Unlove
Celia’s POV
On my one measly day off from filming, Joan asked me to fly up to Toronto to see her play. A short flight, easily doable. No real excuse not to.
Pre-Evelyn, I would have been there without hesitation, in a window seat with a coffee and a book, excited to see her, to be the supportive fiancée, to bask in the high of being someone’s first choice.
Post-Evelyn, I hesitated.
Even though I was already an asshole for blatantly cheating on the woman I had once promised forever, I wasn’t quite asshole enough to end things with her in the middle of her tour. That would’ve been cruel. And despite everything, despite the growing distance between us, despite my inability to stop touching Evelyn fucking Hugo, I did care about Joan.
The engagement had been a mistake, probably for both of us. We had said the right words, made the right promises, done all the things people in love were supposed to do—but deep down, I think we both knew we were only half-convinced.
And yet, I still couldn’t bring myself to drop the axe. Not yet.
I don’t think Joan particularly wanted me at the concert, either. But, of all people, my PR rep told me to go. Said it was good press. Said it was an easy way to get my face and name out there—two famous queer women playing happy fiancées in front of thousands of fans. A publicist’s dream.
So, against every instinct screaming at me to stay put, I went.
I landed in Toronto in the late afternoon. The city was shrouded with the hazy remnants of rain, the skyline reflecting back at me in smeared silver and glass. The air was thick, damp, smelled like concrete and coffee.
The car service took me straight to the venue, where Joan’s manager met me at the back entrance. She barely looked at me, just clipped a laminated pass onto my jacket and mumbled, She’s in dressing room B.
The second I opened the door, I knew something was off. I could just feel it. Joan sat in front of her vanity, one leg crossed over the other, already dressed for the show—tiny leather skirt, cut-off top that hugged her like it had been made for her. Her hair was done, her makeup sharp, every inch of her stage persona carefully in place.
Except for her expression.
She wasn’t just frowning. She was scowling.
And when she lifted her phone and turned the screen toward me, my stomach turned to stone.
I stepped further inside, shut the door behind me, and stared at the video playing in her hands.
Oh, fuck.
"Care to explain this?"
The video was grainy, filmed from a bad angle, the audio slightly distorted. But it didn’t need to be crisp to be damning.
It was me and Evelyn.
The sex scene in the closet.
The footage caught the moment my hand slipped down the front of Evelyn’s skirt, the way she moaned my name, the slow, breathless tension that had lingered between us long after the director called cut.
I winced.
"Where did you get that?" My voice came out quieter than I wanted, my face already burning. I had planned to end things with Joan, had already accepted that we were done, but getting caught—being exposed—was something else entirely.
Joan didn’t blink. Didn’t move. “One of the grips has been filming all your sex scenes.”
I sucked in a breath.
“He’s a pervert, clearly. But he’s also friends with Mia.”
Mia. The makeup artist. Joan’s friend.
After Joan had to switch to a different MUA for her tour—part of some contractual obligation with MAC cosmetics—I had gone out of my way to talk to HBO, to pull strings, to make sure Mia had a job on our set.
And that bitch ratted me out.
I clenched my jaw, anger flaring in my ribs, but Joan didn’t give me a second to process.
“So,” Joan said, flipping the phone face down on the table with a sharp little snap. She looked at me then, really looked at me, and it wasn’t sadness or even anger in her eyes—it was something colder, something final. “How long?”
My throat tightened. I opened my mouth, ready to form some kind of response, but nothing came. No excuse, no justification, no soft lie that would make this easier.
Joan let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe she was even having this conversation.
“Jesus Christ, Celia. You are such a fucking hypocrite.”
I winced. Again.
She sat back, crossed one leg over the other, tapping her fingers against her thigh like she was waiting for me to start groveling. “You told me so many times how Irene fucked you up. How she strung you along, lied to your face, made you feel like shit. And now, here you are, turning around and doing the exact same fucking thing to me.”
“We aren’t,” I started, shaking my head, the words rushing out before I even knew what I was trying to say. “I’m not with her.”
