Brandon's POV
I had been pacing the length of my sitting room for the past hour, cursing myself under my breath. Not at anyone else, not at Chloe—but at myself. That night at the café, leaving her there, alone, had been unforgivable. Every time I thought about it, it sent a shiver down my spine. The cold. The dark. Her little figure, sitting with nothing but a phone and a purse. And then Seth. Seth had shown up when I called, like some knight in casual armor, and scooped her out of danger—or whatever minor danger I imagined she'd been in.
I hated him for it. I hated myself more. Because it wasn't just the thought of Chloe in Seth's arms that made my chest tighten—it was the truth I couldn't escape: I had been powerless, a bystander in my own story. And now, everywhere I turned, there she was, laughing with Seth, running through the halls with him like he was her shadow. And I? I was supposed to be above jealousy, above these childish pangs. Supposedly.
