The script in my hands might as well be written in ancient Greek for all the focus I can muster. Another supporting role. Another month of rent, if I'm lucky. The coffee beside me has gone cold, forgotten like most things in my life lately.
My phone buzzes against the worn fabric of my couch. A text from my sister.
Tuition payment due next week. Can you help?
I stare at the message until the screen dims. Help. Right. With what money? The last three auditions ended with polite rejections and business cards I'll never use. The entertainment industry in Olandria chews through hopeful actors like Theodore Virelli and spits out the bones.
The numbers don't lie. Rent for this modest Riverside District apartment, groceries, utilities, and now my sister's tuition shortfall. My parents' teacher salaries only stretch so far. I'm supposed to be the success story, the one who made it out and could send money home.
Instead, I'm reading scripts for indie films that might never get made.
The knock at my door comes at 9:30 PM exactly. Unexpected visitors are rare in my world. Most of my friends are either working evening shifts or too broke to go anywhere. I pad to the door in bare feet, script forgotten.
Through the peephole, I see her.
Celeste.
My heart does something stupid in my chest. Something that makes me forget about rent and responsibilities and the fact that she's married to my former best friend.
I twist the deadbolt and pull the door open.
She stands in the hallway wearing a midnight blue designer dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent, but something's off. The silk fabric is wrinkled like she's been sitting in a car too long, her usually perfect hair falling in disheveled waves around her shoulders. Her makeup is smudged at the corners of her eyes - not from crying, but from rubbing them. Raw around the edges in a way that makes my chest tighten.
"Theodore." Her voice breaks on my name, relief and desperation bleeding through.
Before I can respond, she drops her leather overnight bag with a heavy thud and immediately reaches for the small buttons running down the front of her dress. Right there in my doorway where Mrs. McCann from 4B could walk by any second.
"Jesus, Celeste—" I reach out instinctively.
"Valent's in Berlin until Friday. Some merger with a German hotel chain." Her fingers tremble as she works the buttons, missing one and having to start over. "I've been thinking about you all week."
The hallway's fluorescent lighting is harsh on her pale skin, but it catches the desperate hunger in her green eyes. "I missed your hands. The way you touch me. How my body feels when you're inside me."
Heat shoots straight through me at her words. This should disturb me - how easily she can reduce me to base want. How she comes to me when her husband travels like I'm some kind of kept man. How I let her because part of me has been counting the days since she left last time.
"Celeste, stop." I catch her wrists gently but firmly before she can undo another button. Her pulse hammers under my thumbs. "You can't just show up here and—"
"Can't what?" She takes a step forward, and I automatically step back into my apartment. She follows, her heels clicking on my hardwood floor. "Can't want you? Can't need you?"
She reaches behind herself and nudges the door closed with her hip, then turns the lock without breaking eye contact. The sound seems too loud in my small space.
"Why not, Theodore?" Her voice is softer now, more vulnerable. "He's three thousand miles away. He won't know."
"That's exactly the point." I force myself to take another step back, putting my coffee table between us. "Look, I told you after last time - this has to stop. Either you leave him, or you stop coming here. We can't keep doing both."
The words taste bitter. I want both. I've wanted both since junior year at Calloways, since the night I realized I was stupidly, helplessly in love with the girl my best friend was going to marry.
"We can't keep betraying Valent like this," I continue, hating how righteous I sound when every part of me wants to pull her close. "He was my best friend, Celeste. Maybe that doesn't mean anything to you, but it means something to me. Loving you doesn't give us the right to destroy him."
Something shifts across her face like a shadow. The vulnerability hardens into something sharper, more calculating.
"Oh, spare me the noble act, Theodore." She moves around the coffee table with predatory grace, backing me toward my kitchen. "Where was all this moral high ground in college?"
My back hits the counter. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't." She presses closer, her palms flat against my chest. I can smell her perfume - something expensive and floral that probably costs more than my grocery budget. "Don't pretend you don't know exactly what I'm talking about."
The dread in my stomach spreads like ice water. "Celeste, I really don't—"
"You want to talk about betrayal?" Her laugh is sharp enough to cut. "Let's talk about the real betrayal here. The one that started all of this."
