Page 111 of Power Play
I laugh.
Not a real laugh, a brittle, too-high thing that gets stuck in my throat. “Right. Because nothing says ‘funny misunderstanding’ like some journo mounting your boyfriend in front of a skyline.”
“Soph,”
“No, no. I’m fine.” I drop onto the couch as if someone’s unplugged me. “Seriously. This is fine. This is normal. This is what I get for dating a guy with cheekbones sharp enough to cut loyalty in half.”
Mia perches beside me. Quiet. Watching me carefully, as though I’m a bomb with a wobbly timer.
Inside, the spiral has already started.
Not rage. Not yet.
Just this slow, thick feeling in my chest like I’ve been submerged in honey. Like everything is suddenly happening through glass. My thoughts start to scatter.
Maybe she kissed him and he didn’t pull away fast enough.
Maybe he had to be polite because of the press.
Maybe I’ve been kidding myself this whole time, thinking someone like Murphy, gorgeous, popular, emotionally available enough to let me in, could actually stay interested in someone like me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “I’ve been such an idiot.”
“You haven’t,” Mia says instantly. “This…this isn’t your fault.”
“No, but I let it happen.” I clutch the blanket on my lap as if it can anchor me. “I let him in. I let myself believe it wasn’t just another short-term fling. That he meant it when he said he wanted more. I even bought sexy lingerie, Mia. Lingerie! Me! Like some tragic Pinterest girlfriend.”
Mia’s mouth twitches. “You did not.”
“I did. It had lace. And straps. It was engineered. Like, structurally.”
Her hand curls gently over mine. “You didn’t deserve this. None of it.”
And that’s when the spiral speeds up.
Because what if this is just who I am? The girl men fall for until someone shinier walks in. The funny one, the sexy-for-now one, the girl they think is different and exciting until it turns out I’m not as cool or laid-back or unattached as they wanted me to be.
What if I’m always the side act and never the main event?
My chest tightens. I can feel tears prickling, and I try not to let them fall. God, do I try. But one escapes, carving a path down my cheek before I can even register it.
“I feel so stupid,” I whisper.
“You’re not stupid. You’re in love.”
I let that sit in the room like smoke. It curls around the furniture, bitter and sharp.
Because I am. Or at least, I was.
And now?
Now I’m not sure if I even know who Murphy is when he’s not with me. Was he just saying all the right things? Did he ever mean any of them? Did I imagine the softness in his voice when he called me his girl, or the way he looked at me as if I was gravity itself?
The worst part is, I still want to believe in us. Even now, heart cracked and pride bleeding out, I want him to text me. To explain. To say it’s all wrong, that she was clinging to him and he was too polite or cornered or tipsy to push her off. That he didn’t ask her to come. That it wasn’t what it looked like.
But the photos…
God, the photos.
