My Ex's Cold Father: After One Burning Kiss

Sela

Today is my twenty-sixth birthday, and nobody remembered. Not even Julian, and we've been together for six years. That is six years of molding myself into whatever shape he needed, and he couldn't even remember the date I was born.

The champagne glass slipped from my fingers before I could stop it. I watched it fall in slow motion, the golden liquid arcing through the air in a perfect parabola before splashing across Ivy Carter's white Dior dress. The fabric darkened instantly, spreading like blood across silk. The room went silent as twenty pairs of eyes turned toward me. I stood there frozen, my hand still extended in the shape of holding something that was no longer there, while Ivy looked down at her ruined dress with an expression of such wounded delicacy that I wanted to laugh, or scream, or maybe both.

"Oh my God, Sela." Her voice was soft, sweet, dripping with that practiced concern that made my teeth ache. She dabbed at the stain with a cocktail napkin, her movements careful and pained. "This dress was a gift from Julian."

Of course it was. Everything Ivy owned seemed to come with Julian's name stamped on it like a brand.

"I'm so sorry," I heard myself say, the words automatic after six years of apologizing for existing in Julian Hawthorne's orbit. "I'll pay for the cleaning, or I can—"

"Cleaning won't fix haute couture, sweetheart." Marcus—one of Julian's interchangeable prep school friends—cut me off with a grin that was all teeth and no warmth. "That's a fifteen-thousand-dollar dress. You can't just throw it in a washing machine."

The circle tightened around me. I could feel their anticipation, that particular brand of cruelty that came from people who'd never had to choose between paying rent and eating. They were waiting for something, feeding off my humiliation like it was entertainment, and I was too drunk and too tired to figure out what they wanted until Marcus held up a bottle of tequila.

"Tell you what, Sela. You can make it up to Ivy." His grin widened. "Either take off your dress and give it to her, or drink this."

The room erupted into cheers and laughter, and someone even started a chant. The sound pressed against my skull like a physical weight. I looked past them to where Julian sat on the leather sofa, Ivy's replacement dress already draped over his lap like he'd been prepared for this exact scenario. He was spinning his lighter between his fingers, that nervous habit he'd never quite broken, his attention fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. Not on me. Never on me.

"Julian," I said, and I hated how small my voice sounded, how much like a plea.

He finally looked at me. For one second, I thought I saw something flicker in his dark eyes—discomfort, maybe, or the ghost of the boy who used to walk me home from the subway when we first started dating. Then it was gone, replaced by the careful blankness he'd perfected over the past year, the year since Ivy came into our lives.

"It's just a game, Sela," he said, his tone suggesting I was overreacting to something trivial. "You've got a better tolerance than half the guys here. What's the big deal?"

The big deal was that it was my birthday and he'd forgotten. The big deal was that I'd spent six years molding myself into whatever shape he needed, and he still looked at me like I was an inconvenience. The big deal was that Ivy was sitting close enough to touch him, and he hadn't moved away. But I didn't say any of that. I simply took the bottle from Marcus, unscrewed the cap, and tilted it back.

The tequila hit my throat like liquid fire. It burned all the way down, scorching through my chest and into my stomach. I didn't stop to breathe, didn't let myself think about what I was doing. I just drank, and drank, and drank, until the room started to spin and someone was prying the bottle from my fingers.

"Jesus Christ, Sela," Marcus laughed, and soon they were all laughing. "I was kidding about finishing it."

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, tasting salt and lime and my own stupidity. "You said drink it," I said. "I drank it."

Ivy's hand was on Julian's arm now, her expression arranged into concern that didn't reach her eyes. She was saying something, her voice pitched low and worried, and Julian was frowning at me like my compliance had somehow disappointed him more than my refusal would have. I didn't stay to parse the nuances of his disapproval.

I pushed through the lounge doors and into the hotel corridor, my heels clicking against marble as I made my way toward the restrooms near the lobby. Behind me, I heard Ivy's voice rise in that breathy way she had, playing the peacemaker, but I didn't look back.

The bathroom was all marble and gold fixtures, the kind of ostentatious wealth that had stopped trying to be tasteful and just screamed money. I made it to the toilet before my stomach rebelled, retching up tequila and champagne and six years of swallowed words. When there was nothing left to throw up, I slumped against the cool tile wall and stared at my reflection in the mirror across from me.

Mascara streaked down my cheeks in black rivers. My dress—the one I'd spent two paychecks on because Julian once mentioned he liked the color—was wrinkled and damp with spilled champagne, and my lipstick was smeared across my chin. I looked exactly like what I was: a girl who'd spent so long trying to be enough for someone that she'd forgotten what enough even meant.

I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and typed out a message to Julian: I don't feel good. Can you take me home?

It was instinct, really—six years of training myself to be the considerate girlfriend who never made scenes, who always gave him an out. Even now, humiliated and sick, I was still protecting his image by reaching out privately instead of walking back into that room and asking him in front of everyone. Still making it easy for him to be the good guy.

I hit send and waited. One minute. Two. Three. Finally, the little "read" notification appeared under my message. He'd seen it; he just wasn't responding.

I called him instead, my finger stabbing at his contact photo with more force than necessary. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and I was about to hang up when he finally answered.

"Yeah?" His voice was clipped and distracted. Behind him, I could hear music, laughter, and the clink of glasses.

"I need you to take me home," I said. "I'm not feeling well."

There was silence on the line before he replied. "Can you just get an Uber? I'm kind of in the middle of something here."

Something. Not someone, but something.

"Julian, please." I hated the way my voice broke on his name. "It's my birthday. Can't you just—"