I try to step sideways, but she moves with me, keeping me trapped between her body and the granite countertop. "I wish I could go back seven years and stop myself from walking down that aisle. But you know whose fault this mess really is?"
"Mine?" The word comes out smaller than I intended.
"If you had grown a spine back then. If you'd told me how you felt instead of hiding behind that pathetic nice-guy act." Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, but they're angry tears. Frustrated tears. "I would have chosen you, Theodore. I wanted to choose you."
The accusation hits like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. "That's not... I couldn't just—"
"But you stayed silent." Her voice cracks on the words. "And I had to marry him. A man who barely speaks to me outside of charity galas and board meetings. A man who touches me like I'm a business transaction he's trying to close."
She's crying now, silent tears tracking mascara down her cheeks. I should maintain distance. Should make her leave before this gets worse.
Instead, I reach up and brush the tears away with my thumb.
"Now all we have are these stolen moments," she whispers, leaning into my touch. "A few hours every couple of months when he's traveling and I can pretend my life is different."
My resolve crumbles like sand. "Celeste..."
"What we have when we're together..." She looks up at me with those green eyes that have haunted my dreams for years. "He's never made me feel the way you do. Never looked at me like I'm something precious instead of something he owns."
The words break something fundamental in my chest. She's falling apart in my kitchen, and I'm the reason why. If I'd been braver in college, if I'd spoken up, maybe none of this would have happened.
"Please." Her hands fist in my t-shirt. "Just tonight. Touch me like you love me. Make me forget everything else exists."
I should say no. Should make coffee and talk about safe things until she pulls herself together and goes home to her empty mansion.
I don't.
Instead, I cup her face in both hands and kiss her like I'm drowning and she's air.
Her lips are soft and desperate under mine, tasting faintly of the wine she must have had before coming here. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat - half relief, half hunger - and presses closer until there's no space left between us.
"I've missed this," she breathes against my mouth, her hands already tugging at the hem of my t-shirt. "Missed you so much it physically hurts."
I lift my arms so she can pull the shirt over my head, then immediately reach for the buttons of her dress. My fingers are steadier than hers were, working each small pearl button free with deliberate care. The silk parts to reveal pale skin and black lace underneath.
"You're shaking," I murmur, running my hands down her bare arms.
"I'm always shaking when I'm with you." She steps back just enough to let the dress fall, pooling around her ankles in an expensive puddle. "From wanting you. From knowing this is temporary."
The black lace bra and matching panties are clearly expensive, probably something she bought specifically for tonight. The thought that she planned this, that she dressed for me, sends heat shooting straight to my groin.
"Bedroom," she whispers, taking my hand.
I let her lead me down the short hallway, but stop just inside my bedroom door. I need her to understand something first.
"Celeste." I turn her to face me, cupping her face in my hands. "You're not temporary to me. You never have been."
Something breaks in her expression, and fresh tears spill over. "Don't say things like that. It makes this harder."
"Good." I kiss her again, slower this time, pouring seven years of unspoken feelings into the contact. "It should be hard. Because this isn't just sex for me. It never has been."
She responds by pressing closer, her hands exploring the muscles of my chest and shoulders like she's trying to memorize them. Her touch leaves trails of fire across my skin.
"I know," she whispers against my collarbone. "I know, and it terrifies me."
I walk her backward until her legs hit my bed, then gently push her down onto the navy blue comforter. She looks beautiful spread out against my simple cotton sheets - all pale skin and black lace and dark hair fanned across my pillow.
"You're overdressed," she says, hooking her fingers in my belt loops and tugging me closer.
I let her undo my jeans, her knuckles brushing against my stomach as she works the button and zipper. The touch is almost innocent, but it makes my breath catch anyway. She pushes the denim down my hips, taking my boxers with them, and I step out of the pile of clothes.
"Beautiful," she breathes, her eyes tracking over my naked body with undisguised appreciation.
I kneel on the bed beside her, running my hands from her ankles to her thighs. Her skin is impossibly soft, warming under my touch. When I reach the lace edge of her panties, she lifts her hips in silent invitation.
"Patience," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh instead.
She gasps, her hands fisting in my sheets. "Teddy, please..."
I take my time removing her bra, kissing each inch of skin as it's revealed. Her breasts are perfect, pale and full with rose-colored nipples that tighten under my attention. When I take one into my mouth, she arches off the bed with a cry that goes straight to my cock.
