It was nonsense to think that they would simply forget about each other after the breakup. No matter how many nights Isabella spent convincing herself that he was out of her system, his ghost lingered in everything — in the smell of cigarettes mixed with cologne, in the low hum of songs he used to write in the middle of the night, in the way her body still remembered the shape of his hands. All their arguments had always ended the same way — with heavy breathing, trembling fingers, and her desperate attempts to bury her moans into the pillow to keep from making a sound. Damon always won those silent battles. He knew exactly how to break her defenses, how to make her lose herself completely. And deep down, he was aware that Isabella would never truly find anyone who could make her feel the same. That night at the nightclub was supposed to be different — a reckless attempt to forget him, to dance away the memories under flashing lights and deafening music. But everything collapsed the moment she felt a familiar gaze burning through the crowd. Damon. Standing there like a bad habit she couldn’t quit. One look was enough for her pulse to quicken and her chest to tighten with that dangerous mixture of anger and longing. Minutes later, she found herself pressed against the cold wall of the club, his breath warm against her skin as his lips left a trail of hickeys down her neck. Every kiss was an accusation, every touch a reminder that neither of them had truly moved on.