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He’s dressed in an all-black suit with a yellow—almost gold—tie peeking from beneath the lapels of his jacket.

A smirk spreads across his face as I devour him with my eyes, staring for what feels like hours.

“Solnyshko.” One word paired with an easy smile.

My simmering rage reaches its peak and I march towards him, ready to murder him.

There was no one in sight, and as much as I loathed fighting a woman over a man, I was ready to do just that, had the room not been empty, save for him.

I’m a fucking hypocrite. I know.

“You motherfucker.” I growl, the sound ripping from deep inside me as I curl my fist and slam it against his chest.

I want it to hurt. I want him to feel even the smallest fraction of the pain hammering inside mine.

He said he didn’t love me. His words did nothing, already being aware of that fact that I’m not worthy of it. I can be used and discarded.

Then why am I still making a fool out of myself, chasing after him at a party I don’t belong in?

What starts as rage slowly bleeds into desperation. He doesn’t even try to stop me, standing there as static as a wall while I keep hitting his chest, calling him names, telling him to go fuck himself.

“Elara.” His voice is low, or maybe too loud, but the ringing in my ears makes everything sound distant.

“Fuck you, you arsehole.”

“Still angry?” Warm hands cup my cheeks. My fists fall uselessly to my sides as I look up at him, breathless and exhausted. “You’re so hot when you’re angry.”

“Stop talking.”

“Hit me.” He urges.

I push him away with a powerful shove. “I hate you.”

“Once again.” He tilts his head slightly. “Right in the centre this time. I want your hands on my heart.”

My jaw tightens, eyes burning with unshed tears as humiliation settles heavily in my chest. This is exactly why I don’t do emotions.

Fuck them. Fuck him.

“Listen to me, motherfucker.” I growl. “Stay away from me or I will kill you.”

Then I turn around despite knowing I’m the one who came here looking for him.

The strings of my self-control slip from my fingers, and he catches them with ease, playing me like a puppet whenever he’s near.

He brings back the wild, reckless girl I buried years ago. Before I started hating myself.

I’m walking around hitting people, hurting myself. He’s coaxing out every ugly part of me to the surface and toying with it for fun.

And I’m letting him.

My heels clack sharply against the marble floor as I storm through the crowd.

I hear footsteps behind me.

“Elara.” He calls out, but I don’t stop.

A large hand wraps around my wrist before he yanks me back against his chest.