Joan’s eyes narrowed.
“She moaned your fucking name, Celia!” she snapped. “And it looks like you’re actually fucking her here. And don’t—” she pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me, her voice cracking just slightly, “don’t you dare tell me it’s movie magic.”
She scoffed, running a hand through her hair, eyes burning as they locked onto mine. “I know what you look like when you’re fingering someone.”
I felt my whole body go hot, a sharp, stinging flush creeping up my neck.
I was fumbling for some kind of reply when a small miracle happened. From the hallway, a sharp knock. A voice.
“Joan, two minutes.”
Joan exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples, and then stood.
“We’re not done,” she muttered, adjusting her skirt, shaking out her shoulders like she could physically shed the conversation. “Stay if you want. Don’t if you don’t.”
Then she was gone, out the door, down the hall, already slipping into her stage persona, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
I should have left. But I stayed. I sank into a chair in the VIP section and watched her take the stage.
She moved through her set like nothing was wrong—flashing her signature smirk, twirling the mic cord around her wrist, making the crowd feel like she was singing just for them.
And then, near the end, she paused. “This is something new,” she said, her voice lower now. “Just wrote it today. It’s about someone really special. And I hope she hears it tonight.”
I thought it would be about me, naturally. Some sappy, sad breakup ballad. But the second she started to sing, I knew.
Joan had found someone else. Someone to replace me.
Didn’t mean to stay this late, didn’t mean to meet your eyes
Didn’t mean to memorize the way you tilt your head when you smile
Now I hear your laugh in every quiet room
Now I see your hands when someone else touches mine
You don’t belong to me, and I don’t belong to you
But tell me why it feels like we’re breaking something too
I should go, I should leave
But I don’t, and I won’t
Something about you pulls me closer than I knew
Say my name, say it soft
I’ll pretend it’s not enough
But we both know there’s nothing we can do
I can’t unlove you
I could feel eyes on me—tiny, invisible pinpricks of curiosity, of pity, of speculation. Isn’t that her fiancée? She must be devastated. God, what a way to find out.
I wanted to shrink into myself, to disappear between the velvet seats and the overpriced cocktails and the whispers. I wanted to leave, but I knew I couldn’t. So, I sat there, still and composed, swallowing down the slow burn of humiliation in my throat. I let her finish. I let her sing about someone else. I let the audience cheer for a love that was, apparently, more powerful than the love I’d had for Joan.
And when she finally sang her encore, thanked the crowd, and disappeared offstage, I got up, smoothed down my dress, and made my way to her dressing room to formally end whatever was left of us.
Joan was pacing when I found her. Her back to me, her hands gripping the ends of her hair like she wanted to tear something out. She was still buzzing from the stage, from the high of it all—her skin dewy from the heat of the lights, eyeliner smudging at the edges, a half-drunk cocktail sweating on the vanity beside her.
She turned at the sound of the door closing, her eyes meeting mine for the briefest moment before she looked away, shaking her head.
"Fuck," she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. "Fuck. I can’t believe this is happening."
I leaned back against the door, arms crossed. “That this is over?”
Joan let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “No, Celia. That it’s ending like this.” She gestured wildly, like there was something messy and ridiculous about the whole thing, like it was my fault we were standing here in the first place.
I scoffed. “You just announced it to a fucking stadium.”
Joan rolled her eyes, running a hand through her damp hair. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like I’m the only one at fault here. You’re not some fucking victim, Celia.”
My jaw clenched. “I never said I was.”
She grabbed her drink, took a slow sip, staring at me over the rim of the glass. “You didn’t have to.”
Something inside me snapped.
I pushed off the door, closing the space between us. “What do you want from me, Joan?” My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care. “Do you want me to cry? Beg for you back? Scream at you? I think you wanted me to sit out there and break down so the whole world could see just how much you don’t fucking love me anymore.”
