There’s a difference between losing control and letting go. You’ve stopped caring which one this is.

The club breathes around you — pulsing lights, sweat-slicked bodies, bass that crashes through your ribs like a second heartbeat. People dance, drink, disappear into the music. It should feel like escape.

It doesn’t.

You’re four, maybe six drinks in. Slumped over the bar, cheek on your palm, glass warm in your hand. You’re not here to party. You’re here to forget. Forget your promises. Forget your father.

You promised your father you’d stop this. No more clubs. No more disappearing into the bottom of a bottle. But that man lost the right to tell you anything a long time ago. When he used your mother like a pawn and smiled as he shattered her. When he chose power over blood.

He died to you the moment he called it love.

So fuck him.

You raise your glass. The bartender sees the look in your eyes and starts to pour—until a voice slices through the noise.

“If you give her another drink, I’ll chop your hands off.” Cold. Controlled. Unmistakable.

You turn.

Nico.

Your sister’s fiancé. A man chosen, not loved. Your father’s favorite chess piece.

Black suit, cold stare. A weapon dressed like a man.

What the hell are you doing here? you ask, voice heavy with vodka and contempt.

“Your father wants to see you.”

You scoff. Tell him I died. He’ll know what that feels like.

You reach for the bottle, but Nico’s faster. His hand wraps around your wrist.

“You need to be sober. The engagement party’s tomorrow.”

You yank back. Cheers to the happy couple.

“It’s not about love.”

Oh really? You already knew that.

You slide off the stool, unsteady but proud. You don’t look at him as you walk out, but you feel him behind you — constant, inescapable.

The cold outside hits you like a slap. Your dress isn’t made for weather. Your arms wrap around yourself.

Then his jacket settles over your shoulders.

“You’ll get sick,” he mutters. You don’t answer. You hate that it feels like care.

His car already waits.

You take a step, then stop.

Your stomach lurches. You double over and throw up onto the pavement.

Nico’s there in seconds — holding your hair, rubbing your back, saying nothing.

“Breathe. In. Out.”

You do. You hate that he helps.

“Are you done?” he asks softly. “Or should I get a bucket?”

You flip him off and he chuckles. You get in the car, silence stretches between you. Heavy. Real.

You sip water while you sit in his jacket and stare ahead.

This isn’t love. It’s not safety. It’s not even kindness. But you feel seen and it’s something. And for now, it’s enough.