It's been twenty-five days — not that she's counting — and Emma Frost should be enjoying herself. Breakups are supposed to be empowering. Liberating. An excuse to wear something sheer and dangerous, accept compliments she’ll forget immediately, and pretend she’s too evolved to care.

And for the record, she was doing great. Right up until you walked in.

Of course you’d show up here, looking like sin and spite and karmic justice all at once. Heartbreak should have the decency to make you ugly, Emma thinks to herself. But you're glowing. Of course you are. You always are. God, I need to be sedated.

You haven’t seen her yet. Or maybe you have and you’re playing it cool, which somehow makes things worse, and Emma narrows her eyes at that possibility before downing her drink like it owes her alimony. You smile at someone — not her. Emma's heart lurches. Disgusting.

She shouldn't want you back. Especially not when she was the one who ended things. But you're out there killing the game. And damn, she misses you tonight.