24. I Feel Like I’m Drowning #2
“I had no choice!” he screams, frustration pouring out of him.
“What does that even mean?” I yell back. “I’m tired of your games, Alex.”
His jaw twitches.
Then he smiles—“I had you first.”
I stare him down, blood roaring in my ears.
“And he had me last night. Over and over again.”
His eyes flare. Something primal flashes through them.
And then—he’s on me.
Alex grabs my wrist, pushing me against the dressing room wall. I gasp. His chest presses into mine—solid, scorching. His scent—clean, crisp—wraps around me, dragging every cell in my body back to him like gravity. His nose is in my hair, breathing me in slowly.
I can’t help the reaction my body has to him. How his touch amplifies every current coursing through my veins.
A quiet traitorous moan escapes my lips.
If he kissed me, I wasn’t sure I could trust myself not to kiss him back.
“The thought of his hands on you—his mouth—makes me crazy.” His voice is gravelly. “I hate him,” he breathes, the heat of it splashing across my throat like lava. I catch the faintest scent of whiskey—he’s been drinking.
“You’re mine.”
My skin prickles. The ache pulses between my thighs. Pleasure and pain in equal measure.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don’t do this. Don’t fall. Don’t beg.
“Alex,” I whisper. “Let me go. Or I’ll scream.”
My resolve crumbling the longer he holds me.
His breath ghosts my cheek. “You used to melt at my touch—begged me for it.”
And I know—he wants to hear me say it.
Hear me tell him he still holds a space in my heart.
But I can’t let him see it. Not while he drags me on this merry-go-round of half-truths, broken promises, and mixed messages.
He wants me, but he’s with her.
He misses me, but he’s with her.
He’s not with her, but he’s here with me.
My chest cracks open, unable to stop a tear that slips free—hot and silent.
“Please,” I plead, so soft it barely counts as sound. “Let go of me.”
Alex’s thumb brushes the tear. Then he steps back, hands falling from me like dead weight.
“I’m sorry, I—I don’t know what came over me.” He stares back at me. “You moved on so fast with him…did I mean nothing to you?” he says, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.
I suck in breath that isn’t laced with his presence, breathing it in. The cold air hits fast. Too fast.
I miss the heat instantly.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
My heart beats a rhythm reserved only for him. Did I move on too fast? My stomach flips at the thought.
“You don’t get to be jealous,” I mutter, wiping my face with the back of my trembling hand. “You left an opening—and he filled it.”
I shake. Head to toe.
“So get out of my dressing room.”
“Elena, please, there’s so much you don’t know…I’m—I wish I could,” he hesitates. “I’m lost without you,” he cries.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t.”
His evasiveness only frustrates me more. “Then crawl back to Madison and figure it out. Forget about me.”
He goes to reach for me. “Darling. I’m sorry.”
I step back, creating distance.
The air between us warps. He stares, gray eyes burning into mine.
“Get out!” I scream.
He turns. Hand on the door handle.
Then, low, “You were mine first.”
The door clicks shut.
And perhaps he’s right. Maybe it’s because he’s my first, maybe it’s because despite all my denial, he still holds a very large part of my heart.
Will I ever truly be rid of him. Or has he imprinted so deeply into my bones?
I crumple to the floor, knees buckling beneath me. Shaking. Hollow.
I press my fists to my chest desperate to hold myself together. But the sobs rip through anyway, tearing me apart. My throat burns. My face floods with heat, salt and grief.
If I see him again—I don’t know if I’ll survive it.
The door flies open. I flinch. But the black combat boots are all the confirmation I need. Luca.
I look up at him, when his eyes widen. He crosses the room in two strides, dropping down.
“Elena—are you okay? Are you hurt?”
He scans me then the room.
“Get me out of here,” I whisper. “Please.”
Luca doesn’t ask questions. He just nods and lifts me to my feet, wrapping an arm around me like a shield.
I’m strung up like a doll on display, shrouded under a hoodie Luca threw over me haphazardly, trying to keep me whole.
We move fast, cutting through the back hallway, past Mark and Kylie who look concerned and confused.
“We’ve had a breach,” Luca says by way of explanation. They don’t stop us.
I press my face into his chest, not sure I can handle their reactions.
The cold night air hits me and I flinch. Like I’m waking up from something.
In the car, I curl into myself. The seat swallows me whole. Chris sits silently in the front seat and Luca glances up in the mirror, jaw locked.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters. “I stepped out for two minutes—line was insane—I didn’t think he’d actually—fuck.”
“It’s not your fault,” I croak.
Because it’s not.
Even if he’d been there, Alex wouldn’t have listened.
We hit a red light. The car hums quietly.
