Huge shout out and thanks to Lord of the Gauntlets for betaing- your encouragement and edits have meant the world for me and my story. Also shout out to Cosmic Ange for giving me some suggestions and pushing me to develop my characters. This beginning/initial idea for this story came from a Colleen Hoover book I don't like, but from there I obviously take it my own direction. Story and characters obviously belong to the original creators; if I've included quotes from books or movies I try to credit them.

Have fun, and leave a review if you feel like it!

Before

Adrenaline rushes through me.

I punched her.

I punched her in the face.

My first punch ever and spot on.

I had pictured this moment before, in my dreams. In my dreams this moment had happened with my mortal enemy, Carlotta Gucci, and it came with a feeling of triumph.

Now the only thing I feel is a sickening roll deep in my gut.

I have to puke.

Liar and cheater. Stealer of boyfriends and bitchy Barbie.

Looking at her on the floor, blood dripping, my mind tries to protect itself by listing off everything she now is to me. But at the same time—

Roommate. Almost sister. Best friend since there were still dinosaurs and mammoths on this planet.

My body is going into panic mode, but the chant is the same over and over again in my head—

Traitor, traitor, traitor.

It thuds in time with each beat of my heart—

Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.

The angry red welt that is forming on her cheek stares at me. For a split second, remorse shoots through me, harsh and fierce. I want hug her, want to say I'm sorry, want to pretend that nothing happened and forgive her.

Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.

Good luck covering that up, Meg. My fingernails dig into my palms. Do me a favor and tell everyone exactly who gave it to you. No more lies, no more lies.

How much of our friendship has been lies these past months?

How much of it has ever been real?

When she joked about me having a little fun with the neighbor, was she being serious? Had all this time she wanted me away so she could have my boyfriend to herself?

What about when I had to visit Aunt Valerius for a weekend, and Raoul bailed on me? Was it because he wanted to screw her, not because of the endless amount of homework he had?

My stomach lurches, bile rising in my throat.

My entire life is one big fat lie and I don't know where I messed up or where things started going wrong.

How did I mess this up? I've always been in control, always known the next three things, next steps to get me where I want to go. I've never let anything throw me so much, never let anything unexpected come up and send me into panic.

How was I not able to anticipate this?

My head spins, another rush of anger coursing through me.

Big, blonde, Meg. Freaking. Giry.

Without thinking, my fist tries to find her face again, only this time, Raoul — pardon me, Raoul The Cheater de Changy jumps in front of her.

What the hell is wrong with him?

What the hell is wrong with me? My mind whimpers.

So I punch him in the face instead. His skull makes a loud crack, and he lets out an agonizing growl.

Good.

No, not good.

He only holds onto Meg The Cheater Giry, as if he needs to be her knight in shining armor and protect from the raging bitch dragon who has been dating him for three years. He holds onto her like it's not his girlfriend he's hurt, but the cheating, lying whore.

Three years.

Three. Long. Years.

For three long years, we have been together. He has slept in my bed. I have slept in his. I have gone out to dinner with his devil parents. He has comforted me in my grief when it was too hard to bear, when I needed someone. He is my other half and I am his. His heart beats with mine, he knows everything about me, and I him.

Or maybe not. Maybe I don't know who he is.

Because what does he do, the second my back is turned?

He goes and fucking cheats.

Like nothing has happened between us. Like I am his useless little side girl, like I am disposable. Like I have never been anything to him, and he has never been anything to me.

My heart throbs in pain, and my first echoes it. Echoes it when I punch him again. When I kick her. When I want to scream.

No one ever tells you in action movies or fantasy novels that punching someone in the face freaking hurts.

And no one ever tells you, nothing ever prepares you for this feeling of your heart smashing into a million pieces.

I hold back anything that will show them how hurt I am. How, in less than an hour, they managed to wreck my life.

My lungs feel like they're about to explode.

The urge to punch and destroy buries into the pain, replaced only with an urgent need to get the hell out of this place.

My vision blurs. The rushing in my head covers the moaning. Yelling. Pleading. My body goes into autopilot as I yank open the closet door and dig around for the suitcase I never use. The untouched Louis Vuitton Raoul got me for Christmas last year stares at me, and I'm suddenly glad I never got attached to it.

