The bass pounded through the club like it had a personal vendetta. Red lights bled over Eddie's face, flickering like a heartbeat—too fast, too loud, too fucking alive. He tilted the glass back and let the tequila burn his throat, chasing a numb he couldn't reach.
His shirt was halfway unbuttoned, his tie hanging like a noose, and he reeked of regret and top-shelf alcohol. He didn't know what song was playing. Didn't care. He was drowning, and for once, he wanted to go under.
"Eddie?"
He blinked slowly, turning his head toward the voice. A brunette slid into the booth beside him, eyes glassy, lips glossy, dress barely clinging to her body. Childhood friend. Some girl from the neighborhood. Cassandra, maybe? Cassie?
"Didn't think I'd see you back here," she said, smiling with all teeth and no soul.
"I'm not back," he mumbled, pouring another shot. "I'm hiding."
She laughed like it was charming. "You've been drinking like hell."
He downed the shot and stared at her with empty eyes. "Hell's quieter."
Cassie leaned in, fingers tracing his chest like she had a right to touch him. He didn't stop her. He didn't care. Maybe if he pretended hard enough, if he kissed her hard enough, if he clawed at someone else's skin—maybe Maya would shut the fuck up in his head for one goddamn second.
Cassie climbed into his lap. Her breath was sweet. Her hands were bold. He let her kiss him. Sloppy, heated, messy. Her fingers tugged at his hair, and her body moved against his like she'd done it a thousand times. Maybe she had. He didn't give a shit.
His mouth was on hers. Her nails scraped down his spine. It felt good.
But then—
"Maya," he whispered against Cassie's mouth.
She froze. Pulled back. "What?"
His eyes snapped open.
"Maya," he said again, like a curse, like a plea.
"I'm not Maya," she said, but her voice was distant now, muffled.
She kept going, kept kissing him, grinding on him, desperate to reclaim the heat. He flinched. His mind shattered in real-time.
"You're not her," he growled. "You're not fucking her."
He shoved her off him—hard. She stumbled back and hit the edge of the table, falling onto the floor with a yelp.
"Jesus, Eddie! What the hell—"
He was already on his feet, rage and guilt and heartbreak crawling under his skin like insects. He threw some cash on the table, muttered a half-assed "Sorry," and stormed out of the club like the building was on fire.
The night air bit into his skin as he staggered back to his apartment. He reeked of alcohol, desperation, and the girl who wasn't Maya. His head was pounding, his heart was heavier than ever, and he hated himself—truly fucking hated himself.
He collapsed onto the couch, pulled out his phone, and without thinking, opened Maya's profile.
Blocked.
"Fuck."
He tossed the phone across the room. It hit the wall and dropped to the floor like a dead thing. But that wasn't enough. He scrambled off the couch, picked it back up, and created a fake account.
Name: Tyler.Jameson
Profile pic: Random guy, looked real enough.
He typed her name in the search bar. Her new account was public. Big mistake, Maya.
He scrolled. Every picture of them? Gone. Like he never existed.
But Damon? Damon was all over her grid now.
There was a picture of them at a bookstore, another one at a cafe. One of her laughing with her hand on Damon's chest. Her caption said:
"Grateful for the people who stay. My rock. 🤍"
Eddie's blood ran cold.
"My rock?"
He laughed. Not a normal laugh. A bitter, unstable laugh that cracked at the edges. He scrolled faster. Stories. Videos. Her head on Damon's shoulder. Her eyes shining again. She looked… happy.
Like she'd forgotten him.
No.
He called Zeke.
Zeke: "What the fuck do you want, man?"
Eddie: "I need to know what's been happening since I left. Tell me everything."
Zeke hesitated. "You're serious?"
Eddie: "Dead fucking serious."
Zeke sighed. "You don't deserve to know. But whatever. Maya… she changed. She did the project solo and crushed it. Everyone was shocked. She's smiling again. She's funny again. It was like… a switch flipped."
Eddie's jaw clenched. "Is she dating Damon?"
Zeke: "No. Not officially. But he's with her all the time. He got her out of that black hole. Honestly? You should be grateful. You fucked her up."
Eddie: "Did you see the blog?"
Zeke: "Of course I did. Everyone did. You didn't?"
Eddie didn't answer. He was already typing in the blog link.
It wasn't blocked.
He opened Maya's entry. His throat tightened. Then Vic's. Then…
Damon's confession.
It was a punch straight to the fucking chest.
Damon wrote like a man who bled words. He talked about falling in love with her from the moment he met her. About how he watched from a distance because of Eddie. About the guilt, the jealousy, the quiet pain of being the third person in a love story meant for two.
Eddie's hand clenched around his phone so hard it cracked.
No.
He tried calling Maya.
Blocked.
He tried Damon.
No answer.
He screamed and hurled the phone across the room again. This time it shattered.
"FUCK!"
He paced like an animal. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His chest was tight. He was gonna fucking explode.
He punched the wall. Blood. Didn't care.
He couldn't handle it.
Maya was moving on. Damon was taking what used to be his. No. He wouldn't let it happen.
He sat down. Breathing heavy. Thinking.
If Damon was out of the picture…
That was it.
The next day.
Eddie was back at the Thompson Group headquarters, looking like hell had wrung him out and tossed him into a three-piece suit. No sleep, pupils still a little dilated, and a hangover dancing behind his eyes like a strobe light. But he showed up. Because that's what he did. He showed up, he smiled, and then he burned things quietly.
The office buzzed like usual—phones ringing, interns scrambling, assistants pretending they weren't terrified of him. He walked in silent, nodding once at the front desk before heading to the top floor. His name was stitched into the company walls, but today, he wanted to rip the whole building down.
That's when the idea hit.
Not like some diabolical cartoon villain twist, no. It was colder than that. Practical. Dead-eyed.
There was a merger scheduled—big one. The Luxembourg partnership. Thompson Group had been trying to seal the deal with a European fintech company for months. Paperwork had been drafted. Presentations polished. Final digital assets were set to go out today for a live demo with the board.
Eddie was the one who had the file. The project manager had sent it to him for a final greenlight. They trusted him. And that? That was a fucking mistake.
He opened the presentation.
Paused.
Then with the calm of a man microwaving popcorn, he started dragging files. Swapping them. Replacing figures. Tweaking the financial projections just enough to trigger red flags. Not obvious—he wasn't a dumbass. But enough to make the entire boardroom across the ocean slam the brakes.
A little "accidental" data leak through unsecured cloud storage? Boom. Panic.
He clicked send.
Then he sat back.
The fallout was immediate. Forty-five minutes later, his father stormed into his office, tie already loosened, barking into three phones at once.
"What the hell did you send them?"
Eddie looked up, expression blank. "The files Sarah gave me. I didn't touch anything."
Bullshit. But no one could prove otherwise—not yet.
"There's a full stop on the merger now. They're demanding a re-analysis from top down. Christ, Eddie, this could tank the whole expansion strategy."
Eddie stood up, all concern on his face. "So send Damon."
His father blinked.
"Send him to Luxembourg. He's the only one who knows the numbers inside out. He worked with their analysts from the start. He's the clean-up crew. He always is."
It sounded reasonable. Logical. Even noble.
But Eddie felt that flicker of satisfaction in his gut. Like flipping a match and walking away from the gas trail.
If Damon left… it'd be just enough space.
Just enough time.
To fix what he broke.
To remind Maya who really wrecked her heart.
To take back what never stopped being his.