Page 41 of Drunk On Love

He leaned in, his warm breath tickling my ear as he whispered, “You look beautiful…” His lips hovered just an inch from mine. I stopped breathing. My heart waited. But then—he stepped back, the ghost of a smile on his lips… and walked away, leaving me standing alone amidst a roaring round of applause.

I stumbled back to the bar. I am planning to get super drunk tonight.What is the harm?Being lost in another world would mean escaping everything—no swirling neurons, no intense theories, no racing heartbeat or painful memories, and no reminder that my father hasn’t spoken to me since I was born. He believes I took away his wife, my mom, just by coming intoexistence.

My mom—who apparently looked just like me—was a writer too. A successful one. Not like me, stuck on page 217 for the last 246 days. I’ve read everything she left behind: her books, her journals, even the one she kept while pregnant with me. She poured love into those pages, waiting for the daughter she’d dreamed of having, the daughter she wanted so much… the daughter who… took her away.

“Hey… you’ve had enough.” A familiar hand gently grabbed my wrist.

“Have you heard… I won.” I blinked dramatically, swaying slightly.

“Are you trying to set some record tonight?” he gently took the glass from my hand.

“Depends… What's the motivation?” I murmured, reaching out for my glass, determined not to share any more ofmyprecious drink with him.

“What have you done to the real Kiara?”

“She’s pathetic… always whining,”

His playful smirk faded for a split second. And that silence… it said more than any lecture ever could. “Yeah? And who are you?” He tilted his eyes to search my eyes.

“I’m the fun Kiara…” I shrugged.

“Yeah?” he asked, a cute frown forming on his face.

“Drunk Kiara is myfavoriteKiara.” I grabbed another shot, grinning widely. “Wanna play a game tonight?”

“Kiara… slow down. You’ve had enough,” he said quietly.

“Seriously? Do you have to argueevery single time?”

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical as ever. “What game?”

“The Real Spill…” I said, trying to sound casual.

“I don’t know what that is…”

“We’re going to talk with no filter. Whatever comes to mind—just spill. Random thoughts, no overthinking. Justhonesty.”

“Absolutely not.”

I tilted my head, challenging him. “Afraid you might accidentally reveal something you’re trying to hide?”

And then, Whoa… Oh God. Before I could process what was happening, he leaned in closer, his deep blue eyes locked on mine. Slowly, deliberately, he tucked that stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering just a fraction of a second too long. It was as if he were determined to eliminate any tiny distraction standing between us.

My breath hitched, and my heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it. His hand, large and warm, gently covered mine as it rested on the bar counter.

I froze, every nerve in my body hyper-aware of the electricity between us, of the way his gaze seemed to linger on me, heavier than it had any right to be. My heart skipped a beat—maybe several—as I watched him unconsciously run his tongue across his lips.

“It’s late… You should go back to your room…”

“I don’t think you realize how much I need this,” I whispered. The noise around us faded. It was just his hand covering mine—warm, grounding.

“Real Spill?” He paused for a minute while speaking again. “Here is one… I don’t like these parties.”

“Me neither,” I said quickly. “The fake smiles, the shallow conversations. It’s exhausting like everyone’s wearing a mask, playing a role.”

His gaze lingered on mine, and I felt my heart skip an annoying beat. “You know, for someone who doesn’t like these parties… you’re surprisingly good at making people stay.”

“And for someone who claims to dislike complications.” I blinked. “You sure like sticking around.”