CHAPTERSIX:
1985 Words
MARCUS
I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white, the city lights blurring into streaks of red and gold as I tore through the streets. My chest felt like it was caving in, tight, hot, impossible to breathe through.
She went back to him.
After everything. After last night, her body under mine, her moans in my ear, the way she’d looked at me like I was the only man in the world, she went back to the bastard who’d spent years making her feel small.
I slammed my fist against the wheel, the impact jarring up my arm. Again. Harder.
“I can’t f*****g believe her,” I growled into the empty car, voice raw.
The image burned behind my eyes: Poppy in that restaurant doorway, Damian’s hands on her face, his mouth on hers. She hadn’t pushed him away right away. She’d let it happen.
Jealousy and hurt twisted together into something ugly, something I couldn’t control.
I pulled into the lot behind the club and killed the engine. For a second, I just sat there, breathing hard, staring at nothing.
Then I stormed inside.
The flower vase by the door, some expensive crystal thing a supplier had gifted me, didn’t stand a chance. My arm swung out without thinking, and it shattered against the wall in a spray of glass and water.
“Yooo… what the f**k, brother?” Williams slurred from the bar, half a bottle dangling from his hand. “You spent a fortune on that shit.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. I just kept moving, straight through the club, past the curious stares of the late-night staff, up the stairs to my room.
I grabbed the nearest bottle of whiskey on the way. Didn’t bother with a glass.
The door slammed behind me. The room still smelled like her, like us. s*x and warmth and the faint floral scent of her hair.
I stared at the bed. Sheets tangled. Pillow still dented where her head had been. The memory hit me like a punch: her legs wrapped around me, her nails in my back, her crying out my name as she came undone.
I hurled the bottle at the mattress. It bounced, spilling amber liquid across the sheets, soaking into the place where I’d held her.
“f**k,” I muttered, dragging both hands through my hair.
I went to the bathroom, turned the faucet on cold, and splashed water on my face. Over and over. Like it could wash away the image of them together.
It didn’t.
I’d called Sharon on the drive over, stupid, desperate, trying to surprise Poppy. I’d even planned it: flowers, dinner on the rooftop, finally asking her to be mine. Official. Real.
Sharon had sounded confused. “She’s not with me. Why is everything okay?”
The lie had hit me then. And when I checked her location, something I’d never done before, something I hated myself for now, it led me straight to that restaurant.
Straight to him.
I braced my hands on the sink, staring at my reflection. Eyes bloodshot. Jaw clenched so tight it ached.
I’d let her in. Let myself feel something I hadn’t felt in years.
And she’d gone running back to the man who’d broken her.
I didn’t know if I was more furious at her, at Damian, or at myself for believing she was done with him.
All I knew was the bed smelled like her, the club felt empty without her laugh, and my chest hurt in a way I didn’t have words for.
I sank onto the damp mattress, head in my hands.
I wasn’t giving up.
But right now, I didn’t know how to fight for someone who might not want to be fought for.
The door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.
Poppy stood there, chest heaving, tears already streaming down her face, eyes wide and desperate. She looked like she’d run the whole way from that f*****g restaurant.
I couldn’t move.
My hand tightened around the whiskey bottle until I felt the glass groan. Rage still burned hot in my veins, raw, blinding, ready to explode.
She took one step inside.
“Marcus…”
That voice. The same soft, broken voice that had whispered my name last night while I was buried deep inside her. The same voice that had shattered me in the best way.
Now it just felt like a knife.
I hurled the bottle at the wall beside her head.
It exploded in a shower of glass and amber liquid, shards flying everywhere.
“f**k!” I roared, dragging both hands through my hair, pacing like a caged animal. My chest was on fire. I couldn’t breathe right.
“Marcus, it’s really not what you think—” she started, voice cracking, hands trembling at her sides.
“Not what I think?” I laughed, bitter and ugly, grabbing the nearest vase and smashing it to the floor. It shattered into a hundred pieces. “You lied to my face, Poppy! You looked me in the eyes and said you were going to Sharon’s, then I find you kissing that piece of s**t?”
“Marcus—!”
She screamed my name, sharp and terrified.
I whipped around.
Blood.
Bright red, dripping fast from her hand, running down her wrist, splattering onto the floor.
A shard from the bottle had sliced her palm.
Everything stopped.
The rage, the yelling, the storm inside me, it all went dead quiet.
“f**k… Poppy…”
I crossed the room in two strides, grabbing her wrist gently, pulling her hand toward me. The cut was deep, glass still embedded in the soft flesh.
She was shaking. Crying harder now, but not pulling away.
