novelxo Broken Hearts: Chapter 7
bad. That’s what I keep telling myself for lying to Poppy. I’m doing this for her, not to cause pain. It’s evident she’s confused, in complete denial, yet the signs are unmistakable—she wants Ethan but is held back by fear. And fear, I know it well; a bit of it is healthy, but in excess? It blinds you, making you miss out on the best life has to offer.
So, here I am, the reluctant fairy godmother, pushing her toward what could be happiness.
Ethan seems nice and genuine, though. At least, that’s what it seemed like to me yesterday at the mall. I see the way he looks at Poppy; he cares for her, and this is why I’m willing to deceive my friend. Pretending I’ll go to a party I know damn well I will not attend. It has “trap” written all over it. I’m not sure Ethan is aware, and I hope he isn’t, but I will not tempt fate.
Not when there’s a shadow looming over me…Cole. He was in my room, somehow. The sight of my violin, conspicuously placed to taunt me, sends chills down my spine. How proud he is to have stolen my talent and gotten away with it. Part of me is angry for not listening to Max when he had pushed me to press charges or to give him a name. I was a stubborn mute on the subject. He’s a Westbrook, and his lackeys Derek and Jenny will be under his protection. It would have been his words against mine, and frankly, who would believe me? Even I sometimes struggle to believe that we were ever a couple despite having lived through it.
Sighing, I shake my head, rubbing the scar on my hand. He thinks he can break me, toy with my emotions. He’s wrong. There’s a certain freedom in having nothing left to lose, a strength in being perceived as weak. “Let him think I’m the prey,” I whisper to myself. “In his underestimation lies my power.”
Walking back into the living room, I find Poppy lost in thought, fiddling with the fringe of the blanket on her lap.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says while shaking her head.
Smiling, I sit by her feet. “What’s wrong?”
“I-It’s…I’m not…” She sighs, sitting a little straighter. “The thing is, we keep saying we’re going as friends, but I don’t think we are.”
“No, I don’t think you are either, but it’s not the end of the world.”
She shrugs. “I warned him that nothing would happen.”
“Exactly,” I encourage her gently. “It’s one evening, not a life commitment. Just see how it goes, how you feel in the moment. You might find your answers, and if you don’t, well, you’d have had a nice evening out. We both know you need it.”
Poppy nods, her eyes reflecting her hope and uncertainty. “But what if—”
“Don’t ‘what if’ yourself out of a potentially good thing,” I cut in, my tone soft but firm. “Overthinking before it happens can turn any hope into fear. Give it a chance, give yourself a chance.”
She looks at me, and there’s a warmth in her gaze. “You always know what to say, Eva. You’d make an amazing mother one day, you know?”
Her words, though meant as a compliment, strike a deep chord within me. A smile manages to appear on my face, but inside, my heart twinges. The thought often crosses my mind—how different could my life have been if my mom had been there when I fell for Cole? Would she have seen through his charm? Warned me? Supported me when everything fell apart? Of course she would have. My mother was perfect.
“Thanks, ” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “Right now, I’m trying to be a good friend.”
“You are. More than you know,” she says, squeezing my hand.
I stand up, feeling a need to move, to do something, anything to shake off the sudden melancholy. “Let’s not worry about the future, okay? Let’s focus on having fun for tonight. What do you think?”
Poppy’s smile returns, brighter this time. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s do that.”
As she stands up, I feel a sense of resolve solidifying within me. Despite my own struggles, my own jaded view of love and trust, I can still offer hope to someone else. Maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe, in helping Poppy find her happiness, I can find a bit of peace for myself.
On the evening of the varsity ball, I find myself in bed, a quiet sanctuary from the chaos outside. I’m relieved that Poppy isn’t mad about my lie. She understands my trauma, at least to some extent. Lying there, I realize the deep impact of the prom prank on me.
The mere thought of attending the ball with Cole around stirs a nauseating fear in me, a ghost from the past I can’t seem to shake off.
I distract myself with my favorite shows, laughter filling the room, pushing away thoughts of Cole and everything he represents. For a while, it works. I forget the hurt, the betrayal, and the shadows that lurk around my heart.
Later, I wander into the kitchen and then back to my room, lost in the relaxing evening. But then, suddenly, I’m encircled from behind. I don’t need to see to know it’s him. His scent, once a source of joy and comfort, now only brings hate and distress.
“You tell my friends I’m a predator.” Cole’s voice is a low growl in my ear.
“Case in point, Cole Westbrook. You just broke into my place, and you’re holding me against my will,” I retort, my voice steady despite the fear.
“Well, since you’re making me out to be a predator, maybe I should act like one.” His words send a shiver down my spine as he licks up my neck and catches my earlobe between his teeth, a gesture once beloved, now reviled.
“Lie as much as you want, but you know what they say. We never forget our first, and I was your first everything. Your first kiss, your first touch, your first orgasm… Tell me, Angel, if I slip my hand in your cotton panties, will I find the welcoming wetness I used to get drunk on?” His voice is a lustful whisper.
I hate myself for the memories his words evoke and more so for the involuntary response of my body. I stand rigid, a statue of contained fury.
