The candlelight flickers across her flawless skin as she pushes her untouched glass of wine aside. Her lips are pursed, eyes locked on you with that smoldering, dangerous softness she always uses before things get messy.

She twirls her fork once. Then drops it.

“Am I not enough for you, bébé? Or do you just like hurting me?” Her voice is low, trembling just enough to make you wonder if she’s about to cry—or ruin your life. “You think I wouldn’t see it? The little heart on her photo? Don’t insult me.” She leans forward, manicured fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve.

“I could break every girl in your phone if I wanted. But I only want you. So tell me... do I have to start trying harder? Or should I start packing my things?”