Chapter 11: Ornaments and Ghosts
1482 Words
Jason’s pov
The bass thrummed through the penthouse so hard I could feel it in my chest.
Bodies everywhere. Athletes, models, trust fund kids who'd never worked a day in their lives—all of them drunk or high or both, grinding against each other like the world was ending tomorrow.
Marcus, the owner of the penthouse was trying to get a few people from playing catch with an expensive vase. Someone had decided this was the perfect spot for this weekend's rager. He hadn't agreed to it, but when you rolled with this crowd, people just assumed.
I sat on the sectional in the corner, Gianna perched on my lap like an expensive ornament. She was wearing something tight and black that showed off legs that went on for miles, her brown hair falling in perfect waves down her back.
My hand moved absently—stroking her spine, playing with the ends of her hair.
Brown hair.
Like Angel's.
Except that's where the similarities ended.
Angel's hair was wild, curly, big enough that I could pick her out of any crowd just by the back of her head alone. When she walked into a room, you felt it. That electric energy, that barely contained fire. She had curves that made my mouth water—hips I wanted to grip, an ass I wanted to bite, legs that I wanted wrapped around my waist while I—
"—and then Marcus said he'd host New Year's at his parent’s estate if no one else stepped up, but you know how that went last year—"
I blinked, dragging my attention back to the conversation happening around me.
Five guys from the hockey team were sprawled on the surrounding furniture—Brandon, Kyle, Dmitri, and two freshmen whose names I couldn't remember. They were talking about... something. Parties? Plans?
I'd stopped paying attention twenty minutes ago.
Because all I could think about was an hour ago.
Angel in that study room.
The way she'd looked at me with fury and hurt and desperate want.
The way she'd tasted on my tongue.
The sounds she'd made when I'd pushed her over the edge—once, twice, until she was sobbing my name and shaking apart.
I could still taste her. Still smell her on my fingers when I brought my beer to my lips.
It was driving my wolf insane.
The beast wanted out, wanted to go find her, wanted to make sure she was safe and satisfied and his.
"—I'm telling you, man, there's a running bet on how long this lasts." Brandon gestured vaguely at me and Gianna. "No offense, but no one's taking it seriously."
Kyle snorted. "Can you blame them? Jace isn't exactly the settling-down type."
"And Gianna..." Dmitri trailed off meaningfully.
Gianna's spine stiffened slightly against my chest, but she didn't turn around.
I should probably defend her. Say something. Play the role of the devoted boyfriend.
I didn't.
Instead, I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my messages.
Me (55 minutes ago): Thinking about you
Me (55 minutes ago): Still tasting you
Me (42 minutes ago): Are you okay?
No response.
The uneasy feeling in my gut intensified.
"Speaking of which," a familiar voice cut through the noise, "where did you meet Gianna, Jace? I heard it was somewhere... colorful."
Britney.
My ex-girlfriend materialized from the crowd, drink in hand, perfectly styled blonde hair, and that sharp smile she got when she was about to draw blood.
We'd dated for a month freshman year before we broke up and I was stupid enough to spin the block. She'd wanted more. I'd wanted out.
She'd never quite forgiven me for it.
"Does it matter?" I said flatly, not looking up from my phone.
"I'm just curious." Britney perched on the arm of the couch, her eyes fixed on Gianna. "I mean, there are rumors. About the Scarlet District. About certain... services."
The room went quiet.
Gianna didn’t deny it. She wasn’t supposed to.
Gianna turned to look at Britney, her expression carefully neutral. "Jealous, Britney?"
"Of what? Your job skills?" Britney's laugh was razor-sharp. "I hear they're very... specialized. The kind that can get you any rich man you want." She paused, letting that sink in. "But keeping them? That's a different story, isn't it?"
"At least I earn my way," Gianna shot back, her voice steady. "Instead of using daddy's credit card and calling it an accomplishment."
"Oh, honey." Britney leaned forward. "We both know what you earn. And it's not respect."
"Better than earning it on my back in bathroom stalls at frat parties," Gianna said sweetly. "Or was that before or after the nose job? I lose track."
Britney's smile went nuclear. "You want to talk about before and afters? Let's talk about your little scandal last semester. What was his name? Professor Morrison? Oh wait, Doctor Morrison. And his lovely wife, who so graciously exposed you as his mistress to the entire faculty."
Gianna's jaw tightened.
"Tell me," Britney continued, warming to her subject, "does Jace know about that? About how you were f*****g a married man for tuition money? About how you got kicked out of your sorority? About—"
“About your little party favours?” Gianna interrupted, her voice like ice. “You were so addicted to adderall, you gave mummy and daddy quite a scare when they found you in the girl’s bathroom, nearly passed out from overdose. Or maybe we should talk about the abortion you had junior year for that deadbeat loser that was only with you for your money. The one that you told everyone was a ‘health scare’? Maybe you should look in the mirror before trying to f**k with me, Britney. I will f*****g destroy you.”
The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.
Britney’s face went white, then red.
I should probably intervene. Say something. Do something. But Gianna could obviously handle this all on her own.
I refreshed my messages instead.
Still nothing from Angel.
Where was she? Was she okay? Was she still upset about earlier? Was she—
"Jace." Britney's voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and demanding. "Are you seriously just going to sit there while your girlfriend talks to me like that?"
I looked up slowly, meeting her eyes with complete indifference.
"Yep."
Britney's mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"
"You started it." I went back to my phone. "You two want to tear each other apart, be my guest. Just do it somewhere else."
"You're such an asshole," Britney spat.
"So I've been told."
She stared at me for a long moment, then turned and stormed off, disappearing into the crowd.
The conversation around us slowly resumed, people pretending they hadn't just witnessed that trainwreck.
I opened i********:, my thumb hovering over the search bar.
Then I typed: Anzhela Zakharov.
Her old account popped up. The one she'd abandoned when she'd reinvented herself as Angel Steele.
I shouldn't be looking at this. It felt like an invasion of privacy, like I was peering into a version of her that she'd deliberately left behind.
But I couldn't help myself.
I scrolled through her old photos.
There she was, maybe three years ago, at some school event. Bright smile, eyes lit up with genuine joy. She looked younger. Lighter. Less guarded.
Another photo—skating on a rink with friends, laughing at something off-camera. No walls up. No armor.
Another—graduation from high school, cap and gown, diploma in hand. Pictures of her awards, some from academic competitions, some from skating competitions. Beaming smiles.
It was easy to see the kind of things she was passionate about. Skating, books, flowers, cats, her friends. Pride, joy and hope radiating from every pixel.
God, I wanted to give that back to her.
I wanted to see her smile like that again. Wanted to strip away all the fear and trauma and guardedness until she was free to just... be.
Happy. Safe. Loved.
The noise around me faded to white static.
I needed air.
I pushed Gianna off my lap—gently but firmly—and stood.
"Where are you going?" someone asked.
"Out."
I cut through the crowd, ignoring the attempts to pull me into conversations, and pushed through the glass doors onto the balcony.
The cold night air hit me like a slap.
Better.
I pulled out my cigarettes, lit one, and leaned against the railing.
The city sprawled below—lights glittering like scattered diamonds, the distant sound of traffic and sirens.
Somewhere out there, Angel was...
What? Sleeping? Studying? Still upset about our fight?
I pulled out my phone again, staring at her profile picture. A candid shot someone had taken of her laughing. She hadn't even realized they were photographing her.
She was so f*****g beautiful it hurt.
- Writer
