The air outside slapped him in the face. Cold, sober, brutal.
Craig didn’t stop walking. Not when he heard Adriana’s voice behind him. Not when Keith called his name. Not even when his phone buzzed three times in his pocket.
He shoved his hands in his jacket, jaw clenched so tight it ached. He started this fire. Threw the first stone. Pushed until she broke.
She looked at him like he was worse than Conor. Like she didn’t even recognize the person standing in front of her.
And maybe she was right.
Maybe he didn’t recognize himself either.
Craig slowed as he reached the edge of the lot, the cool metal of his phone biting into his palm. His reflection stared back at him in the window—flushed, angry, a little too undone for his own liking.
This wasn’t part of the plan. He was supposed to keep things cool, stay neutral—cordial, even. Not let it get complicated. Not make everything worse.
But he’d let his emotions get the better of him.
He climbed into the back of the limo, the door shutting with a muted click. No bass. No flashing lights. Just the stillness of the alley and the hollow ache settling deeper in his chest.
He leaned back, eyes on the dark window, jaw clenched.
His hand curled into a loose fist against the leather seat. Not a hit. Just pressure. Controlled. Contained.
"Stupid," he muttered under his breath.
"Sir?" The chauffeur’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
Craig registered the man’s presence with a quick glance. He sighed, irritated. "Just drive," he said, the order sharp as he gestured for the car to move.
The engine hummed to life, but before the car pulled away, the door opened again. Adriana slid in, her heels clicking softly as she settled into the seat beside him. Her dress shimmered faintly in the low light, as though she hadn’t quite realized the night was already over.
"You okay?" she asked, voice soft. "You just dipped. Was it Keith? Or the guys?"
Craig didn’t answer. He stayed still, every nerve screaming to move, to forget, to get out. But his gaze stayed fixed on the blur of streetlights outside. Adriana had no idea what had just happened—and he wasn’t about to explain. Not to her. Not to anyone.
She tried again. "You’ve been off all night."
Craig forced a smirk, but it didn’t touch his eyes. "Didn’t know I needed a permission slip to leave a party."
She laughed lightly, nudging him with her shoulder. "Okay, fair. But you’ve got that silent-storm face. Like you’re two thoughts away from breaking something." She paused, "Or someone."
Craig exhaled slowly and locked the car with a click. "I’m fine."
"You don’t look fine," she said, frowning. "Did someone say something?"
He leaned against the car, arms crossed. "People say a lot of things."
Adriana studied him, her expression caught between concern and uncertainty. She didn’t push. Instead, she moved to stand beside him, her hand finding his in the dark.
"I’ve got you, okay?" she said quietly. "Whatever’s going on."
Craig glanced down at her hand in his. Guilt pricked his skin.
Sleep? Yeah, that didn’t happen.
I just lay there, eyes open, watching shadows crawl across the ceiling like they might rearrange the mess in my head, but they didn’t. Everything stayed the same.
Craig’s voice looped like a broken record. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him ?
’It only made sense that you were using him...’
I still couldn’t shake the fact that he spoke like my mom’s death was part of some game, like I was scheming instead of a daughter caught in grief.
And I held it together. Barely.
Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just walked out.
But what haunted me most wasn’t the fight.
It was the moment before. In that damn restroom. The trace of his hands still clung to my skin, like some part of him had stayed with me, refusing to let go.
He looked at me like I wasn’t a puzzle he needed to solve, but something he already understood. Like he’d seen past all the armor, all the reasons he should’ve walked away—and still didn’t. His fingers brushed against my wrist like I might break if he let go too fast. And for one breathless second, I wanted to stay right there. In that impossible moment. Frozen in time.
In that moment, I forgot who we were, forgot the names, the families, the tragedy that tied us together.
We were just two people, too close, too tired of pretending we didn’t feel it. I even had to lie about dating Louis, just to get out of that situation.
And why did he do that to me?
He touched me like I belonged to him. Pulled me close, like it was inevitable. Pressed me against that wall like he didn’t want to let go.
And I hated that I wanted him. Not because it was wrong, but because it felt too real. Because when he looked at me like that, like I was something he couldn’t hurt—I let myself believe it. Even if just for a heartbeat.
Then reality came crashing back in. Hard and cruel.
I’d replayed that scene a hundred times since. Every glance. Every word. Every touch.
And no matter how many times I told myself it meant nothing...in my gut, I knew it did.
Because deep down, I realized that moment had nothing to do with Louis. Nothing to do with Conor. It was about us, tangled in a mess we could never get out of.
And now it was morning. Still fresh. Still unsettling.
Megan hovered near my bed like I was made of glass. Hair messy, mascara smudged. "Hey," she whispered, voice soft. "You good?"
She came closer, holding out a Starbucks cup like an offering. "Your usual. Black. No sugar."
I took it with a mumbled "thanks," hands tight around the cup like it could keep me from shaking.
"You wanna talk about it?"
But the words were still stuck in my throat, refusing to make sense when I tried to say them aloud.
Megan sat beside me, sipping her drink. Quiet. No pressure. And honestly, I loved her for that.
My phone buzzed on the bed.
Still too angry. At Craig, at myself, for letting him get under my skin. For still hoping he wasn’t like his brother.
I closed my eyes. Focus. I came to Belford for answers. For justice.
Not for Craig Lesnar and this emotional rollercoaster. Not for how he made me feel, like I was spinning out and couldn’t hit pause.
Megan shifted. "By the way," she said, eyeing her phone, "Louis says he’s been texting."
I sighed. "Yeah. I noticed. I’ve been... hangover recovering."
She snorted and grabbed my phone. "Want me to read ’em to you?"
I pulled the blanket closer to my chest. "Okay fine."
She scrolled. "Okay. First one—’Hope you’re okay. Let me know when you’re up.’ Next—’Need to talk. It’s important.’"
I sat up a little. That got my attention.
She glanced at me, then kept going. "’Last night at the party... someone said they might’ve seen Conor Lesnar.’"