Joan slammed her glass down onto the table so hard I thought it might crack. “You don’t get to play the heartbroken fiancée.” She jabbed a finger in my direction. “You fucked Evelyn fucking Hugo.”
I inhaled sharply. “You don’t get to throw that in my face.”
“Why? Because you don’t like hearing the truth?” Joan let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You cheated on me and lied about it, Celia. And what pisses you off isn’t that I’m leaving, it’s that I did it first.”
I let the words hang between us, the air between us charged and burning.
She was right.
That was the worst part. She was fucking right.
My fists clenched at my sides, nails pressing little crescents into my palms. “Do you love her?” I asked, voice quiet but steady.
Joan hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.
Then she shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I laughed, breathless and bitter, turning away, shaking my head.
Joan watched me in the mirror, arms crossed. “And you?”
I swallowed hard. “What about me?”
Her eyes flicked over my face, searching for something. “Do you love her?”
The silence stretched between us, thick and electric.
“No,” I said. “I don’t even like her.”
Joan studied me for a long moment, her reflection in the mirror still, unreadable. The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the venue, the distant echoes of roadies packing up the stage, voices and footsteps blending into a low, ambient murmur.
She tilted her head slightly, running her tongue over her teeth like she was trying to decide whether to believe me. “You don’t even like her,” she repeated, testing the weight of the words.
I shrugged, swallowing against the knot in my throat. “No.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not really.
Liking Evelyn would imply some kind of softness, some kind of affection. And whatever I felt for her wasn’t that. It was hunger, it was frustration, it was something bright and reckless and volatile, a live wire sparking every time we got too close.
It was ruining me.
And yet, I wasn’t doing a damn thing to stop it.
Joan sighed, rolling her neck, letting the tension bleed out of her body like she’d finally accepted what she already knew. “God, Celia.” Her voice wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired. “What the fuck are we even doing?”
I let out a breathy laugh, running a hand through my hair. “Ending things, I guess.”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
And there it was. The quiet finality of it. No dramatic goodbyes, no last-minute rescues. Just the undeniable truth of two people who had long since stopped reaching for each other.
Joan turned back to the vanity, picking up a tube of lipstick and running it over her lips, wiping away whatever remnants of the night were still clinging to her. “You staying in Toronto for the night?” she asked, like she was making small talk with a colleague, like we hadn’t just ripped apart whatever was left of us.
I shook my head. “Flying back in the morning.”
She nodded again, like that made sense. “Right.”
I waited for her to say something else, to offer some kind of closure, but she didn’t. She just smacked her lips together, adjusted the rings on her fingers, and grabbed her leather jacket from the back of the chair.
“Well,” she said, pulling it over her shoulders, “I’ve got people waiting for me.”
I nodded, because I did too.
Or at least, I had someone.
I reached for the doorknob, pausing just long enough to glance back at her. “Take care of yourself, Joan.”
She smirked, but there was no bite behind it. Just something quiet, something knowing. “You too. And Celia?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll make sure that video gets buried.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, voice quieter now, my fingers still wrapped around the doorknob.
She let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, I do.”
There was no gloating in her voice, no satisfaction. Just something flat, resigned, like she wasn’t doing it for me, or even out of some lingering sense of care—just because she didn’t want to be the kind of person who let the world see her ex humiliated like that.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to let you deal with the fallout,” she continued, slipping her phone into her pocket. “But I know how this business works. You’ll survive it. But her?” She raised an eyebrow. “She’s got more to lose.”
I exhaled, rolling my lips together. She wasn’t wrong. Evelyn was just starting her real career. An image like that—her name attached to a scandal like that—would stain her in ways she wouldn’t be able to shake off.
I nodded once. “Thanks.”
Joan scoffed. “Don’t thank me. I just don’t want your mess to be part of my legacy.” She picked up her cocktail again, swirled the last sip of it in the glass. “And I’m not as much of a bitch as you think I am.”
I almost smiled. Almost. Instead, I pushed open the door.
And just like that, we were over.
•••
Evelyn’s POV
On my one day off from set, I flew back home to Los Angeles.
