Chapter 2
Her brows lift slightly. “That’s the problem with betrayal, Izzy. Nobody plans the explosion. You just strike the match and act surprised when everything burns.”
The cigarette trembles between her fingers now — not enough for him to see. Enough for her to feel.
Inside her chest, old nights wake up.
Crying in the dark.
Staring at her phone.
Wondering what she did wrong.
She kills it.
Steps on it.
Lifts her eyes back to him — and this time, there’s something different.
Not heartbreak.
Distance.
“You didn’t just hurt me,” she says softly. “You changed me.”
That one breaks through his composure. His voice cracks. “I know.”
“No,” she shakes her head once. “You know you lost me. That’s not the same.”
Silence.
Heavy.
The kind that says everything that words can’t carry.
Izzy looks like he wants to say a hundred things.
But Becca doesn’t give him space to.
“You don’t get to stand here acting haunted,” she says quietly. “You made sure I was.”
His jaw tightens. “I never told them to go that far.”
Her eyes narrow. “You didn’t have to.”
The wind picks up, tugging strands of her hair loose around her face, the club base thudding through the brick behind them like a second pulse.
“You told one lie,” she continues. “One. And let everyone else decorate it.”
Izzy looks away.
That tells her everything.
“You let them say I slept around for clients.”
Silence.
“You let them say I was on something.”
He swallows.
“You let them say my work got sloppy.”
Her voice never rises.
That’s what makes it cut.
“You didn’t just cheat, Izzy,” she says. “You erased me.”
His composure cracks. “I was angry,” he says, like it’s a defense. “You left me—”
She laughs once. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“I left after I caught you.”
He has no response.
Inside, Becca feels it — that old ache trying to crawl back up her throat. The girl who cried over him. Who reread messages. Who wondered what she did wrong.
She shuts it down.
“You know what the worst part is?” she asks.
He looks up, eyes glassy now.
“I still defended you. Even after.”
That lands harder than anything else.
He drags a hand over his face, ashamed. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”
“You don’t,” she says simply. “Some damage doesn’t reverse. It just… changes shape.”
A beat passes between them. Cold air. Distant music. History sitting heavy.
She flicks the dead cigarette over the railing.
“And now,” she says, calm but carved from steel, “I have to rebuild a reputation you burned for ego.”
Izzy’s voice drops. “The rumors aren’t done spreading.”
She meets his eyes.
No tears. No softness left there.
“Then you better pray I don’t start telling the truth.”
Silence falls — thick, final.
And for the first time since stepping outside…
Becca feels like the one in control.
As Becc returns to the girls, Samantha appeared like she always did — polished, smiling too wide, eyes too sharp.
“Hey Becca, haven’t seen you in a few days. Where you been? How’s everything going?”
Becca smiled back just as sweet. “Just been home, working on some new stuff. How’s everything with you?”
Samantha leaned in slightly, lowering her voice in fake concern. “I’ve heard some rumors… just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You know how this town talks. Things about drugs… clients… Izzy…”
Becca let out a soft laugh through her nose, tilting her head.
“Oh, Samantha… people only gossip about the ones worth talking about. What do they say about you these days?”
The smile on Samantha’s face twitched.
“Well… I hope everything goes good for you. I’m sorry to hear about you and Izzy.”
Becca’s expression didn’t fall.
“Don’t be. When everything happens for a reason, sometimes things are removed from your life to make you better.”
And just like that, Samantha had nothing left to say.
Hours later, the music blurred into noise, drinks stacked on top of feelings she didn’t want to feel. Becca danced, laughed, spun — trying to outrun her thoughts.
But the unease stayed.
She didn’t feel safe.
Not even with the girls she came with.
Still… she kept drinking.
Tonight she didn’t want to remember.
Cold night air hit her skin as she stepped outside, the club door thudding shut behind her. She leaned against the brick wall, cigarette shaking slightly between her fingers.
The world tilted.
Then that feeling came.
Awareness.
Like someone had stepped into her space without touching her.
A voice broke through the fog.
Low. Calm.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone… not like this.”
She smirked lazily, vision blurred, words slurring just enough.
“What… you the parking lot police now?”
A pause.
“No,” he said.
Then softer.
“Just someone who doesn’t like seeing people drown when they don’t have to.”
Her body didn’t feel fear.
Just… heaviness.
Her knees buckled slightly, and a hand steadied her elbow. Not gripping. Not pulling. Just there.
Her eyelids fought to stay open.
