The bass thumped through the walls, pulsing in my chest like a second heartbeat. The smoke and alcohol made the place feel hazy,, the kind of atmosphere that made everything feel blurred, reckless, out of control.
Perfect.
I let the burn of whiskey slide down my throat, my grip tightening around the red plastic cup as I leaned against the kitchen counter.
The guys were already shitfaced, laughing too loudly, draped over half-drunk girls who were eager for attention.
And Stacey? She was all over me.
Her hands ghosted over my arms, her body pressing into mine like she thought proximity could make me forget everything else. Her lips were at my ear, whispering things she probably thought I wanted to hear, promising things I wasn’t interested in.
I let her hands roam, let her think she was breaking through my walls. It was easier than admitting the truth – that those walls had already been demolished by someone else entirely.
I barely registered any of it. Because despite the alcohol, despite the distractions, despite everything—she was still in my fucking head.
I reached for the vodka bottle, pouring a shot straight into my cup, hoping to drown the thoughts before they took root.
And that’s when I saw her. The crowd parted like a curtain revealing its star, and my breath caught in my throat.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not like this.
Not in a blue dress that hugged every curve, that dipped low enough to make my fingers twitch with the urge to trace the exposed skin.
Not with her makeup dark and bold, turning her eyes into weapons, her lips into a temptation I shouldn’t even be considering.
Betty stood there, transformed but somehow still herself, more real than anyone else in this haze of alcohol and desperation.
I felt the heat crawl up my neck, an unfamiliar tension tightening in my chest. And in my alcohol-clouded mind, I saw it—her in a lot of places.
With me. Under me.
Pinned between the wall and my body, lips parted, gasping, begging—
I sucked in a sharp breath, ripping my gaze away before I lost my grip completely.
She was gone before I could do something stupid.
I forced myself to look away, but her image was burned into my retinas like a camera flash. Stacey's lips found mine, aggressive and demanding, tasting of vodka and strawberry lip gloss.
I kissed her back, mechanical, my mind somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with softer lips and genuine smiles.
The bet. This was all about the bet. I repeated it like a mantra, trying to convince myself that's all this was.
All it could be.
But then I saw him. Tristan. The fucking vulture, circling what wasn't his to take.
He had her cornered by the drinks table, his intentions written all over his face as he handed her another cup.
Betty – my Betty – was smiling at him, that sweet, genuine smile that made something in my chest constrict. The alcohol in my system turned to acid as I watched him lead her to the dance floor.
That smug bastard was standing too close, his eyes practically devouring her as she smiled at him, tilting her head in a way that made my blood fucking boil.
I was already pushing off the counter before I could stop myself.
But then that fucker—he pulled her onto the dance floor. I barely heard Stacey’s voice in my ear as I watched.
Watched Betty’s body move to the music. Watched the way her hips swayed, slow, deliberate, seductive. And watched Tristan’s filthy hands roam her body, gripping her waist, guiding her against him.
That dark, possessive pulse roared inside my chest, clawing at my ribs, burning through my veins like gasoline.
Stacey noticed my distraction, following my gaze.
"I need to powder my nose," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. I barely registered her leaving, my eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before me.
Betty moved like she was made of music itself, her hips swaying in a way that sent electricity through my veins.
Something primal and possessive roared to life inside me.
She wasn’t supposed to move like that. She wasn’t supposed to let him touch her like that. And she sure as hell wasn’t supposed to look so—
Fucking intoxicating.
My hands curled into fists. I couldn’t watch this. I couldn’t let this happen.
But it was Tristan's hands on her body, Tristan pressing against her, Tristan's fingers tilting her face toward his.
Then—he tried to kiss her.
Her first kiss.
The thought hit me like a physical blow. This nobody was about to steal her first kiss.
I moved before I could think, shoving through the crowd with single-minded purpose. The distance between us felt infinite, each step an eternity as I watched Tristan lean in.
No. Not him. Not like this.
Before Tristan’s lips could touch hers, before she could even react—I was there.
Slamming my hand against his chest, ripping him away from her with a force that made him stumble backward.
The rage in my eyes stopped him cold before he could speak. And just like that, he backed off. He disappeared into the crowd without a word like the coward he was.
But I wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. Because Betty was against me now.
My hand was still gripping her waist, my fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, and she was pressed into my side, her breathing uneven, her body warm against mine.
She looked up at me, wide-eyed, dazed, confused. She didn’t pull away.
And I didn’t let her go.
Because something inside me had snapped.
I didn’t get the chance to say anything because the next second, the music stopped.
And then—Stacey’s voice rang through the speakers.
Clear. Sharp. Cruel. And then, with a smirk she started reading aloud Betty's diary.
Her private thoughts laid bare for everyone to hear. The bet exposed in the cruelest way possible.
She was wondering to kiss me? All this time?
The words hit the room like a bomb. All for public humiliation. And then came the worst part.
"Well, well, well, our dearest Marcus Archibald, you've officially won the bet—you actually managed to make our Fatty Betty fall for you! Let's give him a round of applause! And Tristan, you now owe him a thousand bucks, you jerk!"
Silence. Then—laughter. Mocking, sharp, cutting.
And when I turned back to Betty—I fucking felt it.
The impact of what I had done. Her wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto mine, searching—begging—for something. An explanation. A denial. A reason.
Something to make this less cruel, less personal. Something to make it hurt less.
I tried to say something. Anything. But whatever I was about to say no longer mattered.
And then, in a voice so broken, so small, it fucking gutted me—“Why, Marcus?”
Her breath hitched, a choked sob escaping before she could stop it. “What have I ever done to you?”
Betty’s lips trembled, her hands curling into fists at her sides like she was trying to hold herself together—and then, she turned.
She ran away, and something inside me broke.
This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. None of this was how it was supposed to happen.
Stacey sauntered over, victory written in her smile. "Want to celebrate upstairs?" she purred, her hand sliding up my chest. The touch made my skin crawl.
I shoved her hand away, disgusted with her, with myself, with this whole fucked-up situation.
For once in my life, I didn't think about consequences or reputation or what anyone else would say.
I ran.