“Evangeline to you,” I correct him, my voice ice cold. His use of “Angel” makes my scar throb painfully. “Yes, you were my first. My first regret, my first heartbreak, my first mistake.”
“What would your friends say if I told them you have my number tattooed on your lower back, huh? Number ‘9’ forever, isn’t it? Your favorite striker,” he taunts.
“Then they will know you’re lying. I have no number ‘9’ tattoo.”
His grip tightens around my waist, a sign I need to distract him, to lull him into a false sense of security. I lean my head forward, resting my chin on my chest, feeling his fingers at the back of my pajama pants. As he pulls them down, he discovers the truth—the butterfly tattoo that has replaced his number. Feeling his thumb trace its outline, a surge of warmth floods through me, a reminder of the pleasure his hands once brought, pushing away the memories of hurt from his past actions.
At that moment, I remember my training. Size can be deceptive. The human body has weak points, regardless of size. My aim is to exploit them. I strike quickly and fiercely, slamming my head back with full force. Despite the sharp pain at the back of my skull, the satisfaction of hearing his groan and the sound of something cracking is immensely gratifying.
He releases his hold, and I take a few steps away, grabbing the golf club I keep under my bed for protection.
I clutch the club tighter, ready to defend myself further if needed. His eyes meet mine, searching for something, maybe an understanding or a hint of the old me. But that girl is long gone.
“Are you happy now? Are we even?” he spits out, his voice laced with a bitter edge as blood trickles down his nose.
“Even?” I echo with incredulity. How could he possibly think anything between us could be squared away so simply? “You think this is about getting even?”
His glare hardens. “I stood you up at prom; you stood me up tonight. Seems fair.”
A hollow, disbelieving laugh escapes me. It’s absurd, almost pitiful, that he would reduce everything to such petty equivalences. “You think I’m mad about prom?” My laughter grows, tears streaming down my face, not from joy but from the sheer ridiculousness of his notion. “The prom is the least of it! I couldn’t care less about that night or you, for that matter. I would take a thousand prom pranks over—”
Stopping myself, I realize the futility of explaining. He wouldn’t understand, not really. He’s too caught up in his own narrative to see the depth of the damage he’s caused.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, my hands shaking. “Leave now, or I’m calling campus security.” My voice is firm, leaving no room for negotiation.
He stands there for a moment as if weighing his options, then with a sneer, he turns and strides out of my room. His parting words, “We’re not done,” hang in the air like a threat. I stand firm and unyielding, my stance trying to project intimidation.
As I hear the door close behind him, I’m left with a short-lived triumph and a deep, unsettling realization. This isn’t over, not by a long shot. Cole Westbrook is persistent, but so am I. In this twisted game, I’m no longer a piece to be moved at his will. I’m a player in my own right, and I’ll fight with everything I have.
I stand there, gripping the golf club tightly, my heart racing with adrenaline and fear. His retreat is a temporary relief, but the air still feels heavy, tainted by his presence. Lowering the club, my arms trembling, I let out a long, slow breath. The room is silent now, but the echoes of our confrontation hang thickly in the air.
In this stillness, my mind drifts back to a different time, a memory etched deep within me. It was after the first time we made love. The intensity of our connection had overwhelmed me, and in a moment of impulsive passion, I decided to get a tattoo—his number, number nine, a symbol of my love for him.
I remember walking into the tattoo parlor, my heart pounding with excitement and nervousness. The buzzing sound of the tattoo machine was intimidating, yet there was a thrill in the air that I couldn’t deny. I was shy as I explained what I wanted. The tattoo artist gave me an understanding smile and guided me through the process.
A couple of days later, when the tattoo had started to heal, I remember how my heart fluttered with anticipation as I prepared to show him. I was in my room when he came in, his presence filling the space with an electric charge. I hesitated for a moment, unsure of how he’d react. Gathering my courage, I turned and lifted my shirt and pulled down my skirt just enough to reveal the small tattoo on my lower back.
His reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, and a look of alpha male pride washed over his face. He strode over to me, his steps sure and domineering. “You did this for me?” he asked, his voice a low rumble filled with awe and a hint of possessiveness.
I nodded, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. “I wanted something to remember how I feel about you,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
Cole traced the tattoo with his finger, the touch sending shivers down my spine. “This means you’re mine, Eva. Only mine,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that left me breathless.
“I am,” I whispered back, and at that moment, I believed it. I was his, completely and irrevocably.
Because now, standing alone in my room with the ghost of that memory, I feel a pang of sorrow for the naive girl I was. The tattoo, once a symbol of undying love, has become a mark of my greatest regret. I had it covered with a butterfly, a sign of transformation and new beginnings, but the memory of what it once was still lingers.
I was his so completely then, and the dark, broken part of me still is and probably always will be. This part is my cautionary tale, one that might fester but that I will hold on to.
The night wears on, and I find myself unable to sleep. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, replaying the confrontation with Cole, the memories of our past, and the uncertainties of my future. I know I need to be strong, to stand my ground against whatever he has planned. He thinks he can control me, break me, but I’m not the same girl I once was. I’ve grown, evolved, and I won’t let him drag me back into the darkness.