12 | I felt broken
The roar of my motorcycle echoed in the night as I parked it haphazardly outside a nightclub. I didn't care how crooked it was or whether it'd get ticketed or tossed away. Hell, I didn't care about much of anything right now.
My hands were trembling, my head a mess of emotions I couldn't even begin to untangle, and my heart? Shattered and stomped on, yet still uncontrollably beating.
I swung my leg off the bike, tugging off my black leggings in one swift motion. My red dress, already tight and clinging, felt like a second skin.
It was reckless, sure. Stupid, definitely. But reckless and stupid were my specialties when my heart was in pieces.
If I couldn't drown in my thoughts, I'd drown in something stronger, alcohol, bass-heavy music, and bad decisions.
The moment I stepped inside the nightclub, the heat and pounding music hit me like a physical wave. Lights flashed erratically, and bodies swayed together in chaotic harmony.
The smell of sweat, spilled drinks, and too much cologne filled the air.
Perfect.
The opening notes of I Follow Rivers by Lykke Li floated through the space, and I couldn't help the bitter laugh that bubbled up. I was following rivers, all right, rivers of whiskey and vodka.
I shoved my way to the bar, already signaling for a shot before I even reached the counter. The bartender, a guy with a tired face and tattoos covering his arms, gave me a once-over before pouring a generous amount of clear liquid into a glass.
I tossed it back in one go, savoring the way it burned all the way down to my core.
It was easier to focus on the burn than the memory of his face. Luciano Costa, the man who held every piece of me, even the ones I didn't want to give, had destroyed me. And the worst part? He didn't even know it.
Another drink. Then another. I wasn't keeping count.
By the time the bass dropped, I was on the dance floor. My hands were in the air, my hair was sticking to my neck, and my feet moved without rhythm. It didn't matter. I didn't care how I looked, who was watching, or what they were thinking.
My only companion was the drink in my hand, sloshing dangerously close to spilling as I spun and swayed.
Until I felt it.
An arm. A firm grip wrapping around my waist, pulling me back sharply.
I stumbled, barely catching my footing, and turned to snap at whoever dared ruin my escape. But when my eyes met his, the air left my lungs.
Luciano Costa.
His dark eyes were narrowed, blazing with anger, or maybe it was disappointment? Either way, I wasn't in the mood to decipher his emotions.
I was too busy drowning in my own.
"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was low but laced with fury.
I yanked my arm out of his grip, though it didn't stop him from crowding me. "What am I doing here? What does it look like I'm doing, Luciano? I'm living! Something I suggest you try sometime."
"You left the gathering," he said, his jaw tightening. "You just disappeared without a word. Do you have any idea-"
"Oh, spare me the lecture!" I cut him off, waving my drink in the air like it was some grand gesture. "You're not my keeper, Luciano. You don't get to tell me what to do or where to go. Go back to your little underworld conference or whatever it is you call those formal dinners."
His hand shot out, grabbing the drink from my hand and slamming it onto a nearby table. "You're drunk."
"No shit, Sherlock," I snapped, shoving his chest, though he didn't budge an inch. "That's the whole point. I'm trying to forget, and you're ruining it."
"Forget what?" he demanded, his voice rising above the music. "What's so bad you have to come here, get plastered, and make a fool of yourself?"
"You really want to know?" My voice cracked, and I hated how weak it sounded. My chest was heaving, tears threatening to spill, but I refused to cry. Not in front of him.
He didn't answer, just stared at me with that infuriatingly unreadable expression of his.
"Fuck you, Luciano," I spat, my words slurring slightly. "Go back to fucking my sister. At least then you were nice to me."
His entire body stiffened, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before narrowing into slits. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You think I don't know?" I laughed bitterly, though it sounded more like a sob. "The first night I came back from overseas, I heard you and Ciara. I heard everything. Her bedroom isn't far from mine."
His face went pale, then red with anger. "You don't know what you're saying. You're drunk-"
"I'm drunk, but I'm not deaf!" I shot back. "I heard her moaning your name. And I hear you... I hear-" My voice broke, and I couldn't finish the sentence.
"You're wrong," he said, his tone cold and clipped. "Whatever you think you've heard-"
"Don't you dare gaslight me, Luciano Costa," I yelled, poking him in the chest. "I may be drunk, but I'm not stupid. You and Ciara... I hate both of you..."
"Aurelia," he said, his voice softening, but I wasn't done.
"I was just the replacement..." I whispered, the words slicing through me as they left my lips. "The fucking replacement. I have always been nothing more than the replacement or the second choice. You didn't choose me out of love; you chose me because I was the easiest option."
His hand reached for mine, but I stepped back, shaking my head.
"Don't touch me," I said, my voice trembling. "Just... don't..."
We stood there in silence, the chaos of the club fading into the background. For a moment, I thought he might leave. I almost hoped he would. But instead, he said, "You don't know the whole story."
"And whose fault is that?" I shot back. "Yours. Because you never tell me anything. You keep me in the dark and expect me to just... just fall in line. Well, I'm done, Luciano. I don't want to play the role of your perfect little wife."
He stared at me, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
I stood there, my chest heaving, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. The drink I'd been craving so badly now tasted bitter in my memory. I didn't feel victorious or validated.
I felt broken.