Love at the Wrong Table

Tessa's palms were slick against the cold bathroom sink. She was on her knees again. Scrubbing up after Nathan. Again.

Vomit clung to the tile grout like it belonged there. The stench of cheap whiskey and perfume filled her nose, and she was close to gagging but kept going. She always kept going. Always cleaned up. Always stayed.

Her fingers trembled. Her eyes burned. Her heart was numb.

Some girl's bra-lacy, red, expensive-hung off the corner of his bed. Tessa had stepped over it without blinking. That part didn't sting anymore. Not like it used to.

She rinsed her hands under freezing water and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Hair matted to her forehead. Mascara smudged under her eyes. Lips cracked. Hoodie two sizes too big-it was Nathan's, smelled like his cologne and sex. And yet, she couldn't take it off. It felt like the last thing tying her to him. To the idea of him. The version of him she kept in her head-gentle, grateful, hers.

But he was never hers.

Her phone buzzed against the bathroom floor. A text from Zara:

Don't forget your shift in the morning. Rent's due. Don't fuck this up.

Tessa sighed and pushed herself up. Her knees ached. Her chest was heavy.

Nathan was passed out on the couch, face-down, arm dangling, mouth open. He didn't even know she'd been in his room for the past two hours. Didn't ask how she got home. Didn't know she'd stayed up all night the night before helping him write a paper he wouldn't read.

She picked up her heels, cradled them in one hand, and walked out the door barefoot.

The porch creaked under her weight. Her toes curled against the cold concrete. She took a deep breath. It was humid. Sticky. Like summer was trying to suffocate her.

She started down the sidewalk, eyes on the grass, heart somewhere behind her, probably still sitting on the bathroom floor.

That's when she nearly slammed into the parked black sedan.

The passenger-side window rolled down slow. Tinted glass slid back like it was waiting for her.

Inside was a man. Not a boy. A man.

He wore a suit, black-on-black, with his collar open. Salt-and-pepper stubble along a sharp jaw. And eyes-gray, unreadable, a storm barely held together.

He looked at her like he knew her. Like he saw her. Not the invisible girl Nathan dragged around. Not the emotional maid. Not the disposable helper.

"You shouldn't cry for a boy who doesn't know how to hold onto a woman," he said, voice smooth and deep and dangerously calm. "Especially not when his father does."

Tessa froze.

His father?

She blinked,looked again. And suddenly, the resemblance hit. Same jawline. Same brows. Just sharper. Older. Colder.

Dorian Cross.

She'd seen pictures. Nathan didn't talk about him much, but when he did, it was with venom. She'd assumed he was long gone, out of the picture. Clearly, she was wrong.

"I-" she started, but nothing came out. Her throat was too dry.

He stepped out of the car and stood beside her, tall and silent. He didn't touch her. Didn't move too close. But the energy between them shifted like gravity had chosen sides.

"You look exhausted," he said quietly.

"I'm fine."

"No," he replied. "You're loyal. Not fine."

Her eyes flicked up to his.

He was calm. Too calm. The kind of man who didn't speak unless he meant every word. The kind who didn't need to raise his voice to make you listen.

She wanted to say something-anything-but her voice was trapped in the back of her mouth.

He opened the car door. "Come with me. Just for a drive."

Tessa's head screamed no. Her feet didn't move.

"I'm not trying to fuck you," he added, almost lazily. "I'm just offering you a moment away from the mess."