Page 121 of Drunk On Love

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, his pride evident in the way he carried himself.

For a moment, I envied him. Not for his marriage or fatherhood, but for the simplicity of his happiness. The clarity in his life, the sense of purpose in his voice.

As the car moved through the empty streets, I stared out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and white.

I gave Justin the address without explaining—just the street name, nothing more.

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, unsure.

“Sir, are you sure you don’t want to head home? It’s late.” His voice was polite. Cautious. As always

I didn’t answer right away. My gaze was fixed on the blur of city lights outside the window.

“Just get me there.” I leaned back and shut my eyes.

But peace didn’t come.

I needed to see her.

Tonight.

Before my logic could talk me out of it.

____________

31 ♥?Kiara

The world is celebrating my success… and I’m standing in my kitchen, barefoot, hair like a bird’s nest, trying to cook pasta at 2 a.m.

Messy bun, mascara smudged, soul slightly cracked.

I left the launch right after the final interview.

Smiled. Waved. Lied.

The moment the cameras were off, I slipped out the back and into silence.

I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not when my heart was somewhere else. With someone who didn’t even show up.

I miss him. Like hell.

And Myra—God bless her chaos—is busy rambling about some new bisexual guy she met, trying to figure out if she wants to date him, flirt with him, or get skincare tips from him. All while I’m boiling pasta and debating if it’s edible or a future science experiment.

The stove hisses as I dump half a pack of penne into the water. White sauce pasta. That’s what he used to make for me.

Manav used to say,“You don’t need to cook if I’m here.”

Well, he’s not here.

“Are you sure you can handle that?” Myra calls from the couch.

“Don’t worry. The fire department’s on speed dial.”

“We could just order, you know,” she groans.

The bell rings.

Finally. Her precious pizza. She scrambles to the door like it’s a million-dollar delivery. I stay glued to the stove, poking the pasta like it wronged me.