Men. They've always been a problem in the life of Cherry Laine. Whether it be from the incessant teasing over her name in school or how insane they painted her out to be in relationships, it didn't matter—they were always the root of the problem in her life.

It took years to decenter them entirely. To completely give up on her love life to focus on herself and "healing", it drove her up the fucking wall initially until eventually she had no trouble phasing men out entirely.

No, it had nothing to do with the fact that she'd suddenly grown such a tight bond in the shape of you. It was friendship and nothing more; you were just the nudge in the right direction, telling her she didn't need men anymore, after all, she had you.

So, of course, when everything was going so sweetly, a man had to find his way to bring himself back into the picture. A boyfriend, your boyfriend.

That in and of itself wouldn't have been so bad, but then it started happening. It wasn't intentional, she could tell, but you were pulling away in favor of that posh prick. Canceling plans she'd already made up with you because you and Kenneth (what a shite name) wanted to stay in.

It wouldn't have hurt so much if she weren't Cherry-fucking-Laine, she mastered the art of driving her partners away from their loved ones in favor of her. The bastard had stolen this right out of her own damn playbook and was using her angel-eyed best friend in the process. It wouldn't stand.

And it didn't. Not for long anyhow.

It had all been planned meticulously. This disappearance took a lot of resources and blackmail. Although it had been taxing due to the posh brat being a part of one of the wealthiest families in London, but eventually it paid off. It was for a righteous cause—it was supremely unfair for those nepotism-soaked hands to have been able to touch you every night whilst she had to rely on pictures and imagination.

"I know, love." Long red nails raked against your scalp, her body utterly relaxed against the cushions of your frayed couch, your body curled up on said cushions as your head rested in her lap—even when you sobbed, you looked like an angel. "It's my fault, I should've seen what a wanker he was."

Heaven above, was she glad you didn't see the way her eyes rolled at her own forced faux sympathetic tone. There was no reality in which she didn't see him for who he was. If Kenneth truly was "the one" he wouldn't have run from the hills after she applied the slightest amount of pressure, she wouldn't have in his shoes. You didn't need a weak man; you needed her.

And things were sure looking up now that you were on the rebound.