“I didn’t kiss him,” she whispered, voice small and broken. “He kissed me. I slapped him. I left. I swear, Marcus… I went for closure. I needed to hear him say it so I could finally let go. That’s all. I swear on everything.”
I stared at her, chest still heaving, blood smearing between our hands.
“Then why lie?” My voice came out rough, cracked. “Why not just tell me?”
“Because I was ashamed,” she said, tears falling faster. “Ashamed, that part of me still needed to hear him say sorry. Ashamed that after everything you’ve given me… I still had that weakness.”
I let go of her wrist only to cup her face with both hands, blood and all, tilting it up so she had to look at me.
“You are not weak,” I said, my voice low, fierce. “You’re human. You loved him for years. That s**t doesn’t vanish overnight. But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
Her sob broke something in me.
I pulled her into my chest, arms wrapping around her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other careful around her injured hand.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against my shirt. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know, pretty,” I murmured into her hair, closing my eyes as the storm finally started to quiet. “I know.”
I held her while she cried out, held her until the shaking stopped, until her breathing evened, until the only thing left was the sound of two hearts trying to find their way back to the same rhythm.
Then I pulled back just enough to look at her.
“Let me fix your hand,” I said softly.
She nodded, eyes red, trusting.
We went back to my place, my real place, not the club. I was done hiding parts of myself. Tonight, I was going all in.
First stop was the hospital. Her hand needed proper stitches and a bandage, not just my clumsy first-aid attempt. She sat quiet in the passenger seat, staring out the window, but her good hand found mine on the gear shift and stayed there. That small touch calmed the last of my storm.
While the doctors worked on her, I texted Williams and Sharon: "Plan’s still on. Get the house ready.*
They’d already been roped into this chaotic idea of mine, Sharon excited, Williams grumbling but showing up anyway.
By the time we pulled up to the house, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky gold and pink. The estate looked exactly like it always did: too big, too perfect, manicured gardens and marble steps leading up to columns that screamed old money.
Poppy’s eyes went wide as we parked.
“What? You live here… and you’ve been sleeping above the club?” She turned to me, mouth slightly open. “Why?”
I shrugged, getting out and circling to open her door. “Long story. Bad memories. The club felt easier.”
She stepped out slowly, head tilting back to take in the whole place: three stories, glass walls, the fountain out front. It hit me then how different our worlds were. And how little I actually knew about hers.
I made a silent promise: tonight, I’d learn everything.
“I have a surprise for you,” I whispered, leaning close to her ear.
Her head snapped toward me, that smile breaking through, soft, real, a little shy. It punched the air out of my lungs every time.
I took her good hand and led her inside.
The living room had been transformed. Sharon and Williams had outdone themselves—fairy lights strung across the ceiling, red roses everywhere, soft music already playing low.
Sharon was in the middle of yelling at Williams, who lounged on the couch with a bottle of wine tipped to his lips like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Marcus! Thank God,” Sharon huffed, marching over. “This guy is impossible.”
Poppy blinked, confused. “What… what are you doing here?”
Sharon grinned, pulling her into a careful hug. “Long story. How’s the hand?”
“Good,” Poppy said softly, flexing her bandaged fingers. She glanced at Williams, who just lifted his bottle in a lazy salute.
Typical.
I nodded at Sharon.
She hit the remote in her hand.
The lights dimmed. A big silk banner unfurled slowly from the ceiling, gold letters catching the glow:
**WILL YOU BE MY GIRLFRIEND?**
The love song swelled, something slow and classic my mom used to play.
Poppy’s hand flew to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes instantly.
Sharon pressed a huge bouquet of red roses into her arms.
I stepped forward, taking both her hands, careful of the injured one, and dropped to one knee.
Her breath hitched.
I looked up at her, really looked. At the woman who’d walked into my club broken and somehow put me back together without even trying.
“Poppy Filer,” I said, voice steady even though my heart was pounding, “I don’t know nearly enough about you yet, where you’re really from, your favorite song, what makes you laugh on bad days. But I want to learn it all. Every single thing. I want you in my mornings, my nights, my everything.”
Tears rolled freely down her cheeks now.
“I’ve never felt this sure about anyone. Will you be my girlfriend? Let me love you the way you deserve, every day, starting now?”
She nodded before I even finished, fast, vigorous, roses trembling in her arms.
“Yes,” she whispered, voice thick. “Yes, Marcus. God, yes.”
I stood, pulling her into me, kissing her like the world had just started making sense again.
Behind us, Sharon squealed and clapped. Williams let out a low whistle and finally put the bottle down.
But I didn’t care about any of it.
I had her.
And I wasn’t letting go.
- Writer