You'll use it when we travel the world, he had said. You'll use it when I take you back to Switzerland, and to my home in France.

He had kissed her. They had made love and nothing had been wrong and yet everything had been wrong.

Was he screwing her then, too?

When I wanted to visit my father's grave and — oh, he was so, so, sorry, but he had to study for a test — was he wanting to get her away so he could fuck her?

I push aside the memories that threaten to drown me, and dig for the small dingy pink suitcase I haven't used in years. It's half the size of the Vuitton, but it will have to do.

There is no way in hell I am taking any piece of him with me.

They're calling after me, yelling excuses I choose not to hear, and I slam my bedroom door, locking it. I refuse to listen to what they have to say, their excuses.

There are none.

There is no good excuse for your boyfriend to cheat on you with your roommate and best friend.

There is no good excuse for you best friend and only person your consider family to have sex with your boyfriend.

I blink back the well of tears, taking a deep breath. Crying will not solve any of my problems, and I need to think logically.

What do I need?

Looking around the room, it hits me that I don't even care about half the stuff in here — none of it feels like mine. It's all either gifts from Raoul, or stuff Meg's mother gave to us when we first moved in together three years ago.

Has it been going on all these three years?

"No," I whisper to no one. I refuse to let myself go there.

What even is mine, anyway? I nearly laugh. Looks like not even my boyfriend ever was. Ha. Ha.

I swallow back the hurt, and turn to grab the obvious: clothes (none of his old tee shirts), my small book collection, a rose my father gave me when I turned sixteen. Shoes. Socks. Journals. The picture of my father, his violin case stuffed back in the closet where I don't have to see it and feel all of the hurt again. Where I don't have to see it and remember it's empty, like my heart. The old sheet music. A red—

No, no red scarves.

I toss it back into the closet. Looking around the room…

Is this all I have?

My entire life in a pink suitcase that is graying from age?

A paper swan.

My eyes snag on it where it rests next to my side table, and I stare at it, wondering if I should bring it. Without thinking, I carefully fold it and stuff it into the last compartment of the suitcase, praying it doesn't crush. The suitcase bulges, and I know even if I had more stuff it wouldn't fit.

I sit on it and zip it up.

Raoul beats on the door like he's about to break it down.

I stare at the door, shaking in its hinges. I can't bring myself to move from the perch on the suitcase as of now. Something in me doesn't want to leave. I don't want to leave everything I've created these three years behind, but I have to.

Because if I don't, it's going to hurt more.

He beats on the door again.

Perhaps I should be worried, but I doubt he will. Beat down the door, that is. He's never been strong enough for that type of thing. He's only ever been a lying, cheating, bastard.

I bet the next door neighbors are enjoying the show, even if I can't find the humor in it. A glance at the clock reads nearly midnight. Yep, they're heard every scream, every word.

At least I won't be here when the complaints come.

But somehow, through the noise, there is quiet. For a moment, the silence washes over me. A feeling of calm captivates me before I face the storm.

In the quiet, my phone makes a soft ping from my desk, and I stand, walking over to it.

I glance at the notification that lights up my screen, only a few words.

A few words that hit me like a punch in the stomach.

Do you need to come over?

Without thinking, my eyes dart past the sliding doors and across the street to his balcony.

Sure enough, he's standing in the illuminated doorway, phone in hand and looking right at me. Those cat like eyes flash when I meet them.

Somehow, despite the street below us and the walls between us, his heat rushes over me. The power that I've always felt, radiating off of him.

Only this time, it is laced with anger.

I should fear it, this death before me, but my heart only lurches. Like there is a string from my heart to his, and he is pulling me towards him.

Possessing me.

The man has always been a phantom in my mind, but now more than ever in his consuming darkness does it seem real. His door is the only one out of the neighbors that has a light on, illuminating the room that he is in but casting him in a shadow. His features are too dark to make out from here, but he stands casually against the door frame.

There is nothing in him that is casual, though.

Only darkness.

Like a black hole that leads straight to hell, I should be running from his darkness.

But I can only stare at him.

He holds my gaze, stands there, knowing.

Calculating.

Mocking.

A spear goes through my heart—

I've been cheated by every bastard in my life.

Smiling, I flip him off.

He shrugs, and the lights flicker off behind him, enclosing him in the shadows.