“Don’t be hard on yourself Rossi, he should have never gotten past the venue security, I’ll be having a word with them about that,” Chris says.
He’s right, he undoubtably used his star power to charm his way in, just like he’d done with me.
Luca exhales—long and slow—like he’s trying to release the anger, the shame, the helplessness.
And I stare out the window, throat raw, heart scraped open.
Too many ghosts.
Too many what-ifs.
And no Broderick to drown them out—he feels so far away he might as well be on another planet. I know if I called him, he’d drop everything just to be here, to be with me. But it’s not soon enough.
“I should’ve stayed closer,” Luca murmurs.
My eyes stay fixed on the leather seat in front of me. “He would’ve pushed past you.”
“Yeah, I would have liked to see him try.”
“He won’t get another chance,” Chris affirms.
The tension in the car is thick and immovable, like fog pressing in on the windows.
“You okay back there?”
“No,” I whisper.
“You want music or something?” he asks. “Or...I don’t know. Talk about something dumb?”
I let out a small, bitter laugh. My voice scrapes on the way out. “You offering small-talk now? Thought you were just my hired muscle.”
“Well, yeah,” he says, a little warmth creeping back in. “Turns out I’ve got layers. Like a lasagna.”
I huff, and it almost sounds like a real laugh. “Your mom does make some good lasagna.”
“That she does,” Chris agrees.
Luca glances at me in the mirror. “God bless Flora and her lasagna.”
“I could probably demolish an entire tray by myself right now,” I say. This time, I do laugh—for real. It catches me off guard.
“I honestly don’t know where you put it,” he says, laughing back.
The light turns green. We move.
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s softer now. A shared kind of quiet.
A few blocks pass. Then he speaks again, “You know, I’ve worked for a lot of people. Celebrities. Athletes. Rich kids with too much money and not enough self-preservation. Most of ‘em don’t even remember my name.”
I lift my eyes, watching the back of his head.
“But you?” he says, meeting my gaze in the rearview. “You say thank you. You ask how I’m doing. You make sure we’ve eaten. You remember my niece’s name.”
“I like Sofia,” I murmur. “She makes art.”
He grins. “Yeah. She does. Like Riley.”
I smile at that. If he’s bringing up Riley, maybe there’s hope for them after all.
We turn another corner. The city drifts by in wet streaks of light, unfocused.
“I’ve got your back, Elena,” Luca says finally. “Not just because I’m on payroll. You get that, right?”
“We both do, Miss Montgomery,” Chris adds.
I don’t answer. Not out loud.
But my hand presses flat against my chest. I blink, tears burning again—for a whole different reason this time.
“Thank you.”
“And if that asshole ever shows up again, I’m not asking for permission.”
A small laugh slips out of me, cracked and tired. I curl tighter into myself, pulling my coat closer.
“You gonna punch him?”
“Minimum.”
“Thanks, Luca.”
I close my eyes, letting the quiet take over.
It’s been a few days since I got back to New York. I haven’t left my room much, avoiding everyone. To my relief, Alex listened, and all the posts have been deleted. No late-night calls or text messages.
The blinds stay drawn. I’m waiting for the fallout—some blurry backstage photo, a leaked whisper from a stagehand. But nothing. No headlines. No Kylie. Just silence.
And silence, in my world, is a miracle.
Still, I don’t trust it.
My mind replays Atlanta. The way Alex held me. The sound of his voice in my ear. The hurt in his eyes when he found out about Broderick.
That cut deep.
No matter how many showers I took, I could still feel him. His hands on my skin. The heat of his mouth against me.
The worst part was that I miss it. Missed him. Despite what he said, despite the lingering questions he still left unanswered. Some sick part of me still cared.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Maybe I’m built for this. Maybe pain is the only thing that sticks.
Two years. Drowning in grief after my mom died. Letting it shape me, bury me, become a language I spoke fluently.
Perhaps that’s why Alex fits so perfectly—he’s broken and lonely; we’re cut from the same cloth.
Then there’s Broderick.
Who doesn’t make me flinch. Who makes me laugh even when my insides are caving in. Who kisses the pain away and holds me like he isn’t afraid of how messed up I am underneath it all.
A few more hours and he’ll be here.
He’ll fuck the pain away with steady hands and sharp smirks.
Until I’m alone again, and it all comes rushing back.
I needed Broderick.
But I missed Alex.
And I hate that those two things could exist at the same time.
I’m torn—ping-ponging between want and shame, lust and guilt, memory and need. I want someone to wrap me up and tell me I’m not ruined. I want to claw at Alex’s chest and scream until he bleeds. I want to crawl into Broderick’s lap and forget how broken I feel.
Why did the part of me that was still bleeding keep aching for the knife?