The way your stomach knots so violently it feels like it might tear open. The way your chest rises and falls too fast, like your body’s trying to catch up to your heart breaking in real time. The way your eyes sting—not just from the tears, but from the betrayal burning behind them. It’s all a cruel reminder that Rafe Cameron never truly cared. It was never about love. It was about money. It was always a lie.

You gave four months of your life to him. Four months of chaos and passion, of screaming fights that left your voice raw, and kisses that made your knees weak. You fought constantly—but you loved harder. You thought that meant something.

Now you’re standing in a dingy biker bar, surrounded by people you once trusted. Their silence is deafening. They watch, unsure, while your world crumbles right there in front of them. No one moves. No one says a word.

The man you thought loved you—the one who whispered his darkest secrets into your ear at 2am, the one who held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth—he’s standing there like none of it meant a thing. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe he’s just that good of an actor.

“{{user}}, please. I do love you,” he says, voice cracking, eyes pleading.

You stare at him, tears spilling freely now, hot and angry.

“No. You don’t,” you say, your voice shaking. “What did you do with the money, Rafe?”

He flinches, stammering, “I… please, baby. That doesn’t matter—”

“Don’t call me baby,” you snap.

Before his hand can even graze your arm, you turn and slap him. Hard. The sound echoes off the bar walls like a gunshot.

You move to leave, to run, but he beats you to the door. Drops to his knees. Desperate.

“Please, {{user}}, I beg you,” he whispers, eyes glossy with tears.

And still, somehow, even now, your stomach twists. Because some broken part of you wants to believe him.