The club continues pulsing around us, hundreds of people dancing, drinking, laughing—oblivious to the silent earthquake happening between Victor and me. Three weeks of emptiness, anger, and hurt converge into this single moment of eye contact.
Victor takes one step forward. Then another. His gaze never leaves mine.
I feel a sudden surge of satisfaction. Spiteful—possibly. Vindictive—absolutely. The look on Victor’s face—that unguarded pain—mirrors exactly what I’ve been feeling for months. Now he knows how it feels to watch someone you want with someone else. Now he understands what it’s like to be on the outside looking in.
Now you know how it feels to be invisible when it matters.
The music pulses around us as Victor takes another step forward. His eyes never leave mine, pleading silently across the crowded dance floor. I deliberately lean closer to Marcus, pressing my body against his solid frame. My lips brush against his ear.
“You know what would really make this night perfect?” I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear me over the music.
Marcus’s eyebrow raises questioningly. I say something ridiculous about expanding Eclipse to include an underwater DJ booth where we could broadcast to passing sharks. It’s nonsense, but Marcus throws his head back and laughs, his hand sliding from my hip to the small of my back in a gesture of casual intimacy.
Victor’s reaction is immediate and visceral. His hands clench into tight fists at his sides, the tendons standing out along his forearms. The muscle in his jaw twitches violently. For a wild second, I think he might actually cross the floor and tear Marcus’s hands off me—claim me publicly the way he’s refused to for eight months.
A group of dancers moves between us, blocking my view. I strain to see past them, my heart in my throat.
The crowd shifts again, laughter and bodies flowing around the space where Victor stood.
He’s gone.
After everything, he still couldn’t stay. Couldn’t fight. Couldn’t face the reality of us in public.
I’d wanted him to hurt, but his absence still feels like losing something essential.
The satisfaction evaporates instantly, leaving only a bitter taste in my mouth. What am I doing? Using Marcus—a decent guy who deserves better—to make Victor jealous? This isn’t me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back from Marcus, creating space between us. “I can’t do this.”
A flash of confusion crosses his face, quickly replaced with understanding. “It’s him, isn’t it? The guy who was watching us.”
“I’m really sorry.” The words feel inadequate. “You deserve someone who’s actually present.”
Marcus nods, no anger in his expression—just resignation. “When you’re ready for someone who isn’t afraid to be seen with you, let me know.”
His words hit harder than any accusation could have. I watch him walk away, disappearing into the crowd with dignified grace.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a message from Sloane about getting back to my set.
Instead, it’s Victor:My place. Now. We need to talk.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keys. The rational part of my brain screams that this is exactly how the cycle continues—Victor demanding, me acquiescing. We’ve been here before. Nothing will change.
Yet my heart races at the message. Is this different? He came to Eclipse. He stood there, exposed in a way I’ve never seen before. But he still left.
I should tell him no. I should demand he come back here, face me in my world if he wants to talk. I should make him work for it after months of being relegated to the shadows.
I should move on.
On my way.
I type instead, pressing send before I can change my mind.
I find Sloane near the bar, explain there’s an emergency, and ask her to cover the rest of my set. Her eyes narrow with suspicion, but she doesn’t press me when she sees my expression.
As I slip through the crowd toward the exit, I know this is probably a mistake. Victor hasn’t changed. I’m walking right back into the same pain I’ve been trying to escape for three weeks.
I go anyway.