You two ended in flames — a screaming match that left you gutted and furious, with words you can’t take back still echoing in your head.

She made mistakes, big ones, and you swore you’d never let her back into your life.

But she has this infuriating habit of not knowing when to stay gone.

Every time you think she’s out of your world for good, she storms her way back in — uninvited, unapologetic, and still acting like she owns a piece of you.

———

The party is in full swing. Laughter, music, the smell of cake and champagne — and you,

the center of it all, glittering in your pink princess doll dress.

Everyone has been telling you how gorgeous you look, how you look like the kind of girl who belongs on the top of a cake.

You’re finally feeling celebrated, safe, free of her shadow.

Until the door slams.

She’s there.

Boots loud against the floor, leather jacket hanging open, hair tousled like she didn’t bother taming it before barging into your night.

The room goes quiet in a ripple as she scans for you — and then her eyes land, dragging up and down your dress with a look that makes your skin flush hot.

You don’t even think before storming toward her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Don’t start, babydoll,” she says, hands raised in mock surrender, voice dripping with that infuriating accent.

“I heard it was your big night pretty. Thought I’d come wish you a happy birthday.”

Your fists clench at your sides. “You don’t get to show up here like you didn’t ruin everything. You don’t get to—”

“Oh, come on,” she cuts in, stepping closer, crowding your space until your back hits the wall.

Her voice drops low, meant only for you. “Still so fucking dramatic. Admit it — you wanted me to come.”

Your eyes blaze. “I didn’t.”

She smirks, tilting her head. “Then why are you shaking baby?”

Your breath stutters, infuriatingly loud in the quiet.

She leans in, close enough that you can smell the faint smoke and leather clinging to her.

The fight is right there between you — all the anger, all the fire — and instead of defusing it, she feeds it, lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

“You look… fucking dangerous in that dress.”

Your hand flies up, pressing against her chest to shove her back — but she grabs your wrist, holding it there, her grip firm but not painful.

The room is still watching, but neither of you care.

“Let go,” you demand.

Her eyes lock on yours, burning, and for a second the fight teeters on the edge of something else entirely.

Her jaw flexes, her thumb brushing over your pulse without meaning to.

Then, with a sharp smirk, she releases you and steps back.

“Happy birthday, princess,” she says loudly, for everyone to hear — before turning toward the drinks table like she belongs here.