Page 15 of Ruin Me Gently

I’d even splurged on new lipstick. A deep, moody red that made me feel like a femme fatale in an old Hollywood film. My hair had actually cooperated for once too. I felt good. Better than good. Like I may have even belonged there.

For about twenty minutes.

Then Clark’s hand found my waist and stayed there all night. Through the handshakes, the polite smiles, the brief introductions and conversations with people I’d never see again.

His fingers pressed in just enough to remind me who I was with, who I belonged to.

And the whispers.

“Smile more, angel. You look bored.”

“Careful with the champagne, don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”

“Try not to be so quiet, huh? People will think I dragged you here against your will.”

I bit my tongue. Smiled through it. Because that’s what you do, right? You pick your battles.

I let it roll off my shoulders—until I couldn’t.

Until his laugh cut through the conversation, loud enough to make sure the right people heard.

“Relax, angel,” he drawled, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “No one’s looking at you that hard.”

A few polite chuckles. Just background noise. A casual joke to everyone else.

But my stomachplummeted. Because I knew what he meant.

It was the silent add-on at the end of his sentence, the one he didn’t say but still meant.

‘No one’s looking at you that hard—because you’re not worth looking at.’

Because I wasn’t the one who turned heads when I walked into a room. Because I wasn’t the one who fit there. Because the dress, the lipstick, the whole night, it had all been a lie. A stupid attempt at reconciliation for me.

I put my glass down before I threw it in his face.

And I left. Or I tried to.

The grip came fast. Fingers clamping around my wrist, yanking me back hard.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going? You walk away from me, Lilith, and I swear to God, you’ll regret it.”

Flashes of my past hit me like a gut punch.

A different grip on my arm. Locks clicking. Doors slamming.

I couldn’t breathe.

My body locked up, every muscle going rigid, my brain screaming at me to run, but I couldn’t.

And Clark saw it. His fingers flexed, digging in deeper, his smirk slow and knowing. Like he could feel the power tipping in his favour.

Until another voice cut in.

“I suggest you let go of her. Now. And walk away.”

I didn’t remember much after that. Just the running, the roof, the skyline, a cigarette, a dismembered voice, and then my bed.

It was like my brain had thrown up a white flag and gone, ‘Nope. This is too much. We’re skipping this scene.’Leaving me to hang about in some liminal space where I didn’t have to witness what was going on.

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