TESSLYN'S POV
The envelope feels like magic in my hands.
I read the words for the hundredth time, heart hammering so hard it might break through my ribs. Ashcroft University. Full scholarship. Congratulations, Miss Verne.
I actually scream on the bus. Can't help it. The old lady next to me jumps, then smiles when she sees my face. I'm probably glowing like a Christmas tree.
"Good news, honey?" she asks.
"The best news," I say, clutching the letter to my chest. "I got into my dream school. Full ride."
She pats my hand with wrinkled fingers. "You earned it, I'm sure."
I did. Four years of perfect grades. Waitressing every weekend at that greasy diner where men twice my age called me "sweetheart" and left terrible tips. Writing essays until my eyes burned. All of it—every exhausting, scary, impossible moment—worth it for this single piece of paper.
But the best part? Callum got in too. Same university. Same campus. After three years of dating, we finally get to build our future together.
I practically bounce off the bus at his stop. His apartment is fifteen minutes away, but I run the whole distance. My lungs burn. My scholarship letter crinkles in my sweaty palm. I don't care.
Callum's going to lose his mind when I tell him.
I use my spare key—the one he gave me last Valentine's Day in a little red box with "You're my home" written inside the lid. The lock clicks. I push the door open, already smiling.
"Callum?" I call out. "You here? I have amazing news!"
Silence.
No, wait. Not silence.
Sounds drift from the bedroom. Music playing low. And something else. Giggling. A girl's voice, high and breathy, saying something I can't quite hear.
My smile freezes on my face.
"Callum?" I say again, quieter this time. My feet move toward the bedroom even though my brain screams at them to stop.
The door is cracked open. Just slightly. Just enough.
I push it wider.
For one terrible, endless second, my brain can't process what I'm seeing. It's like a puzzle with pieces that don't fit. Callum's bed. Tangled sheets. Two people moving together. Callum's blond hair. And red hair—bright, unmistakable red hair spread across his pillow.
Sienna's red hair.
My roommate. My friend. The girl who braided my hair last week while we watched stupid movies and ate ice cream.
They still haven't noticed me. Callum's back is to the door. Sienna's eyes are closed. She's making sounds that drive knives into my chest.
The acceptance letter slips from my fingers. It hits the hardwood floor with a soft whisper.
Callum's head snaps around.
Our eyes meet.
Time does something weird. Stretches like taffy. I see everything in perfect, horrible detail. The shock on his face. The way Sienna's eyes fly open. How she gasps and grabs for the sheet. The red marks on Callum's shoulders—nail scratches.
"Tess—" Callum scrambles off the bed, nearly falling, grabbing for his boxers. "Tess, wait, this isn't—it's not what it—"
I turn around. Just turn and walk. My legs move on autopilot.
"Tesslyn!" Callum's voice chases me down the hallway. Footsteps pounding behind me. "Stop! Let me explain!"
I walk faster. The front door seems miles away. My vision blurs at the edges.
His hand catches my shoulder. Spins me around. He's barely dressed, hair wild, eyes desperate.
"It was a mistake," he says, words tumbling out fast and panicked. "She came over and we were just talking and I don't know how it happened—"
"Don't." My voice sounds strange. Flat. Like someone else is using my mouth. "Don't say anything."
"I love you!" His fingers dig into my arms. "Tess, I love you. This was nothing. She means nothing."
Over his shoulder, I see Sienna in the doorway. She's wrapped in Callum's sheet—the blue one with the coffee stain that never came out. The one I helped him pick out at Target six months ago.
She won't look at me. Just stares at the floor, red hair hiding her face.
Something breaks inside my chest. Not my heart—that's too small. Something bigger. Something that holds everything together.
"How long?" I hear myself ask.
"What?"
"How. Long."
Callum's face does something complicated. "Tess—"
"HOW LONG?" I'm shouting now. Didn't mean to. But suddenly I'm screaming and tears are pouring down my face and I can't breathe right. "A week? A month? TELL ME!"
"Two months," Sienna whispers from the doorway.
The world tilts sideways.
