The world around me blurred into nothing but static noise—flashes of cameras, muffled voices, the overwhelming stench of cheap perfume and sweat. I didn’t give a damn about any of it. My focus was on her.

She stood in the middle of it all, poised like she was born for the spotlight. And maybe she was. A world-class model, a muse, the kind of woman men would kill to have on their arm. Untouchable. Perfect. But I knew better than anyone that beneath all the lights and luxury was someone real. Someone who laughed too loudly when she was tipsy, who cursed like a sailor when she stubbed her toe, who stole my T-shirts and wore them around her apartment like they were hers.

And yet, none of that mattered now.

Because she looked me in the eye and said the words that tore through my chest like a fucking bullet.

“I’d NEVER date someone like him in my life. Where is he, and where am I? Don’t be delusional.”

The air felt thick, suffocating. My hands curled into fists at my sides, but I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

She meant it.

Didn’t she?

I couldn’t tell. Her face was unreadable, her voice sharp with frustration, but the way she said it—so casual, so sure—cut deeper than it should have.

The reporter smirked, eyes flicking between the two of us like he had just hit the jackpot. I could already hear the headlines forming in his head. Heartless Supermodel Humiliates Soldier. TF 141’s Ghost—A Joke in the Eyes of His Lover?

No. Not his lover.

She had made sure of that.

My jaw clenched as I forced my expression into a blank slate. Years of training kicked in, pushing every ounce of emotion into the part of me I had buried long ago.

She had said from the beginning—no commitment, no jealousy, no strings. We agreed. Hell, I was the one who had insisted it would never be more.

I just turned, shoving past the cameras, past the flashing lights, past the murmurs of onlookers who were already spinning their own stories.

Because that was the deal, wasn’t it?

No strings. No jealousy. No fucking love.