Sunday starts late.
I wake up at 1:17 p.m., mouth dry, head heavy with alcohol and dreams where Ethan pins me against the elevator wall over and over again.I groan, reach for my phone. No messages. Obviously.
Lola has already sent fifteen voice notes.
"Amelia, get up! We're going out tonight. No discussion. You come, or I'm coming to get you with a bucket of ice water."
I answer with a raspy voice:
"Okay, okay, I'm coming. But if I throw up on your dress, it's your fault."
She replies screaming:
"Perfect! 10:30 p.m. in front of the Rex. Short dress, heels, war makeup. We're gonna make you forget your tyrannically sexy boss."
I spend the day pretending to be alive: I tidy up, do some laundry, attempt a banana bread that looks more like a brick.Every time I walk past the mirror, I catch myself checking if I look "good enough" for him to regret something. Ridiculous.
At 10:28 p.m., I'm standing in front of the Rex, ultra-short black dress, thigh-high boots, blood-red lips.Lola lets out a hyena scream when she sees me.
"Holy shit, Amelia! You're gonna kill someone tonight!"
Chloé arrives running, wearing a bubblegum-pink faux-fur coat.
"I've got shots in my bag. We're starting hard."
We go in. The music swallows us.
First tequila at the bar.
Lola: "To all the bad decisions we're gonna make tonight!"
Chloé: "And to all the guys who will never be Ethan!"
I raise my glass.
"To that."
We head straight to the dance floor.
I dance like my life depends on it. Arms in the air, hair flying, eyes closed. For twenty minutes, I forget. Truly.
And then hands land on my hips. Warm. Confident.
I turn around. Tall, dark hair, green eyes, half-open black shirt. A charming asshole smile.
"Hey. You dance like you're trying to punish someone."
I laugh, already a little drunk.
"Maybe I am."
"Can I be your target?"
"You look like you can take it."
He leans close to my ear, his voice cutting through the music.
"I'm Lucas. And you?"
"Amelia."
"Amelia… sounds like trouble."
"The best kind."
We dance. Very close. Very fast.
He spins me, catches me, pulls me against him.
"You single?" he asks.
"Yes, 100%."
"Love that. Me too, 100%."
Lola suddenly appears, Amelia's phone in hand.
"Selfie! You two look way too good right now!"
Flash.I wrap my arm around Lucas's neck, we smile like idiots.
She screams: "Story of the century!"
Lucas grabs me by the waist again.
"Give me your number?"
I shrug, alcohol makes me brave.
"Why not."
He takes out his phone.
"Go on, tell me."
I give him the digits, laughing.
"You really gonna call me?"
"Tomorrow morning, promise. Even if I'm hungover."
He leans in and kisses me softly.
"You're too beautiful, baby."
I kiss him again. Harder. Longer.
It's good. It's hot. It's… easy.
And yet, deep inside, something stays cold.
Chloé pulls us apart, laughing.
"Okay guys, let's drink!"
We do a round of shots.
I lose count.
I dance more.
I laugh.
I live.
At 2:47 a.m., we go outside.The cold air slaps me.
Lola orders the Uber.
In the car, I take out my phone to put on a soft playlist.
I open Instagram.
I see the story Lola posted without asking: me pressed against Lucas, our mouths almost touching, caption: "Amelia is BACK, baby 🔥"
And below… a little red heart.
3:04 a.m.
Ethan.
I click.He saw it.He liked it.
My stomach knots instantly.
Chloé, half asleep, mumbles:
"Why that face?"
I show her the screen.
"He liked the story."
Lola sits up straight.
"Wait—your boss? At three a.m.?"
"Yes."
Chloé bursts out laughing.
"He's totally jerking off to your story, I swear."
I slap her arm.
"Stop!"
Lola, suddenly serious:
"Or… he's jealous."
I look out the window.
"He has no right to be jealous."
Lola: "Correct. But he is anyway."
Silence in the car.
I look at the red heart again. Ten times.
I click on his profile. Same picture of him in a suit, dark gaze, unreadable. No stories. Nothing for months.
The Uber stops in front of my place.
I get out, heels clicking on the wet pavement.
Lola shouts from the window:
"Text him! Tell him you had a better night than he did!"
I laugh.
"Not in a million years."
I go up.
Kick off my shoes in the hallway.
Half wipe off my makeup.
Collapse onto my bed, still in my dress.
And I stare at that red heart.
I type, then delete.Type again.
In the end, I send nothing.
But in the dark, I whisper:
"What are you doing, Ethan?You're not asleep either, are you?"
I close my eyes.
My phone glows on the pillow.
The red heart still shining.
And I don't know if I'm angry, flattered, or just… completely screwed.