"God, yes," she pants, threading her fingers through my hair to hold me against her. "Just like that."
I lavish attention on both breasts until she's writhing beneath me, then kiss my way down her stomach. Her panties are damp when I finally remove them, and the scent of her arousal makes my mouth water.
"I want to taste you," I tell her, settling between her thighs.
"Please," she gasps, already spreading her legs wider.
The first touch of my tongue against her center makes her cry out, her back bowing off the mattress. She tastes like salt and desire, and I lose myself in the task of taking her apart with my mouth. Every gasp and moan she makes goes straight to my groin, but I force myself to go slow, to build her up gradually.
"Theodore," she pants, her thighs trembling on either side of my head. "I'm going to—"
"Let go," I murmur against her, then return to my attentions with renewed focus.
When she comes, it's with my name on her lips and her hands gripping my hair hard enough to sting. I work her through it until she pushes weakly at my shoulders, oversensitive.
"Come here," she whispers, and I crawl up her body to kiss her.
She can taste herself on my lips, but she doesn't seem to care. Instead, she reaches between us to wrap her hand around my erection. I groan into her mouth at the contact.
"I need you inside me," she breathes. "Now."
I reach for the nightstand drawer where I keep condoms, but she stops me.
"I'm on birth control," she says. "And we're both clean. I need to feel you, just you."
The idea of being inside her with nothing between us makes my vision blur with want. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
I position myself at her entrance, then push forward slowly. She's incredibly tight and wet, her body yielding to mine with sweet resistance. We both moan as I sink deeper, the sensation overwhelming.
"You feel so good," I gasp when I'm finally fully seated inside her. "So perfect."
She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me even deeper. "Move," she pleads. "Please, Teddy, I need you to move."
I start slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Each thrust draws sounds from both of us - gasps and moans and whispered endearments. She meets me stroke for stroke, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Harder," she pants, and I comply, setting a rhythm that has the headboard hitting the wall.
The pace becomes desperate, driven by months of longing and the knowledge that this moment is stolen. I can feel her getting close again, her inner walls fluttering around me.
"Touch yourself," I tell her, my voice rough with strain. "I want to feel you come around me."
She slides one hand between us, her fingers finding her clit. The added stimulation has her crying out within moments, her orgasm clamping down around me like a vice.
"Fuck, Celeste," I groan, my rhythm faltering as my own climax builds.
"Come for me," she whispers, her lips against my ear. "I want to feel you."
The words push me over the edge. I bury myself deep and let go, my release filling her as waves of pleasure crash over me. For a moment, nothing exists except the two of us and the way we fit together.
After, I collapse beside her, both of us breathing hard. She curls against my side, her head on my chest, and I trace lazy patterns on her bare shoulder.
"I should check my phone," she murmurs eventually, but makes no move to get up. "Make sure there are no messages from Berlin."
"In a minute," I say, tightening my arm around her. "Just... give me a minute."
She settles more comfortably against me, one leg thrown over mine. "I brought pajamas this time. And a toothbrush."
The admission makes my chest warm. She planned to stay. Really stay, not just the stolen hours we usually manage.
"Good," I murmur into her hair. "I was hoping you would."
She tilts her head to look at me, and her expression is achingly tender. "Theodore..."
The sound that interrupts her is soft. Almost inaudible if you're not listening for it.
The distinct click of my front door opening.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I locked that door. I know I locked that door. I watched Celeste turn the deadbolt.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I locked that door. I know I locked it.
"Don't stop on my account."
The voice from my living room is calm. Conversational. Familiar.
It's also the voice that haunts my nightmares.
Celeste screams.
I scramble for sheets, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged bird. This can't be happening. This can't be real.
But then he appears in my bedroom doorway, and reality crashes down like a building collapsing.
Valentinius Carradine. Six feet eleven inches of controlled fury filling my doorframe. His suit is immaculate despite traveling from Paris. His dark hair is pulled back severely, revealing the sharp angles of his face. Those hazel eyes that used to look at me with friendship now hold something colder.
He's too quiet. Valent was never quiet when angry.
"How long has this been going on?" His voice remains conversational, like he's asking about the weather.
