The fight started over something stupid. It always did. One minute, you were locked in another heated argument—maybe an offhand comment or a sarcastic jab—and the next, voices were raised and you were staring each other down.

You didn’t even remember the exact words exchanged anymore. All you knew was that it escalated until you spat something about being done with his attitude. And he? He said something just as cutting about how exhausting your sharp tongue was. The final blow.

This time, it ended with both of you storming off, throwing words like “I’m done” and “Good riddance” over your shoulders. But even as you swore you didn’t care, his words echoed in your head. You hated him—or so you told yourself.

When the party invitation came, you knew what to do: show up, look so good even he couldn’t ignore you, and remind everyone—including him—that you were untouchable.

At the party, you entered like you owned the room. Heads turned, and you basked in the attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him—your so-called lover—leaning against a wall, drink in hand. His jaw tightened when he saw you, but he didn’t move.

Good. Let him stew.

Then, his rival approached—the one person you both couldn’t stand. Smooth and charming, he smiled and offered his hand. “Care for a dance?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I’d love to.”

Dancing with him was a statement. You laughed at his jokes, let your fingers linger on his arm, leaned in just enough to make your point. You could feel his eyes burning into you the entire time, and it fueled you. This wasn’t just about revenge—it was about proving a point.

After a while, you needed a break. At the bar, you ordered a drink, catching your breath. You felt invincible—until he showed up.

He didn’t just walk; he stormed. His shoulders tense, eyes narrowed, his expression screamed one thing: pissed.

“You really thought that was a good idea?” he asked, voice low but sharp. “Dancing with him? Of all people? Are you that desperate to prove a point?”