Page 39 of Shattered Hate

“I’m not eating. I just need to sit at the bar for a drink. I’ll be in and out without anyone noticing,” I say, trying to sound casual. The host, a burly man with a neatly trimmed beard and a piercing gaze, stares at me with wide eyes and then shifts his focus to the crumpled dollar bills in his hand. He swiftly closes his fists and steps aside, allowing me to pass.

“Have a wonderful evening, sir,” he says with a little sarcasm. I nod, offering a tight-lipped smile, and step inside, my eyes immediately locking onto Daxton across the room. I can’t let him spot me.

Navigating through the dimly lit, elegant restaurant, I cross to the bar. “Bud—” I start to order a Budweiser but catch myself. This place is upscale, with chandeliers casting soft, golden glowson the polished wood, so I decide to fit in. “Your finest whiskey on the rocks,” I say, attempting to channel my inner James Bond.

Oh wait, that was martinis.

The bartender, a tall man with a crisp white shirt and a skeptical look, eyes me critically. I reluctantly slide my fake ID across the counter, knowing it’s my only ticket to getting served. After scrutinizing it for what feels like an eternity, he finally relaxes and flashes a warm smile before preparing my drink.

I settle onto a plush barstool, keeping Daxton in my peripheral vision. Across the room, Ashton bursts into exaggerated laughter, and I struggle to fathom Daxton being anything close to amusing. His humor is as dry as toast, lacking any spark of life.

Great lips though. And eyes. Damn.

Impatiently, I glance at the bartender, willing my drink to appear. Soon, he places a fresh white napkin before me and sets down my whiskey. I take a deliberate sip, letting the amber liquid linger in my mouth before swallowing. The burn slides down my throat, a familiar and comforting sensation. Nearly fifteen minutes later, when Daxton finally rises from his seat, my whole body freezes with tension. For a split second, I’m sure he’ll spin around and catch me hidden in plain sight, but he simply moves on, striding deliberately toward the far end of the restaurant—straight for the restroom.

My moment has finally arrived. I down the remainder of my second whiskey, relishing the burn as I push myself upright and start toward Daxton’s table. There, Ashton sits with a furrowed brow, his face illuminated solely by the glow of his phone. I steal a quick glance toward the back door of the restaurant, take a deep breath, and clear my throat. I can’t afford to waste another second.

Leaning in close, I deliver in a trembling voice, “This is going to sound completely fucked up, and I’m truly sorry for interrupting you.” I strain to sound as sincere as possible.

Ashton lifts his eyes from his phone, a questioning smile already playing on his lips as he asks, “Sorry, who are you?”

Lowering my voice further, I say, “Look, I’m not going to give you all the details, but that guy you’re with—Daxton—he’s trouble.” I pause, waving my hand in front of me. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have come over. I’m really sorry for bothering you.” I start to retreat, and just then, I hear Ashton plead, “Wait, please go on.” I bite my cheek to hide the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, shut my eyes for a heartbeat as my expression softens, and steal one last glance at the door behind me before continuing.

Leaning in even closer, my face twisting into a grimace, I murmur, “Let me just say one thing: chlamydia. I learned it the hard way—I wish someone had warned me.” Immediately, Ashton recoils, his features contorting into an expression of disgust as he mutters, “Oh god.” Without waiting for another word, I spin on my heel and rush out of the restaurant.

Once outside, I cross the busy street and press myself against a lamppost, using it as a makeshift shield while I keep a wary eye on the entrance. I watch as Ashton bolts out the door, as he all but runs away from the restaurant. A wild, toothy grin unfurls across my face. It’s a moment of private triumph that I savor silently.

I remain hidden there, heart pounding, convinced that soon his moment of reckoning will come, and I’ll get to see the look on his face. Sure enough, less than five minutes later, Daxton emerges from the restaurant. He pauses at the doorway, glancing both ways as if expecting someone to appear. Slowly, I notice his shoulders droop in resignation as the reality sinks in—the person he was after has vanished into thin air. In thatfleeting moment, it’s clear: his date has made a run for it. He fumbles with his phone, probably going on his dating app, but then his hand drops limply by his side. Standing frozen for a moment, he folds his arms as if trying to shield himself from a sudden chill; his head sinks low before he turns and shuffles away toward what I assume are the dorms not far from here.

A smile tugs at my lips at the sight—until, almost gradually, that smile begins to fade. I watch his hunched, defeated form retreat, his head bowed. I had expected a surge of satisfaction, a rush of victory, yet instead, I feel a dull ache bloom in my chest. My hand instinctively rises to rub the tight, throbbing space where my heart sits. Confusion and regret mix with the fading adrenaline, and I can’t help but wonder: Why does my chest hurt so badly right now?

Chapter twenty

Daxton

Ididn’t manage to steal a single moment of sleep last night. When I arrived back at the dorm, Cope was nowhere in sight, but I was wide awake when he finally returned. I pretended to be lost in sleep, tucking my shame tightly around me like a heavy blanket, deliberately turning my back. Explaining what happened was out of the question.

I still can’t wrap my head around it. We were having a good time; a genuine connection was simmering between us. He appeared interested in me, and yet—damn it—I don’t understand at all. After his sudden disappearing act, I even tried messaging him, only to discover that he’d blocked me completely.

Was it all just some cruel joke? Was I merely a pawn in his amusement? Deep down, I wonder if I was, in fact, nothing more than a punchline. And why should I have the right to move on when Bexley never even got that chance? This shitshow feels like karma—a harsh reminder of what I deserve.

The sound of Cope’s voice jolts me back to the present, accompanied by his loud stretch rousing from his sleep. This time, I stop pretending I’m asleep; I simply lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Playboy,” Cope teases, his tone light, as a soft pillow collides with my face. “I’m assuming that since you were back so early, you didn’t get lucky.” He pauses to add, “Or whatever you call it.”

I say nothing, continuing my silent stare at the white ceiling. What was there to say?

“Dax?” Cope’s voice has softened. He seems genuinely concerned, and I hear the subtle rustle of movement before he looms over my bed, eyes wide with worry. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I mumble, my voice coming out rough and cracked.

“What. Happened?” Cope’s tone shifts, edged with anger, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“He left. Right in the middle of the meal. I stepped away to use the restroom, and when I got back, he was gone—blocked me on the app and everything.” I said it flatly, as if such heartless behavior were normal.

“And nothing happened before?” he presses, brow furrowed.

I shake my head slowly. “Nope.”

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