I wait like the hopeful bitch I am, waiting for my phone to ping again, but it stays silent. My heart sinks further into my stomach with him gone, as if I waved goodbye my last chance of survival.

My heart thuds. It's not the reaction I wanted from him.

But what would he do for me in the first place? We don't know each other. What could he, of all people, do to make things better?

Persist?

Rescue me?

My emotions… my emotions are so shot. So shot I don't know if this is burning anger or consuming sadness filling me. Taking over any ounce of hope I had left in me.

I try to take a deep breath and come up with a battle plan. If not a battle plan, what else? An anything plan. A what the hell to possibly to next plan.

As it turns out, I'm not creative; all I can think of is getting out as soon as possible.

I can't think of any comebacks or smart remarks, sabotages, or how to get away with murder plans, because I know argueing or reasoning with them would be pointless.

The fact is, they suck

And I am leaving.

In one move, I unlock my bedroom door and swing it open. Raoul The Disgusting Ex-Boyfriend de Changy falls, as if he were leaning all of his pathetic weigh on the door. His disgusting ass lands at my feet and I stare at him for a moment, emotions rushing all over again.

I want him to remember this moment.

This moment where he ruined my life — no, his life by cheating on me.

I want him to regret losing me.

I want him to regret not fighting for me.

I want him to remember this moment and feel all of the pain that I am feeling because—

"I loved you," the words tumble out of me.

He stills, face set in shock.

But it was true.

I loved this horrible bastard. I loved him so much I was considering moving in with him, considering sharing the rest of our lives together. I was considering sharing the dark part of my soul that consumed me, a thing called music.

Emotions well in me, threatening to burst out, threatening to ruin my battle plan.

Threatening to take him back despite all of this, threatening to love him again.

But I can't.

I can't now and never will be able to love him or another person again. Love fucks people up, and I swear to God I am never messing with it again—

"Please, Christine, you don't understand!" Meg comes running in, tripping and landing on him. "It wasn't cheating, I swear it wasn't! We've… Raoul and I have always had an open relationship! Sex is as casual for us… as… as have a conversation! You don't understand because—"

"Because what? Because I was a simple minded poor girl from a foreign country no one has heard of without parents? Because my father wasn't even legally a citizen when he was alive? Because he couldn't get a real job and provide for his daughter? Is that why you think I don't understand?" Everything…. Everything from all these years comes boiling up. All of the things I wanted to say but couldn't. And now that it's rushing out, I can't shut the hell up. "You think… you think because I am from a different place, you thought because I didn't have money, I would never catch on to how you worthless Americans do things?"

"Christine this has nothing to do with your heritage. I thought the Swedish was cute, I really did, but—" Raoul tries butting in.

"But you thought that a tutor would help get rid of my accent so I could go to your family brunches?"

I don't know why I'm bringing any of this up. It happened year ago. It was silly and dumb and—

And maybe it needs to come out. Maybe it's been boiling and boiling and boiling and he's finally getting it. Maybe all of this is why we couldn't work. Maybe I was keeping all of my real thoughts and feelings from him and finally I'm done.

I am finally done with it.

"I don't understand it… any of it," I mutter under my breath, picking up my suitcase and stepping over them.

And I don't get it. I don't understand what I did wrong. I have worked and worked and paid for my school and paid my bills on time and tried to be a good little citizen, but nothing worked.

I want to puke looking at them, the hopeful little looks on their faces.

As if anything hopeful could come out of this situation.

No, they've been planning this for months. Planning to make my stomach roll with every look and taunt. Every tease and suggestive comment. They've been waiting these months to get rid of me, and the second I leave, they are going to have hot, we finally got rid of Christine after her being in the way for three years, sex on my old bedroom floor.

"How funny this open relationship didn't include me," I finally fume, and slam the apartment door behind me.

Raoul yells, but it is muffled by the door and they don't come to it. I turn down the hallway, my shoes making thuds in the soft carpet. I press the elevator button and wait for what feels like an eternity for the pleasant ding and opening of the doors that will take me to salvation, but it doesn't come.

"For God's sake." I slam my fist against the button as I remember the notice they put up a few days ago.

Elevator temporarily out of order.

Turning around, I walk all the way to the other side of the hall, where the stairs are. As I pass my old door, only silence greets me.

Silence

Not yelling, no acussing.