Not because I missed it, exactly, but because I had to. Because my mother had been calling more than usual, and because Don was back from Italy, and because, at some point, I needed to remind myself what my real life was supposed to look like.
I expected Don to send a driver like he always did. But when I stepped through the airport doors, rolling my carry-on behind me, there he was—leaning against the car, aviators on, arms crossed. He looked handsome. And sweet.
Fucking asshole.
I hesitated for half a second before heading toward him.
“Well, look at you,” I said as I slid into the passenger seat, buckling my seatbelt.
Don smirked, starting the car. “What?”
“You actually came to pick me up.”
He rolled his eyes like I was being dramatic, but I caught the flicker of pride in his expression. Like he wanted the credit. Like he wanted me to say thank you.
Before I could, my mother leaned forward from the back seat and pressed a kiss to my cheek.
"M’hija, finally, you come home,” she said, squeezing my shoulder like she had to confirm I was real.
I turned toward her, surprised. “Mom, what are you doing here?”
“She was bored,” Don answered for her, pulling out of the terminal, his tone breezy. “And I told her I’d bring her along.”
I raised an eyebrow, glancing back at her. “You rode all the way to LAX just because?”
My mother beamed, patting my knee. “Ay, Evelyn, what else am I supposed to do? It’s nice to get out. And your Don has been so good to me.”
That made me pause.
I turned back to Don, who was watching the road, tapping his fingers against the wheel.
“Has he?” I asked carefully.
My mother nodded enthusiastically. “Sí, he takes me to lunch, he helps around the house, he makes sure everything is fine while you are away.” She sighed dramatically. “You never told me how charming he is. Muy guapo también.”
I blinked at Don, waiting for him to smirk, to crack a joke, to act like this was some game he was playing.
But he just shrugged.
“She needed company,” he said simply. “I had time.”
For some reason, that really pissed me off.
Not because I didn’t want my mother to have company. Not because I wanted Don to treat her poorly. But because this—this version of him, the considerate one, the one who suddenly had time—only seemed to exist when I wasn’t around.
The Don that my mother got, the one who took her to lunch and listened to her gossip about the neighbors, the one who played the part of the doting son-in-law, was a man I didn’t recognize.
It was hard to reconcile him with the Don who had shoved me into the wall so hard I saw stars. With the Don who had pulled me down by my hair, sneered at me when I winced, made me feel like I was the one at fault when I curled up on the bathroom floor afterward.
It was hard to imagine the same man who had pushed me down a flight of stairs and broken one of my ribs sitting across from my mother, nodding along as she told stories about her childhood in Cuba.
And yet, here he was, hands on the wheel, sunglasses perched on his nose, driving me home like we were just another couple in love.
I turned away from him, watching the city blur past my window. Los Angeles felt foreign after months in Cincinnati—too bright, too sprawling, the sky stretching too wide above me.
My mother kept talking in the back seat, blissfully unaware of my shifting mood, filling the space with her usual chatter. I let her voice wash over me, tuning in and out, nodding when necessary.
But my mind was elsewhere.
I needed to decide how I was going to play this.
I could act grateful, smile, tell Don I appreciated him looking after my mother while I was gone. Stroke his ego just enough to keep him in this rare good mood.
Or I could press. Push at the edges of his performance. See how much of it was real, how much of it would hold up under the weight of a little pressure.
Neither option was particularly appealing.
So instead, I did what I always did. I said nothing. I let him think I bought it. Let my mother believe everything was as perfect as she wanted it to be. Let the ride home play out like some scene in a cheesy movie.
I’ll figure out the rest later.
•••
That night, after Luisa cooked dinner and we all sat around the pool drinking wine, Don took me to bed.
It was soft, deliberate—the kind of sex you’re supposed to want when you’re in a stable, loving relationship. The kind of sex that was enough, before.
Before Cincinnati.
Before Celia.
Before I knew what it was like to be ruined by someone’s touch.
