught somewhere between thrill and fear. Sebastian drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near my knee, his focus sharp, unshaken.

The city disappeared behind us.

And with every mile, it felt like we were leaving more than just the club behind.

By the time we arrived—glass, height, quiet luxury waiting above the world—I already knew.

This wasn’t just a night.

It was the moment everything began to unravel.

The elevator ride was silent, heavy with anticipation. His shoulder brushed mine. His reflection watched me in the mirror, unreadable. When the doors opened, I expected a dorm hallway.

Instead, it was a penthouse—glass walls, city lights spilling in like a secret.

I stopped. “Sebastian—”

“Still want to leave?” he asked.

I looked at him—dirty blond hair, blue eyes steady on mine, a calm confidence that made my chest ache.

“No,” I said.

Sebastian closed the door.

The sound was soft, but it landed heavy, final, sealing us inside a moment neither of us had named, but both had chosen.

For a breath, we stood there—too close, not touching, the air between us tight and electric. I could feel the heat of him, the steady control barely masking something restless underneath. His eyes searched my face, ocean-blue darkened now, no longer calm but pulled deep by something undeniable.

“Still okay?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. I couldn’t trust my voice.

That was all it took.

He stepped forward, fingers threading gently into my curls, tilting my face up to his. The kiss wasn’t rushed—it was deliberate, slow, as if he wanted to remember it, as if he wanted me to feel every second of crossing the line we’d circled all night. My breath caught as his lips moved against mine, warmth blooming, the world narrowing to the way his hand held me, like I might disappear if he let go.

The tension snapped.

The kiss deepened, hunger pressing through restraint, hands finding familiar places far too quickly for strangers and far too naturally for anything else. I melted into him, heart racing, every careful rule I’d ever lived by unraveling with terrifying ease.

Somewhere in the distance, the city continued on—indifferent, unaware.

Inside the penthouse, time fractured.

And whatever happened after that—whatever lines were crossed, whatever promises were broken—belonged to the night alone.

By morning, it would already be history.

And in that quiet, glowing space above the city, I learned how quickly a single night could rearrange the future—how attraction could feel like gravity, and how some mistakes don’t announce themselves until it’s far too late.