Chapter 3

Chloe's POV

Tara invited me to a private VIP lounge at the city's most exclusive club.

I went.

I used to despise these networking parties, but tonight I dressed to the nines. From the moment I stepped through the door, I greeted the crowd with a warm smile, chatting effortlessly with whoever crossed my path.

In the past, I sat at events like this like an out-of-place statue, intimidating and aloof.

Back then, I poured all my warmth into one single man, terrified that if I said the wrong thing in public, it would somehow embarrass him.

Tonight, I held nothing back.

I walked right up to a group talking sports, breaking down last month's semifinal point spreads sharper than the pro players in the room. Then I moved to another circle to talk business, effortlessly dropping details about commercial zoning rights and which real estate firms were behind on payments.

When people offered their business cards, I took them with both hands and slipped them into my clutch.

Julian sat in the corner the entire night, clutching his tumbler, his eyes glued to my every move.

Every time I wrapped up a conversation and glanced back, his heavy gaze was still pinned squarely on me.

Across the lounge, a rowdy group started up a drinking game. The empty bottle spun across the mahogany table, coming to a dead stop right in Tara's direction.

"Truth or Dare!" someone whistled. "Tara, pick your poison!"

Every pair of eyes in the room zeroed in on her.

Tara elegantly smoothed her hair, but the corner of her eye flicked toward Julian sitting across from her.

"Dare," Tara said smoothly.

Someone hollered, "Take a shot with the third guy to your right!"

The third guy to her right was a total stranger.

Tara stood up, glass in hand, and sauntered over. She perched on the armrest right against the guy's thigh, draped an arm around his neck, and whispered something in his ear. Then she threw her head back into his chest, letting the liquor spill over and soak the guy's hand.

The room erupted into cheers, howling and slamming the tables.

I nursed my drink, watching the circus unfold in silence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Julian's knuckles turn white around his glass, release, and clench tight again.

Julian’s face went completely dark.

He shot up, marched over, and seized Tara by the wrist, ripping her away from the guy with enough force to make Tara gasp.

"Outside. Now," he gritted out, his voice dangerously low.

Tara twisted against his grip, but couldn't break free as he dragged her out into the hallway.

The room’s laughter died in an instant. People traded awkward glances, nobody daring to make a peep.

I set my glass down and followed.

At the far end of the corridor, Tara wrenched her wrist away, rubbing the red mark. "You're hurting me!"

"You did that on purpose," Julian snarled, towering over her. "In front of everyone."

"So what if I did?" Tara tilted her chin, unapologetic. "Julian, I'm giving you a shot here. Getting back together isn't out of the question, but why should I come crawling back? You know damn well how you treated me over the years. I need to see exactly how far you'll go for me."

Julian kept silent, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Aren't you utterly obsessed with that first championship trophy of yours?" Tara let out a soft, cruel laugh. "You wouldn't even let another living soul dust it, right? Go on then. Smash it. Shatter it right in front of everyone, and maybe I'll believe you actually love me."

"You've lost your mind," Julian said, his tone dropping an octave.

"I've lost my mind?" Tara took half a step back, folding her arms. "Too scared? Fine, forget it. And here I thought you'd do anything for me."

I stood around the corner, watching in total silence.

That trophy was the first piece of gold he ever brought home from the pro circuit. He had guarded it like a sacred relic for years, displaying it in prime position. If dust settled on the base, he cleaned it with his own hands; no one else was even allowed to lay a finger on it.

I had spent years using that very trophy to make excuses for him: He’s just emotionally distant, but he has things he truly cherishes. He's a man who keeps everything locked down tight, and he treats everyone that way.

Julian stood paralyzed for what felt like forever.

Guests from the VIP room were slowly poking their heads into the corridor. No one said a word. Tara didn't budge, just smirking and waiting.

Then, Julian turned on his heel and walked toward the trophy display at the end of the lounge.

Lined up along the shelving were all the hardware and awards he had racked up over his career, crowded together under spotlight glass.

I stepped out toward the corner just in time to see him pull out that weathered, original trophy with the buffed base.

"Julian," I called out on pure instinct.

He didn't even flinch, as if he hadn't heard me.

He weighed the trophy in his hands, gripped the stem with both palms, raised it over his head, and brought it slamming down onto the solid marble counter.

The first strike split the metal right down the middle.

The second strike bent the chalice completely out of shape.

On the third strike, the metal sheared off its base, shattering into jagged pieces that bounced and skittered violently across the polished stone with an ear-splitting shriek.

Shards nicked his trousers. A sharp cut opened across the back of his right hand, crimson droplets rolling down his knuckles to splash over the brass wreckage.

The engraved nameplate bearing the year and tournament title broke loose, sliding all the way to the center of the hallway before coming to a halt.

He stared down at the carnage beneath his feet, then lifted his eyes to Tara, completely unblinking.

Tara’s smug smirk vanished. She stumbled half a step back, shifting her wine glass to her other hand.

I stood by the corner wall, my feet glued to the floorboards.

The one thing I had used to excuse his coldness for years had just been smashed into scrap metal with three swings of his own arms.

Turns out, he could part with anything. He could throw away his trophies, throw away the legacy he traded blood and sweat to build—it just depended on who asked.

He could go completely unhinged for that woman, yet I had spent five years begging him just to acknowledge my existence, and failed every single time.

Deep down, he must care about me at least a little bit.

I had whispered that lie to myself for half a decade. Tonight, reality hit me right in the teeth.

Shards littered the floor. Julian stood among the ruins, blood dripping from his hand, not even caring to wipe it away.

I pressed my palm against the hallway wall, my fingernails digging a groove into the wallpaper.

I didn't call his name a second time.

I turned back into the lounge, grabbed my purse, got into my car, and drove home to finish compiling my visa application paperwork.