Now, it felt like muscle memory. Like following the choreography of a dance I no longer cared about.
I let Don move the way he always did, let him press kisses to my shoulder, let him hold my face like it meant something. And when it was over, when he exhaled against my skin, satisfied, I realized I hadn’t even come. I don’t think he noticed.
"I missed you," he murmured sleepily.
I closed my eyes.
Lies always sounded sweeter in the dark.
I turned my head, kissed his jaw. “Me too.”
•••
The next morning, I woke up before him. The house was quiet, the early sun spilling pale gold through the curtains. I slipped out of bed carefully, padding across the hardwood in nothing but Don’s t-shirt, and made my way downstairs.
Luisa was already in the kitchen, her back to me as she prepped something at the counter. She turned when she heard me, smiling warmly. “Buenos días, Ms. Hugo.”
I smiled back. “Morning.”
She gestured toward the coffee pot. “I just made a fresh pot. Want a cup?”
I nodded, pulling a mug from the cabinet. “Please.”
As she poured, my phone buzzed against the counter.
I glanced down.
CELIA: Are you coming back today?
A stupid question. Of course, I was coming back. We had a night shoot. But I knew what she really meant.
When are you coming back to me?
I typed out a quick reply.
ME: Yeah.
Three dots appeared. A pause. Then:
CELIA: When?
I exhaled sharply through my nose. Jesus Christ, this bitch is always horny.
Not that I was one to talk. One day apart and I was already restless, already craving the press of her mouth, the sharp little bites she left along my collarbone, the way her nails dug into my hips like she needed to own me.
I licked my lips, my fingers twitching toward the keyboard, ready to text something reckless.
And then—
“Good morning, ladies.”
I nearly dropped my phone.
Don strolled into the kitchen, stretching his arms above his head, looking perfectly unbothered by the fact that I had just slammed my phone down against the counter way too hard.
His eyes flickered toward it, then to me.
“Everything alright?”
I forced a smile, shifting my weight against the counter like I wasn’t wound tight with guilt. “Peachy. Just work stuff.” I grabbed my coffee, took a slow sip. “I gotta head to the airport soon.”
Don nodded, reaching for a banana from the fruit bowl. “I’ll drive you.”
That was fine. Expected.
But then—
“And, you know…” He peeled the banana, too casual, too offhanded. “I have a couple weeks off before my next shoot. Thought maybe I could come visit you. Or hell, I could just come with you today.”
The sip of coffee went down sharp, burning on the way down.
I swallowed, setting my mug down carefully. “To Cincinnati?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Why not? I mean, you’ve been gone for two months. Wouldn’t be the worst thing for me to spend some time with you.”
I stared at him.
A few months ago, this would have been exactly what I wanted—Don, giving a shit. Don, showing up.
But now?
Now, it felt like someone had just slammed the brakes on a speeding car.
I forced a light laugh, shaking my head. “You’d be bored out of your mind.”
He smirked. “I think I can handle it.”
I glanced at Luisa, who had gone suspiciously quiet, wiping down an already-clean section of the counter.
My brain worked fast. How do I get out of this?
I picked up my phone, tapping out a quick reply to Celia before Don could peek over my shoulder.
ME: Not soon enough.
Then I set it face-down, looked up at Don, and smiled.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not.”
The words left my mouth before I could think better of them, before I could calculate the logistics of keeping my worlds from colliding.
And, of course, because my life was a never-ending joke, once my mother heard the news, she insisted on coming along, too.
I pictured it in my head—Celia, waiting for me in her hotel room, expecting me to show up alone, fresh from a long flight, maybe a little tired but eager. And instead, I’d walk in with my boyfriend and my mother in tow, like I was bringing back a small, unenthusiastic parade.
I could already see the look on Celia’s face. Pure blue-balls, but the female version.
Christ.
I sipped my coffee, watching Don out of the corner of my eye as he ate his goddamn banana. I was still trying to figure out what this was with him—the sudden attentiveness, the effort. Was it guilt? A calculated move? Or did he really think we could fix things just by spending more time together?
