Wednesday Afternoon
Lola sat at the oceanside, the warm sand soft and white beneath her fingers. Silver-and-red headphones hugged her ears, the faint pulse of Moth to a Flame by The Weeknd and Swedish House Mafia drowning the world out. She wore a light floral summer dress, colors that seemed to melt into the brightness of the afternoon, blending perfectly with the mood of the sea and sky.
Her eyes were closed. She wasn't listening to the lyrics—not really. She had the playlist on repeat, but her mind was elsewhere, tangled in thoughts she couldn't escape. The waves rose and fell in rhythm with the wind, as if the earth itself echoed her state of mind.
The beach wasn't crowded today. A scattering of tourists wandered in the distance, but nothing more. Because her penthouse wasn't far from the shoreline, Lola had walked here just to breathe. To clear her head.
And yet, peace was impossible. Her thoughts kept circling back.
Something happened three months ago—something that had left its mark, sharp and unhealed. She kept asking herself what, exactly, hurt the most. Because so much had happened at once.
It had started at her best friend Bummi's wedding in Paris.
That was when it all began.
---
Flashback: The Wedding
That night, she had worn a yellow slit evening gown that clung in all the right places, a gown that shimmered under the ballroom lights. The reception hall itself was a monument to extravagance: glass chandeliers glittering like constellations, gold-accented walls, and tables lined with roses. Guests had flown in from across the world—family, politicians, influencers, business tycoons, old classmates, every tier of society represented.
Exclusive didn't even begin to describe it. The passway had required a card so rare and private that unless you were specifically invited, you didn't make it past the entrance.
The bride and groom shone that night, radiant as the morning sun. N95 by Kendrick Lamar blared from the speakers, filling the hall with pounding energy. Many guests sang along, their voices swelling with the beat. The entire affair had been orchestrated by one of the world's most famous event planners—elegant, extravagant, and flawless.
Lola had found herself tucked in the corner with Ojo and his boyfriend Jimmy, sipping on glasses of vintage white wine. They teased her endlessly about catching the bouquet earlier.
"You're lucky," Jimmy had grinned. "Out of all of us, the bouquet landed in your hands."
But the teasing soured when Lola realized who caught the garter: the last man she wanted to see alive. She refused to talk about it, no matter how much Ojo and Jimmy pressed. Instead, she gulped down her wine and wandered off, trying to lose herself in the music.
When the energy in the hall surged and the crowd whooped, her gaze drifted to the stage—and froze.
Ryan.
Her rival. The man she swore never to cross paths with again.
He had the microphone, swaggering under the spotlight, pulling the crowd into Fein by Travis Scott and Playboi Carti.
Lola's stomach knotted. Not tonight. Not here.
She rose abruptly, ready to leave, but then the song flipped.
My Eyes by Travis Scott.
And when Ryan sang, his resemblance to Travis was uncanny—his voice, his movements, everything. For the audience, it was magic. For Lola, it was poison.
Their eyes locked across the hall. Anger surged in her chest; his gaze, however, carried something softer, almost pleading.
She turned and stormed out.
Ryan dropped the mic and followed.
---
The night air was sharp against her skin as she ran into the darkened fields beyond the venue, tears stinging her eyes. She cursed herself for coming at all. But it was her best friend's wedding—what choice had she had? She hadn't known her enemy would show up.
Behind her came his voice.
"Hey—"
She jolted at the sound, then spun, her eyes flashing. "What is it? How may I help you?"
Ryan hesitated, his chest rising with steadying breaths. He took one cautious step forward.
"Don't!" she snapped. "Don't you dare come one inch closer. Stay right where you are."
He stopped. Obeyed.
Lola let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Oh, wait. Don't tell me that performance was for me? That little act? Please. Too expensive for me to buy. Whatever trash you wanted to say—keep it in your mouth."
Ryan lifted his hands, palms open. "Okay, fine, you caught me. But do you mind letting me explain?"
"No." Her voice was like a blade. "I'd rather sit beside a truck of rotting garbage than stand here and listen to you. You owe me nothing. Just go to hell for all I care."
He exhaled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "You make it sound like I used you."
"Yes." Lola folded her arms across her chest, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "You did. You wanted a one-time thing—and you got it. Happy now?"
His expression hardened. "Jesus, come on. I didn't use you for self-benefit. I—"
"Stop explaining!" she hissed through clenched teeth. "I saw you. With another woman. In your studio. You're nothing but a dog. I regret the day I met you, Ryan. I regret the day I gave you my body to misuse."
His jaw tightened. "You're acting like we were perfect, like we were even in a relationship before—"
"I know we weren't in a relationship," she cut in, her voice rising. "But you don't treat people like that. You don't use someone and throw them away like trash. Like I was nothing."
Her voice cracked, but she wouldn't let him see it.
Ryan tried again, softer now. "Let me make it up to you—"
He stepped forward.
"Stay where you are!"
Her purse was in her hand before she even realized it. She swung the iron medal of the clasp hard against his forehead.
"Shit!" he staggered back, clutching his head as blood trickled down.
Lola's breath caught at the sight, but guilt never came. She turned and ran, leaving him in the shadows.
That was only the beginning.
---
One Month Later
It didn't end there.
Weeks after the wedding, Ryan found her again.
That night, Lola had stayed late at work in the tall glass building downtown. Most of her colleagues had already gone. When the last of them left, they urged her to finish tomorrow. She waved them off, insisting she'd stay behind.
By the time she finally packed her things and walked out, the street outside was quiet. And there—parked at the curb—was a black Toyota Prado SUV flanked by two convoys. Men in black suits stood like shadows, eyes scanning the area.
Lola barely glanced at them. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, her mind focused only on the food waiting at home. She started across the street.
One of the men stepped in her path.
"My boss wants to see you, miss."
Her brows arched. "Excuse me? I'm not in the mood to see anyone. Do me a favor—tell your boss I don't talk to strangers." She turned on her heel.
She didn't make it far.
The guard swept her off her feet, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack.
"Put me down! Help! Somebody help!" She kicked, slapped, pounded her fists against his back. "You're kidnapping me!"
He carried her straight to the SUV and shoved her inside.
The door slammed.
And there he was.
Ryan.
Sitting across from her, smug grin plastered on his face.
"Hi," he said smoothly. "Tired of yelling yet?"