Love is for the weak—or so I told myself after the glass finally shattered.
It always looks harmless at first. Soft. Safe. A warm thing you cup in your hands because you're cold and tired and want to believe the world has more to offer than sharp edges. Love smiles at you like it knows your name. Love promises.
Then the world collapses, and you learn the truth.
A girl like me—stitched together by old scars and newer lies, hiding behind a smile that never quite reaches my eyes—was never meant to be loved. I was a distraction. A thrill. Something temporary for beautiful monsters who learned early how to say the right words and mean none of them.
He told me he loved me.
Three years of shared mornings, late-night confessions, whispered futures. Three years reduced to a single frozen image burned into my mind: him in our bed, hands tangled in someone else's hair. She was taller, flawless in a way magazines try to bottle and sell. Perfect skin. Perfect smile. The kind of woman who never doubts she'll be chosen.
And there he was—my beautiful destruction—loving her with the same mouth that had sworn he was mine.
That was the moment the rose-colored glasses shattered. Not cracked. Shattered. Three years down the drain in the time it took my heart to stop and restart wrong.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just walked out, shut the door softly behind me, and kept walking until my legs gave out and I ended up somewhere quiet and dim and breathing jazz.
That's how I found myself in the bar.
The place hummed low and intimate, all shadow and amber light. Smoke clung to the ceiling like a secret. A slow saxophone wept from unseen speakers, and for the first time that night, my thoughts quieted enough to breathe.
Behind the bar stood another beautiful monster.
He made drinks like they were art—each movement deliberate, precise, almost reverent. Watching him was hypnotic. He didn't rush. Didn't waste motion. Everything about him suggested control.
"Would you like a drink?"
His voice was smooth, deep, the kind that carried without trying. I swallowed.
"I—I honestly don't know. I don't drink. I just… wound up here." My voice trailed off as memories clawed their way up my throat.
One dark brow lifted. His name tag read Leo.
"You don't drink, and you find yourself alone in a bar at night?" Amusement flickered in his eyes. "Rough day?"
"Something like that," I said. "Whatever you recommend is fine."
Leo disappeared behind the counter, and I found myself studying the tattoos that mapped his arms—inked stories etched into skin. A gun. Playing cards. Symbols I didn't recognize but somehow felt. Every line intentional. Danger, professionally dressed.
He set the glass in front of me with a soft smile. "On the house. I hope you enjoy."
The drink shimmered under the low lights, fruity and bright. I took a sip—and frowned.
"There's no alcohol in this."
"A mocktail," he said, nodding once. "You said you don't drink."
"I was kind of hoping for something stronger."
"You're not drinking because you like the taste," he replied calmly. "You're drinking to quiet something. That's a slippery slope. I don't let people fall apart in my bar."
I stared at him. "Great. Sober and heartbroken."
"What will it take?" he asked.
I scoffed. "What?"
"You can talk to me."
"And why would I want to do that?"
"Because it's easier to bleed on a stranger," he said gently. "Especially one who won't remember. Who would I tell? What purpose would it serve?"
I hated that his logic made sense.
"He said he loved me," I admitted, the words tasting bitter. "Three years. And I walked in on him with another woman."
Leo's expression hardened—not with anger, but something colder.
"The greatest trick a monster pulls," he said, "is earning a woman's trust. A naked woman is a vulnerable woman. If a man breaks that trust, he deserves nothing."
He slid another glass toward me. "Try this instead."
The burn was light. Sweet. Balanced. It didn't numb—just cleared the fog enough for me to breathe.
"Thank you," I said softly, surprised when a real smile touched my lips.
"Worth it," he replied. "Unfortunately, I'm closing. May I walk you to your car?"
"I didn't drive. I'm staying at a hotel until I can find an apartment."
He didn't like that answer, but he didn't pry. "Where do you work?"
"The café around the corner. With the cats." My face heated. "We help them get adopted."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "That tracks."
I barely noticed we'd stepped outside until I saw the car.
Matte black. Red interior. A Lamborghini purring quietly like a restrained predator.
I froze. "Who are you, Leo?"
"Just a bartender," he said smoothly, opening the passenger door. "Get in. I'll drop you off."
Every instinct screamed bad idea. I ignored it.
The city blurred past us. Too fast.
"Leo," I said carefully. "We passed three hotels."
"If you're staying in one," he replied, "it should be a good one."
My phone buzzed. Lorenzo.
I turned it face down. "I'm ignoring him. He doesn't exist."
"Lorenzo?" Leo asked, too casually.
"Lorenzo Casanova. The man I was stupid enough to love."
The car went faster.
My heart started to race. Then his phone rang.
"Luca," he said. "Prep a room. Things are about to get messy."
My blood ran cold.
"You're not just a bartender," I whispered.
"No," he admitted.
"Do you know Lorenzo?" I asked.
His jaw tightened. "Unfortunately."
"He manages a casino," I said. "That's all I knew."
"He does much more than that."
The house loomed like a fortress. Inside waited two men—danger written into bone and silence.
Reality snapped into place.
"I'm in a house full of mobsters," I said faintly. "And because of me, you're about to be at war."
Leo met my eyes—steady, unwavering.
"No," he said. "Because of him."
And in that moment, standing among beautiful monsters, I realized the truth:
This wasn't the end of my story.
It was the beginning.