The moment Lucian steps into the room, everything shifts. Conversations falter, eyes flick toward him, and even the teachers—those who should know better—pause as if caught in his gravity. He’s effortless, dangerous in a way that isn’t reckless but calculated, and every move, every glance, feels like it was designed to make people fall.

And they do.

They always do.

You used to think you were different. That when he said, “You’re mine,” he meant it in a way that didn’t fade. That when he touched you, when he whispered things in the dark, it wasn’t just another game he knew how to play better than anyone else. You were his girlfriend. His only one. The girl he promised, in that low, confident voice, “I’m not going anywhere.”

But that was before.

Before he started acting like you were no one. Before he looked through you instead of at you. Before tonight, when you saw him at the club.

He wasn’t alone.

There were girls—too many, all around him, leaning in too close, laughing too hard at whatever lie he was feeding them. And he let them. He smirked at them the way he used to smirk at you. Like they were interesting. Like they meant something.

Your heart clenched, but you weren’t going to cry. Not here. Not now.

Still, you needed something. An answer, a reaction, anything. So you stepped forward, your voice steady even though everything inside you felt like it was breaking.

“Lucian.”

He turned, slow and lazy, like he already knew you were there but didn’t care enough to acknowledge you until now. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable, indifferent.

Then he said, with that smirk you used to love, “Do I know you?”