Then his voice, close to her ear — the only thing that would stay with her.
“You don’t have to survive everything alone anymore.”
Darkness swallowed her.
Morning light pulled her awake.
Her bed.
Her room.
Her dress still on. One heel gone. Phone plugged in beside her purse.
No pain. No signs of harm.
But the memory stopped at Samantha.
The whispers.
The drinks.
The dance floor.
Cold air.
A cigarette.
And that voice.
Clear.
Steady.
But his face?
Gone.
She had always kept her guard up.
But last night didn’t feel like danger.
It felt like care.
Maybe it was the way he spoke.
Maybe it was the drinks.
The way he steadied her without taking control.
The way he made sure she was safe… and left.
Maybe it was the way he took care of me… for once in my life.
She didn’t know his name.
Didn’t know his face.
Didn’t know why he helped her.
Rebecca stared at the morning light on her wall.
I don’t know this stranger.
And that’s what scared her most of all.
2
The shower helped—but only enough.
The hot water beat against Becca’s shoulders, steam fogging the glass as she stood there longer than necessary, letting it run until her skin warmed and her thoughts slowed. The night still sat heavy in her chest, like something unfinished.
By the time she stepped out, towel wrapped tight, the house was quiet again. Safe. Familiar.
She brushed her teeth, watching her reflection—eyes a little tired, a little guarded. Her hair fell in damp waves down her back as she dragged a brush through it, movements automatic. This was the part she knew how to do. Get ready. Keep moving. Don’t linger.
She dressed simply. Black, as usual. Pulled her laptop into her bag, grabbed her keys, and stood for a moment at the door with her coffee in hand.
Stepping outside meant facing it all.
The looks.
The whispers.
The mess Izzy had left behind.
She exhaled and opened the door.
Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean. It had snowed hard overnight—the kind of storm that covered everything, like the world had been reset without asking permission. Her driveway was blanketed in white, trees heavy with snow, the sky still pale and quiet.
And then she saw them.
Lilies.
Resting near the steps, untouched by the snow, was another small bundle tied neatly together.
Blue.
Her breath caught.
Not white. Not red.
Blue.
Her favorite color.
A color she wore often—jackets, ink, shadows in her tattoos—but never talked about. No one had ever noticed. Not really. Not enough to remember it.
Not even Izzy.
Her fingers tightened around her coffee cup as she crouched down, lifting the flowers carefully, as if they might disappear if she moved too fast. They were real. Cold from the air. Beautiful in a way that made her chest ache.
Who would know?
Her eyes flicked down the driveway, to the trees, the road beyond—but there was nothing. Just snow and silence.
She went back inside, setting the blue lilies beside the first set on her coffee table. For a moment, she stood there, staring at them together. White and blue. Calm and question.
Then she shook it off.
Later.
She grabbed her keys, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the car.
Work didn’t wait.
And neither did the fallout.
As the engine turned over and the heat slowly filled the car, Becca pulled out of the driveway, heading toward the shop—toward the rumors, the stares, the damage control.
Toward whatever Izzy had started.
And whatever—or whoever—was quietly watching from the edges of her life now.
By the time Becca pulled up to the shop, the street was already alive with movement.
Workers from neighboring stores were outside, shovels scraping against pavement, breath fogging in the cold. A few of them looked up as she parked.
She recognized their faces immediately.
Men who once sat in her chair for hours.
Women who laughed with her, cried with her, trusted her hands with their skin.
Now they stared.
Some didn’t bother hiding it—heads shaking, whispers traded over the scrape of metal against snow. One man scoffed softly, turning his back as if she carried something contagious.
Like she was a plague.
Becca’s jaw tightened.
She looked around once, instinctively—then stopped herself.
And kept walking.
Because that’s what she knew how to do.
She unlocked the gate, metal clanking louder than usual in the quiet street, and moved toward the front door. That’s when she saw it.
A piece of paper, taped crookedly at eye level.
Her stomach dropped as she read it.
“Sluts don’t belong in our town.
Go back to the city where you belong.”
Her fingers curled around the paper, crumpling it into a tight ball. Anger flared hot in her chest—but she didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t give it the satisfaction.
She shoved it into her pocket and unlocked the door.
Inside, the shop was cold and dark—but familiar.
She turned on the lights one by one, the soft hum filling the space. Setting out her supplies. Wiped down her station. Routine grounding her when nothing else could.
When she opened her laptop, she braced herself.
Then paused.