I can't speak. Can't breathe. Celeste has gone silent beside me, clutching the sheet to her chest.
"Did you plan this while we were friends? Did you laugh about it?"
The calm is worse than screaming would be. Valent used to scream when we fought in college. Used to throw things and storm out and come back the next day with apologies and beer.
This version of him terrifies me.
"Valent, I can explain—" I find my voice, though it comes out hoarse. "This was just... it was a mistake. A one-time thing. It doesn't mean anything."
"Please." His smile is all teeth and no warmth. "Continue. I'm quite fascinated by the performance."
The word 'performance' hits like a slap. Like everything we just shared was theater for his benefit.
For a moment, we're frozen in tableau. Him lounging in my doorway like a predator. Me and Celeste tangled in sheets and guilt and the ruins of a friendship I thought meant something.
Then his mask slips.
The change happens so fast I don't have time to react. One second he's leaning casually against the door, the next he's across the room with his hands around my throat.
"WHY DID YOU TOUCH WHAT BELONGS TO ME?"
He drags me naked from the bed, and I hit the hardwood floor with bruising force. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Before I can recover, his fist connects with my ribs.
Pain explodes through my chest. Can't breathe. Something might be cracking.
"Seven years of friendship," he snarls, punctuating each word with another blow. "And you stab me in the back!"
"Valent, please—" I try to curl into a ball, to protect vital organs. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—"
"Sorry?" Another hit, this one to my kidney. "You're sorry?"
"Stop!" Celeste scrambles from the bed, sheet wrapped around her like armor. "Stop hurting him!"
This isn't my friend anymore. This is someone else wearing his face. Someone capable of violence I never imagined.
"I trusted you," he growls, grabbing a fistful of my hair to yank my head back. "I loved you like a brother."
Blood runs down my chin from a split lip. "I know. I know, and I'm—"
He backhands me across the face, and stars explode behind my eyelids.
"You know nothing."
Through the ringing in my ears, I hear Celeste pleading. Begging him to stop. The sound of her distress cuts through my own pain.
"Let her go," I manage, struggling to my knees. "This is between us."
"Everything is between us now."
He turns his attention to Celeste, and something in his expression makes my blood freeze. She backs away, but there's nowhere to go in my small bedroom.
"No, please—" she starts.
He grabs her by the hair, just like he grabbed mine. She cries out, the sheet tangling around her legs.
"Let her go!" I lunge forward despite the pain, but he backhands me again without even looking in my direction.
I hit the wall hard enough to rattle my teeth.
"She's mine," he says simply, like stating a fact of nature. "She's always been mine."
He starts dragging her toward the door, and she fights him every step. Clawing at his hands, trying to break free, calling my name like I can save her.
I can't even save myself.
"Theodore!" She reaches for me as he pulls her past where I'm slumped against the wall. "Help me!"
I try to stand, but my legs won't support me. Everything hurts. Everything is spinning.
"You had your turn," Valentinius tells me without stopping. "Now she comes home."
At my apartment door, he pauses. Looks back at me like I'm something he scraped off his shoe.
"I'll be back for you, Teddy." His voice has changed again. Lower. Darker. "Count on it."
There's something in his tone that makes my skin crawl. A promise that goes beyond simple revenge.
"You have no idea what you've started."
Celeste's screams echo down the hallway as he drags her away. Other apartment doors remain stubbornly closed. No one wants to get involved with whatever drama is unfolding.
Then they're gone, and I'm alone.
The silence is deafening.
I sit on my floor, naked and bleeding, surrounded by the ruins of everything I thought I knew. My apartment feels violated. Unsafe. Like he's left some invisible mark of ownership on everything he touched.
My phone buzzes with missed calls and messages, but I can't bring myself to look. Can't bring myself to move.
He knows where I live. Where I work. Where my family lives.
I try calling Celeste, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her voice, bright and cheerful in the recording, feels like a mockery now.
What has he done to her? What will he do to me?
The questions circle my mind like vultures as I finally drag myself to the bathroom to assess the damage. Split lip. Bruised ribs. Possible concussion from hitting the wall.
But the physical pain is nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest where my friendship with Valentinius used to live.
The friend I loved is gone. What's left is something else entirely.