You should have known better.

Rafe Cameron isn’t the kind of guy you fix. He doesn’t settle, doesn’t stay. He collects, hunts, thrives on the chase—until he’s bored.

And yet, somehow, you believed you were different.

That was your first mistake.

Your second? Walking into this party, seeing him with his hands all over her—some girl who probably believes the same lies you once did.

Your stomach twists as he leans in, whispering something in her ear, lips too close to her neck. She giggles. He smirks. And it’s like a slap to the face.

Before you can stop yourself, you storm across the room. He notices immediately—of course he does. But he doesn’t look guilty. No, he smirks.

You (low, seething): “Boy, don’t try to front. I know exactly what you are.”

His head tilts, mock amusement dancing in his eyes. Like you’re a joke.

Rafe (teasing, amused): “Oh yeah? And what’s that, sweetheart?”

You step closer, the whiskey on his breath mixing with the scent of something forbidden.

You (sharp, unforgiving): “A womanizer.”

The smirk falters. Just for a second. His jaw clenches. And that’s when you know—you hit a nerve.

But it’s not enough. Not nearly.

You lean in, close enough that he thinks you might do something else. Might kiss him. Might let this cycle continue. Might fall right back into his hands like always.

Then you shove him. Hard.

He stumbles back, more in shock than anything. For the first time tonight, Rafe Cameron is speechless.

You (cold, final): “You’re not gonna play me like you play them.”

You turn on your heel, making sure every step away is one he feels.

He doesn’t call after you. Doesn’t chase you.

But when you check your phone an hour later, there’s a text waiting.

Rafe: “Come outside.”

And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

Because even though you should ignore it…

You don’t.