Two months. Eight weeks. Sixty days of lies. Of Callum kissing me while tasting like her. Of Sienna hugging me while wearing his smell. Of both of them looking me in the eye and pretending everything was fine.
"I was going to end it," Callum says desperately. "I swear. After finals. I was going to—"
I rip my arms free. My acceptance letter is still on the floor near the bedroom door. I stare at it—that stupid piece of paper that felt like magic five minutes ago.
Same university. Same campus. I'll see him everywhere. Every day. With her, probably. The happy couple while I'm the idiot who didn't notice.
"Tess, please." Callum's crying now. Actually crying. "Don't leave like this. We can fix this. I'll do anything. Anything."
I look at him—really look. Three years. I gave him three years. My first kiss. My first everything. I told him things I never told anyone. Showed him the scholarship essay I rewrote seventeen times because I was so scared it wasn't good enough. Let him hold me when I cried about my mom working double shifts so I could afford application fees.
And he threw it away. For two months of fun with my roommate.
"We're done," I say. My voice doesn't shake. Should shake. Feels like it should. But it comes out steady. Cold. "Don't call me. Don't text me. We're done."
"Tesslyn—"
I walk out. Down the stairs. Out the building. Into the street.
The late afternoon sun hurts my eyes. Cars pass by. Normal people living normal days. None of them know my entire world just exploded.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again. And again. Texts from Callum flooding in. I turn the phone off without reading them.
I walk for hours. No destination. Just walking because stopping means feeling, and I can't feel yet. Can't let the pain catch up.
When I finally look around, the sun is setting. I'm in a part of the city I don't recognize. Fancy buildings. Expensive cars. People in suits walking past.
And right in front of me, glowing with warm light and quiet music, is a bar.
The Violet Hour, the sign says in curling gold letters.
I've never been to a bar alone. Never even really drank except at a few parties where Callum watched my cup and walked me home. Good, protective boyfriend Callum. Cheating, lying Callum.
My feet carry me to the door.
A man in a black suit opens it. "ID?" he says politely.
I show him my license with shaking hands. Nineteen. Legal.
He nods me through.
The bar is beautiful. Dark wood. Low lighting. Jazz playing soft in the background. Everyone here looks expensive. Important. Like they belong.
I definitely don't belong.
But I walk to the bar anyway. Slide onto a leather stool.
The bartender—young guy with kind eyes—raises an eyebrow. "Rough day?"
"Is it that obvious?" My voice cracks slightly.
"Little bit." He slides a menu toward me. "What can I get you?"
I don't know anything about alcohol. The menu might as well be in French. But one word catches my eye.
"Whiskey," I say, because that's what people drink in movies when their lives fall apart. "Please."
He hesitates. "You sure? Whiskey's pretty—"
"I'm sure."
He pours. Slides the glass across the bar. Amber liquid that catches the light.
I lift it to my lips. The smell alone makes my eyes water. But I drink anyway.
It burns. God, it burns going down. Like swallowing fire. I cough, eyes streaming.
The bartender winces sympathetically. "Want some water with that?"
"Another one," I rasp. "Please."
He pours. I drink. This time it burns less. Or maybe I'm just getting numb.
"Drinking alone is dangerous."
The voice comes from beside me. Deep. Smooth. Male.
I turn my head.
And everything—everything—changes.
The man sitting one stool over is beautiful. Not boy-next-door handsome like Callum. Beautiful in a way that makes my breath catch. Dark auburn hair slightly messy. Sharp jaw. And eyes—blue-gray eyes that look sad and haunted and knowing all at once.
He's older. Maybe early thirties. Wearing a dark sweater that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
And he's looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing in the world.
"So is trusting people," I shoot back, surprising myself.
His mouth curves into a smile that doesn't reach those devastating eyes. "Fair point."
He lifts his glass—also whiskey. "To dangerous choices?"
Something reckless unfurls in my chest. Something that doesn't care about safe or smart or appropriate.
I lift my glass. It clinks against his.
"To dangerous choices," I echo.
We drink.
And I have no idea that I'm staring at the man who will destroy everything.