I chased her through the darkness, my footsteps echoing against wet pavement like accusations.
Betty’s sobs echoed in the stillness, the party noise fading behind us. The garden was nearly deserted—just rows of hedges, dim lanterns flickering in the distance. No one to stop her.
No one to stop me.
I reached for her wrist, grabbing it before she could disappear any further.
"Betty, stop!" I rasped, breath uneven from the chase. “Just let me explain!”
She wrenched away, her whole body trembling as she spun to face me.
"Don’t touch me!" she choked out, her voice hoarse from crying.
She spun around, and the sight of her face knocked the breath from my lungs.
Mascara streaked down her cheeks, her eyes blazing with a fury that made my blood run cold.
This wasn't the quiet, reserved Betty I knew. This was someone else – someone I'd created with my own cruelty.
"Explain what?" Her voice cracked like breaking glass. "How you made me into a bet? How you played with my feelings like they were nothing?"
Each word hit harder than any punch I'd ever taken. I stepped closer, reaching for her, but she backed away like my touch would burn her. Maybe it would.
"It wasn't like that," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Not in the end."
"Not in the end?" She laughed, but it was hollow, wrong. "When did it change, Marcus? When you were letting Stacey humiliate me? When you were pretending to care?"
"I wasn't pretending!" The words exploded from me, raw and honest in a way I'd never allowed myself to be. "Fuck, Betty, I wasn't pretending any of it."
My chest twisted painfully at the sheer desperation in her eyes. The way her face was flushed, the way her lips quivered, still swollen from biting back sobs.
I wanted to fix it. Fix everything.
"Just listen to me," I pleaded. "I swear, I—"
"Swear what, Marcus?" she cut me off, her voice rising. "Swear that this wasn’t some sick joke to you? That this wasn’t just a game?"
Her breath hitched, her shoulders shaking.
"Because that’s all I was to you, wasn’t I?" she whispered, tears spilling over. "Just a damned pathetic bet."
Her words hit harder than any punch I’d ever taken. I stepped forward instinctively, reaching out—but she flinched back like I’d burned her.
That fucking killed me.
I clenched my fists, trying to force words out, but my mind was blank. Because what could I even say? The truth?
That I never expected this? That the bet was supposed to be a joke, just another challenge? That somewhere along the way, it stopped being a game?
That I had no idea what to do with the way she made me feel?
She let out a broken laugh, shaking her head. "You had me fooled," she whispered, her voice raw. "I actually thought—"
She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "Fuck you, Marcus."
When she turned to leave, I snapped. Before she could take another step, I grabbed her. Not roughly. Not to hurt her. But because I couldn’t let her walk away from me.
My hands moved before my brain could stop them, grabbing her waist, pulling her against me.
Her gasp barely had time to leave her lips before I yanked her against me, my hands gripping her waist, my heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.
She opened her mouth—to yell, to curse me, to fight—and I kissed her.
Her lips were warm, trembling against mine, and I felt the exact moment she froze—shocked, confused, torn.
But she didn’t pull away. Not immediately.
For just a second—just a fleeting second—she kissed me back.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet or romantic or any of the things her first kiss should have been. It was desperate, hungry, full of everything I couldn't say.
My fingers dug into her hips, and her lips – God, her lips were softer than I'd imagined, and I'd imagined them too many times to count.
For one perfect moment, she melted into me. Her body softened, her lips parting with a small gasp that sent electricity down my spine.
She tasted like cherry lip gloss and vodka cranberry, like promises I had no right to make. I felt her hands grip my shirt, and hope flared in my chest like a match struck in darkness.
Then pain exploded across my face.
The crack of her palm against my cheek echoed through the garden, but it wasn't the physical pain that made me stumble back. It was the look in her eyes – betrayal, disgust, hatred.
All directed at me.
"Don't you ever dare to touch me again, bastard!" Her voice shook, but there was steel beneath the tremor. Each word was a bullet, precise and devastating.
She ran, and this time, I didn't follow.
I couldn't. My legs wouldn't move, my whole body frozen in the aftermath of my own actions. My cheek burned, but it was nothing compared to the inferno in my chest.
Not just from the slap. From the weight of what I had just done.
What the fuck had I just done?
I'd crossed a line I couldn't uncross. I'd taken something that should have been given freely, claimed a moment that wasn't mine to take.
My fingers curled into fists, my jaw tightening as I replayed it—
The way she looked at me. The devastation in her eyes. The way I had taken instead of asked.
I wanted to believe it was because she had kissed me back—because for that brief, brief moment, she had wanted it too.
But that didn’t fucking excuse it. Didn’t excuse me.
I felt sick. And for the first time in a long time—I hated myself.
I needed to fix this. I needed to fix it all.