Chapter 97: Chapter 97
Lyra
The mont Marcus walked in through that front door like he owned oxygen, I swear the entire house shifted. I an it. The music dipped, the lights felt hotter, even the freaking air got weird and heavy like the universe itself was preparing for my breakdown.
And ?
I stood there like a stunned little loser in heels too high for my soul, gripping my red cup like it contained holy water instead of watered-down vodka punch, and staring at him like I’d just seen a demon crawl out of my past wearing expensive cologne and a smug little smirk.
Oh my God. It was him.
Marcus-fucking-Adesina.
My ex.
The boy who ruined my life. The one who made
question every single thing about myself — from my thighs to my values to whether or not I was lovable.
The sa boy who slut-shad
for not having sex with him, then had the audacity to flirt with my lab partner the next week like I was just a warm-up exercise.
The sa boy who said I was "pretty but boring" because I wasn’t ready to ride him like a cowgirl while I was still figuring out what positions even ant.
I swear I could feel my stomach fold into itself.
And of course, he looked good. Because Satan doesn’t punish his own.
He was taller. Broader. His jawline looked like it’d been carved out of spite. Black jacket. Chain. Neatly done braids that I wanted to yank out with prayer and holy rage. And when his eyes t mine — those sa eyes that once convinced
I was special — I felt my soul clench like it was bracing for impact.
No. Nope. I hated him.
I hated him.
I hated the way he looked at
like he’d seen
naked — which, emotionally, he had — and didn’t even feel bad about it. I hated the way he smiled like he could still get under my skin. I hated that my skin let him. And most of all, I hated that he was here. In my house. At my party. Looking at
like we had unfinished business when I swore to God I buried him in my therapy journal three ntal breakdowns ago.
Tasha slid up beside
with the dumbest smirk on her face.
"Guess who’s here," she whispered like a gleeful devil. "Marcus."
No shit, Sherlock. I could sll the heartbreak from here.
Before I could answer, he started walking toward . Calm. Confident. Cocky in that way that only boys with no conscience could pull off. Like he didn’t even care how deeply he’d hurt . Like we were still friends. Like I didn’t cry into a family-sized ice cream tub while watching Twilight and screaming at the screen because Edward at least had the decency to be conflicted about ruining Bella’s life.
He got close. Too close.
"Lyra," he said, like my na was a joke only he understood.
I blinked at him. Slowly. Deliberately. Like I was trying to decide whether to slap him with my words or my shoe.
He looked down at my cup. "Still drinking red cups at parties, huh?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Still talking like you’re auditioning for a movie nobody wants to watch?"
He laughed.
God, I wanted to slap him.
"I see you still hate ," he said.
"Hate is a strong word," I replied sweetly, clutching my cup so hard I was scared it would shatter. "I’d say I detest you. With the kind of energy people reserve for traffic and Wi-Fi that buffers during climax scenes. You are literally the human embodint of why girls go to therapy."
He didn’t even flinch. Just smiled. The nerve of this boy.
"You look good," he said, eyes dragging over my body like he was allowed.
I smiled back. "And you look like a cautionary tale. A walking red flag. A lesson I should’ve learned the first ti. But hey — second degree burns build character."
He tilted his head. "Still got that fire. I like that."
I nearly gagged. "You also liked calling
frigid because I wouldn’t let you put your unwashed demon dick inside , rember that?"
His smile froze.
I leaned in, voice lower now. "You made
feel like I wasn’t enough, Marcus. You humiliated . You made
believe that not giving you sex ant I didn’t love you. You made jokes about
to your friends. You turned sothing sacred to
into a punchline. So yeah. I look good now. But I felt like shit for months because of you."
He opened his mouth like he wanted to defend himself — like he hadn’t been the villain in every Chapter of that story — and I held up my hand.
"Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. Don’t act like this is nostalgia. It’s not. It’s trauma. Dressed in denim and cologne."
He stared at , quiet now.
Then he did that thing. That stupid smirk. That little arrogant smirk that said he still thought he had power over . That smirk I used to think was cute, before I realized it was hiding fangs.
And then — oh my God — he leaned in. Right into my space. Into my breath. Into my unresolved wounds.
"If I kissed you right now," he said low, like a threat, "would you still pull away?"
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t stutter.
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