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"Since when are you my keeper?" I'd snapped, irritation flaring. "I thought we had an understanding. No strings, no judgments."

"No strings doesn't mean I don't care if you self-destruct," he'd replied quietly.

I'd laughed at that, a harsh, bitter sound that had seemed to surprise even me. "That's exactly what it means, Alex. That's the whole point."

He hadn't argued further, just let me crash in his bed until noon, then called me an Uber when I'd insisted on going home. But something had shifted between us after that—a distance that hadn't been there before, a wariness in his eyes when we'd meet at The Underground.

I hadn't cared. Or at least, I'd told myself I didn't. Alex had been just one of many distractions, easily replaced by the next willing body, the next chemical high, the next temporary escape from the reality of my existence.

Life had continued in this vein for weeks, a blur of work and drugs and sex and alcohol. Each day indistinguishable from the last except for the growing emptiness inside me, the increasing difficulty in pretending that everything was fine.

It wasn't until New Year's Eve, and The Underground had a work Christmas party that I made a mistake. It was a massive party in the city, and I got wasted and took too many drugs.

The Underground had closed to the public for the occasion, transformed into a winter wonderland of silver and blue decorations, ice sculptures, and an open bar that had been flowing freely since 8 PM. The staff—normally a disparate group of individuals working different shifts—had come together for the night, a rare opportunity to socialize without the pressure of work.

I'd arrived already buzzed, having pre-gamed at home with a bottle of vodka and a pill from my dwindling stash. The world had been pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, my body light, my mind mercifully quiet.

"Geri!" Tasha had called, waving me over to the bar where she'd been standing with a group of bouncers and bartenders. "You made it!"

"Wouldn't miss it," I'd replied, accepting the shot she'd handed me and downing it in one smooth motion.

"Pace yourself," she'd warned with a knowing smile. "Night's still young."

I'd ignored the advice, as I'd ignored all warnings and cautions in recent weeks. One shot had become two, had become three, had become too many to count. Someone had passed me a pill, then another, and I'd taken them without question, chasing them with more alcohol, riding the wave of chemical euphoria as it had crashed over me.

The night had fragmented after that—flashes of dancing on the bar, of kissing someone whose face I couldn't recall, of stumbling to the bathroom to snort a line off the sink with a bartender whose name escaped me.

At some point, the party had spilled out of The Underground and into the streets of the city, a roving band of intoxicated revellers moving from club to club as midnight had approached. I'd followed, swept along in the current, too far gone to make decisions of my own.

We'd ended up at a massive club in the heart of downtown, the bass so loud it had made my teeth vibrate, the crowd so dense it had been hard to move. I'd lost track of Tasha and the others from The Underground, finding myself alone in a sea of strangers as the countdown to midnight had begun.

TEN, NINE, EIGHT...

I'd pushed my way toward the bar, desperate for another drink, for something to dull the sudden, inexplicable panic that had begun to rise in my chest.

SEVEN, SIX, FIVE...

A hand had grabbed my ass, hard enough to hurt even through the haze of drugs and alcohol. I'd whirled around, coming face to face with a man I didn't recognize—tall, broad-shouldered, with a predatory smile that had sent a chill down my spine despite my intoxicated state.

FOUR, THREE, TWO...

"How about a New Year's kiss, beautiful?" he'd slurred, his hand moving from my ass to my waist, pulling me against him with bruising force.

ONE...

"Get off me," I'd growled, trying to push him away, but he'd held tight, his other hand coming up to grab my breast roughly.

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

The crowd had erupted in cheers and whistles, the sound deafening as the man had tried to force his lips on mine. Something had snapped inside me—a surge of rage so pure and hot it had cut through the chemical fog like a knife.

I'd pulled back my fist and punched him square in the face, feeling a sick satisfaction as his nose had crunched under my knuckles, blood spraying in a crimson arc.

"You fucking bitch!" he'd howled, clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers.

Security had materialized almost instantly, alerted by the commotion. "What's going on here?" a bouncer had demanded, looking between me and the bleeding man.

"She broke my fucking nose!" the man had shouted, pointing at me accusingly.