Page 4 of If He Hadn't Cheated
But I’m already gone.
I don’t remember the stairs. Just the sound of my heels hitting each step too fast, the walls closing in, my vision swimming. Outside, the air feels like ice against my skin. My lungs burn. My hands shake.
I sit on a bench and stare at nothing, my thoughts spiraling. Every plan. Every kiss. Every stupid list we made about baby names and future vacations. Every lie he told while looking me in the eyes.
He wasn’t in love.
Not with me.
Maybe not with anyone.
And the worst part is, they all knew.
Knox knew.
He could have said something. Warned me. Told me the truth when I still had time to walk away with dignity.
But he didn’t. Because it wasn’t his place. Because men like Sebastian always get protected by men like Knox. I sit there until the cold seeps through my bones and even my rage can’t keep me warm.
3
Present
The music is too loud.
Not in the way clubs use volume to create energy, but in the way trauma makes silence unbearable. The bass isn’t just sound here. It’s insulation. It wraps around me until I can’t hear my own thoughts. Until I forget who I was before the music started.
The Velvet Room lives up to its name. Dark. Plush. Saturated in a kind of decadence that tries to convince you pain is glamorous. Red velvet booths, gold sconces that flicker like they know secrets. It’s beautiful if you’ve never worked here. If you’ve only passed through on your way to forget something.
But I don’t get to forget. I live in it.
I wipe down the bar for the third time in fifteen minutes. The counter gleams, already spotless, but my hands won’t stop moving. Motion is safety. Stillness is danger. In stillness, I remember.
“Two martinis and an Old Fashioned,” a voice calls out from the end of the bar. Deep, confident, full of money. I don’t look upright away. I know the type. A suit. Gold cufflinks. A man who’s used to getting everything he asks for and tipping just enough to make you feel dirty about taking it.
I grab the shaker and start building. Vodka, vermouth, bitters, a sugar cube. My hands move fast, automatic, but my brain is elsewhere. The air tonight smells like perfume and desperation. A little too much Tom Ford. A little too much regret.
The after-work crowd is flooding in, and with it comes the usual parade of masks. Women dressed like goddesses, heels like weapons, lips painted red as warning signs. Men with loosened ties and untold secrets in their smiles. Laughter that sounds like lies. Hugs that turn into hands wandering where they shouldn’t after the third round.
This is the place where everyone’s trying to forget something. A spouse. A job. A name.
And I’m the bartender.
The shaker clinks softly as I pour. The martinis go out first. A slice of lemon curls delicately over the rim. The Old Fashioned goes last, amber liquid sliding smooth into a heavy glass, the kind that makes you feel like the world could still be elegant.
I slide them across the bar and force a smile. The man doesn’t notice. He’s already halfway into his phone, scrolling through emails or maybe dating apps. They all start to look the same after a while.
At the far end of the room, a woman laughs too loudly at something a man in a navy suit says. Her lipstick is already on her teeth, and her eyes are glassy. I can tell she’s going to cry in the bathroom in under twenty minutes.
I know the signs. Rejection. Low self-esteem.
“Can I get two more shots of tequila?” someone asks behind me.
“Coming up.” The voice is familiar. Jazz. One of the servers. She’s barely twenty-two, all legs and eyeliner, too bright for this place. I hand her the tray and our fingers brush.
“You good?” she asks quietly.
I nod too fast. “Always.”