My mind went back to Celia. I had seen the TikToks. Joan had written a song about another girl. An unofficial breakup song. The lyrics had made their rounds online, dissected by fans, sung softly over grainy concert footage. I was sure Celia had heard it. I was sure they had talked about it when she flew to Toronto.
They were done. So when would me and Don be done? Would we ever be?
The thought sat heavy in my chest, warm and uncomfortable, like a hand pressing down too hard.
I didn’t love Celia. That much I knew. I didn’t want a relationship with her. But I didn’t particularly want a relationship with Don either.
What I wanted was good sex and a steady paycheck. I wanted to ride out my twenties with some semblance of control, with my name in headlines and my pockets full. I wanted freedom, but not too much of it. Safety, but only the kind that wouldn’t cage me in.
My priorities were selfish. But cut me some slack—I was twenty-three.
•••
My mother hated Cincinnati. She said it reminded her of the Bronx, but worse—grayer, colder, lacking even the stubborn pulse of life that made New York bearable in its roughest corners.
She had grown too accustomed to Los Angeles, to the dry warmth and the illusion of ease. She didn’t like the hotel, either—the endless hours spent inside, pacing the room while I was on set, flipping through Spanish soap operas with the volume too loud, waiting for a life that wasn’t hers to entertain her.
And, for the first time, she didn’t like Don.
Not that she said it outright. But I could tell in the way she looked at him now—longer, more appraising, like she was suddenly seeing something she had spent weeks ignoring.
Don, for his part, wasn’t doing much to charm her anymore. He didn’t like Cincinnati either, but not for the same reasons.
Don didn’t like my Cincinnati—the version of me that existed here, away from him, in front of cameras, stepping into a light that wasn’t his. I’d known it for a while—how uneasy he got when my name started showing up in headlines more than his, how he bristled when strangers recognized me first. But now, it was undeniable.
He had played the part well when we first arrived—held my hand, nodded along, made conversation with my mother over overpriced hotel breakfasts. But watching me on set, seeing me work, knowing I was good at this—that was all it took for him to shift.
Doting boyfriend turned irritated shadow.
Every time he visited set, I could feel him watching me. He hated seeing me in control, seeing other people listen to me, seeing me step into a world where he wasn’t the center of gravity.
A part of me was almost relieved when Don started showing his true colors again. It reminded me why I didn’t feel guilty for fucking Celia, why I didn’t waste time on shame or regret. Don had always been an asshole. He deserved it.
Don didn’t like the intimate scenes between Abby and Carol. At first, he’d played it cool. When he saw me and Celia together, bodies pressed close, mouths lingering a little too long, he smirked and said, "Kind of hot, honestly."
But by the third day, the joke had soured, and by the fourth, he wasn’t laughing anymore. The jealousy was inevitable. It was in his nature—he could barely tolerate any attention that wasn’t his. But he couldn’t yell at me for the scene itself. I was working. I had an airtight excuse. So instead, he found something else to sink his teeth into.
It happened in my dressing room. I had just finished for the night, slipping into my robe, rubbing at the sore muscles in my neck, when the door slammed open so hard it rattled the mirror.
Don stalked inside, radiating something ugly, something bitter, something I recognized too well.
“What the fuck is this, Evelyn?” he snapped, shoving a crumpled call sheet in my direction like it was damning evidence.
I barely glanced at it. “Looks like my schedule.”
He scoffed, pacing in a tight, restless circle. “You said you were done at ten. It’s almost midnight.”
I exhaled, already exhausted by the fight before it had even begun. “Yeah, Don. That’s how shooting works. Things run over. Welcome to my job.”
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, your job. Right. Your art.” He gestured wildly toward the door. “Do they always keep you late, or just when you’re making out with Celia St. Fucking James?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re pissed because I worked late?”
“I’m pissed because you don’t even call me, Evelyn!” His voice was rising now, sharp edges cracking through. “You just leave me and your mother in that shitty hotel like an afterthought, while you—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, fingers running through his hair. “This whole thing. This whole fucking show is making you—”
“Making me what?” I snapped, crossing my arms.