Dark silence.

I'm sure they are having a great time. I roll my eyes, but my heart pinches.

I lift my suitcase and open the door to the stairs. Did I have to pick the sixth floor? And why were books so damn heavy? Why couldn't I leave the stupid sentiment behind? Six flights of stairs and no breath later, I make it to the lobby. The man at the lobby nods to me. We've been friends for months but I can't register his name, his face.

"You going on vacation?" he asks cheerily.

I laugh, but there is no happiness in it. "I'm going to hell. Heard it's nice and hot this time of year."

"You and me both," he says, laughing, but his face is crossed with concern.

"Say hi to James for me, tell him his darling Christine wishes she could say goodbye but can't."

"Sure thing, but you know I am his only darling." He winks.

Poor kid, he's only ever been nice to me. I was supposed to go out to coffee with him and his boyfriend one of these days, but looks like that is never going to happen. I am getting out of this city as soon as possible. He waves with an apologetic smile, and I almost feel bad.

And he won't remember me. No one will. No one will remember poor Christine, who dated the devil incarnate and slaved away for years for everything to come to nothing.

On the sidewalk, I don't care that it is dumping buckets and I forgot my umbrella. The weather has such a great sense of humor. It hasn't rained like this in weeks, and the one day where I'm a raging bitch it decides to humor me.

Way to go, weather.

All that's missing is some dramatic music that matches the torrential downpour. And a tall, dark, stranger who rescues me from my sorrow. Who comes out of the shadows, who's a total stalker but that doesn't matter, because this is literature, bitch!

Maybe he's a hot painter and we go back to his flat to have hot sex.

I almost feel like crying.

Trying to shield my phone from the rain, I call a cab, giving him my location. I don't know where I am going to go, but I have to go somewhere. But as I hang up, doubt seeping through my cold exterior.

Where am I going to go?

Meg is — pardon me, was — my only friend and Raoul The Scumbag de Changy certainly isn't an option. I can't go to Meg's mother, and I don't have parents. Raoul's parents are too high and mighty and hardly like me. I don't know cute gay lobby guy well enough to crash his place. There is always hotels, but in the long run, I'm not sure if I have enough money.

I grope for my wallet, and for the first time in the past thirty minutes of horror, I panic.

Damn it.

I can't even describe the rush of emotions I feel as I search through my suitcase. I want to die. I want to curl up under a rock and cease to exist. I forgot my purse. How do you forget your purse?

In my rush to leave Satan's Palace, it slipped my mind. My wallet was in there. My IDs and cards and everything I might need that wasn't a pile of books was in there.

How the hell am I supposed to pay for a hotel now?

How am I supposed to pay for anything?

I want to scream, to throw a fit like a toddler, but I can't. I can't even say anything as the cab pulls up. I stand there, looking at it. Knowing I can't pay for my only possible route of escape.

Maybe I could walk?

He rolls down the window. "You coming princess?"

I can't. I want to say the words, but my mouth can't even form them. My lips are stuck together, my throat is closing up. My heart it a boulder that is weighing me down and all I can do is grope for words.

I meet the driver's expectant eye. He has a life, a family, and I'm wasting him time. His money. I can't even bring myself to beg.

"Nevermind… I don't need the cab… never… nevermind."

He mutters something under his breath and doesn't do anything to hide his relief as he drives away. I don't blame him. I don't need a mirror to tell I look like a train wreck when my head throbs like a pile of bricks has hit it.

For the first time in thirty minutes, I realize how completely, utterly, alone I am.

A hot tear slips onto my cheek and I suck a breath in.

I can't cry. I will not let myself.

One tear, I tell myself. You've cried your one tear, now put your big girl panties on and suck it up.

Suck it. The hell. Up.

I blink a few times, and try to recenter myself.

Looking around the empty street, my eye snags on the building in front of me. My breath catches, but I don't stop myself from picking up my suitcase and walking across the street. My shoes soak with the dirty water and a chill goes through me, but I can only think of one thing.

Glancing at his balcony, I can see a faint light in the darkness.

Somehow, you really are my salvation.

And maybe he's a murderer, a rapist, or a pedophile. Maybe I'm going to my death, but there is nothing worse than what I've already gone through.

I'm about to make one of the worst decisions in my whole entire life.