He stopped pacing, turned to face me fully, and for a second, he just looked at me.
And then, through gritted teeth—
“Making you act like a fucking whore. You’re fucking a woman on camera, Evelyn. The world is just going to keep seeing you as they’ve always seen you – a whore.”
The room went still. The words hung between us, sour and stagnant.
And just as my fists clenched, just as I prepared to launch into something unforgivable—
The door swung open.
Celia stood in the doorway, still in her costume, still breathless from set, eyes sharp and furious.
"Wow," she said, stepping inside. "You’re even uglier when you talk."
Don turned, nostrils flaring. “Stay out of this.”
“No,” she said, crossing her arms, chin tilted up defiantly. She looked like a porcelain doll next to Don – tiny and breakable. “I don’t think I will.”
I watched, heart pounding, as she took another step forward, planting herself between us.
“I don’t know what’s more pathetic,” she continued, voice razor-sharp, “the fact that you think you can talk to Evelyn like that, or the fact that you need to. That you’re so goddamn small that watching her succeed makes you feel like less of a man.”
Don let out a sharp, bitter laugh, but there was something behind it—something uneasy.
“You don’t know shit about us,” he spat.
Celia tilted her head, lips curving into something almost amused. “Oh, I think I do.”
And then, with one last scathing look—
“You should leave.”
Don exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides.
And for a second, I thought he might hit her. But then he turned and looked at me. Something flickered in his expression—not anger, not jealousy, but realization. Like he was finally seeing something he should have seen a long time ago.
Then, without another word, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Celia turned back to me, arms still crossed, thin red brows slightly raised.
“Jesus,” she muttered, “you really know how to pick ‘em.”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. It was insane but all I could think about in that second was what a turn-on it was, seeing Celia get all worked up like that for me. “No kidding.”
Celia smirked, shaking her head. “You okay?”
I exhaled again, steadier this time. Then I met her gaze.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I am.”
Celia turned the lock behind her and leaned against the door. We hadn’t been alone together since I’d come back from L.A. with Don and my mother, a walking circus of obligations and expectations. It had been grueling, pretending to be the good girlfriend, the good daughter, the woman who wanted the life she was living.
Every night, I let Don fuck me, let him believe that I was his, while all I could think about was her. Celia St. James.
She met my eyes, searching, then tilted her head slightly.
"Joan," I whispered, the question thick in my throat. "Is she…?"
Celia’s lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite anything at all. “It’s over.”
She lifted her left hand, wiggling her bare ring finger with a smirk. “No engagement. No fiancée. Turns out, she was cheating on me, too.”
I nodded, unsurprised. “Yeah. I saw the song.” I hesitated. “I’m sure it stung.”
Celia shrugged, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her vape, a silent confession. Yes, it stung. Yes, it mattered. No, I’m not going to talk about it.
She took a slow drag, holding the smoke in her lungs before blowing it out in a perfect, practiced stream toward the ceiling.
“I’m glad it’s over,” she said finally, voice quieter now. “I just want to focus on work. That’s why I like this.” She gestured between us. “We can just… enjoy each other. No silly strings of attachment.”
"Right," I said. My voice sounded thin in my own ears. "No attachments."
Celia held my gaze for a moment longer, as if testing the weight of those words, as if daring me to say something different. I didn’t. I wouldn’t.
She stepped toward me, closing the gap between us in two slow strides. She slid onto my lap, straddling my waist, her thighs pressing against mine. I felt the heat of her even before she lifted her skirt, before she let the fabric pool at her hips and revealed what was underneath.
Nothing. Just sweet, soft wetness and a few wisps of hair.
My breath caught, and I swore I saw the flicker of amusement in her eyes before she leaned in, lips brushing against my ear.
"Miss me?" she murmured.
I exhaled sharply, my hands already moving to her hips, then her breasts.
God help me, I had.