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[espressqe]

delias wattpadd

find me here !!! i rlly don’t upload tbh cus i dont rlly feel like it tbh but sometimes i do 🤦🏼‍♀️👍🏼😍😘

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never understood any patrick hype tbh

i don’t fucking care joey from ten things i hate about you is hotter than patrick

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THE SPACE BETWEEN 之间的空间

WARNINGS: HEAVY ANGST. AMNESIA / MEMORY LOSS. HOSPITAL SETTING. GREIF. HEARTBREAK.

you always imagined the phone call would come at night.

something about the dark made tragedy feel more fitting—quiet, cinematic, devastating. but it's 3:42 in the afternoon when your phone lights up with nick's name, and for a split second, you almost don't answer. almost let it ring out while you finish folding laundry or refilling your water bottle or whatever stupid, meaningless thing you were doing just before your world cracked in half.

he doesn't start with hello. just your name—sharp, panicked, and broken.

"matt—he was driving back from filming one of his surprises for tour and—fuck—some stupid drunk fuck ran a red light. t-boned him. they're takin' him to the hospital. s'bad."

you don't remember much after that. not how you got there. not who drove. not the way your hands trembled so violently you couldn't hold your phone still. only the way the emergency room lights were way too bright and how chris was pacing in the corner with tears streaming down his face like he didn't even notice them. you do remember the doctor, though. a man with tired eyes and a voice too gentle to be delivering news like this.

"he's lucky," he said. "considering the impact, it's a miracle his injuries weren't fatal. fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, concussion—pretty severe. he's unconscious now, but we're monitoring for brain swelling. he should wake up soon."

he's lucky.

you wanted to punch something when you heard that. lucky? is that what you call it when someone's car gets crushed by an SUV and they get dragged out of it unconscious with blood in their hair and glass in their skin? is that what you're supposed to feel—luck—while you sit outside a hospital room for hours, praying that the love of your life doesn't die before you can tell him that you'll never forgive yourself for almost not picking up the phone earlier that day?

the first time you see him, he looks like a stranger already.

matt's body is still—too still. like something out of a wax museum. his curls are matted against his forehead, half-dried blood crusting the tips. bruises bloom purple and yellow down the side of his jaw. there's a monitor beeping steadily behind him, and an oxygen tube threaded beneath his nose. and all you can do is stare at him through the glass, one palm pressed to the barrier like it might carry warmth if you just held it there long enough.

chris walks up behind you quietly. he doesn't say anything at first, just slides down the wall beside you, arms curled around his knees.

"he's gonna be okay," he says eventually, voice hoarse.

you nod. not because you believe it—just because you need to believe something.

it's the next morning when he wakes up.

nick had gone to grab coffee. chris was asleep in the chair beside you, curled into himself, hoodie drawn up like a shield. you were half-awake, legs aching from sitting too long, when you heard it—the shift in air. a rustle of sheets. a choked, rasped sound that made your heart spike before you could think.

your eyes snapped to the bed.

matt's hand twitched.

he blinked up at the ceiling, slow and heavy, like it hurt to move. his lips parted around a dry breath. for a second, he didn't say anything—just winced, shifted slightly, and let out the faintest whisper of sound.

"chris...?"

the name punched the air out of your lungs. not because he said it—but because he said it first. before anything else. before even registering the pain or the machines or the room. chris shot up immediately, nearly tripping over the blanket as he scrambled to the edge of the bed.

"matt? holy shit, matt—dude, you're okay, you're awake, okay—fuck, hold on, let me call—"

but you didn't move.

you just sat there, frozen, waiting. waiting for his eyes to land on you. waiting for the moment his expression would soften, the way it always did when he saw you. that little smile, the one that barely curved his mouth but always showed in his eyes.

it didn't come.

he looked at you—but not at you. more like through you. confused. cautious. and then, something worse than anything else you'd prepared yourself for:

"who's that?"

two words. clean, quiet, and curious.

chris stopped mid-sentence. his eyes flicked to you, then back to matt, mouth parting like he was about to correct him—but didn't. you were already standing by then, slowly, like if you moved too fast, you'd shatter.

"matt," you said gently, stepping closer. "it's me. baby, it's—it's me."

and god, you hated the way your voice cracked on that word. baby. the name he gave you. the one he said a thousand times in a thousand different ways—sleepy, breathless, teasing, wrecked. and now he was looking at you like you were a stranger who just wandered in off the street.

his brows furrowed. his head tilted slightly. "m'sorry," he said, "i—i don't know you."

you didn't cry right away.

you nodded, like it was fine. like it made sense. like your fucking chest wasn't splitting open, rib by rib. you said it was okay. you backed away. let chris handle it. sat back down in the chair and folded your hands in your lap so no one would see how bad they were shaking.

and then you just… watched.

watched him take water from a nurse. watched the way he smiled politely when chris cracked a joke. watched his eyes skip past you every time they scanned the room.

he remembered his brothers.

he remembered his name.

he remembered everything—except you.

and somehow, that was worse than if he'd forgotten it all. because he was still him. still matt. still the same voice, same laugh, same way he fidgeted with the bracelet on his wrist when he was thinking too hard. but none of it was yours anymore. none of it belonged to you.

and he didn't seem to notice the hollow it left behind.

you stayed. of course you did. chris and nick said it would help, that familiar faces might trigger something. you slept in that awful chair by his bed. brought him his favorite snacks. talked to him like you always had, telling stories he used to love, trying not to crumble when he'd smile politely and ask, "when was that again?"

like you hadn't lived it together.

like he hadn't pulled you into his lap on the roof of your apartment that night, laughing so hard he nearly dropped his phone, begging you to tell the story again even though he already knew the ending.

now he just nods. thanks you for the memory. like it's something you borrowed from someone else.

on the third day, you bring him the hoodie he always used to steal from your closet. it still smells like your detergent—still has the little bleach mark on the sleeve where you accidentally leaned on the stove. you hold it out to him like a peace offering, heart thudding, stupidly hopeful.

"thought you might want this," you say softly. "you used to wear it all the time."

he takes it. fingers the hem. frowns a little. "oh. uh… thanks."

he doesn't put it on.

he folds it carefully, sets it on the bedside table, and turns back to the tv like nothing happened.

and you nod again. because that's all you seem to know how to do now. nod. swallow. pretend.

you tell yourself it's not personal. that it's the head injury, the trauma, the healing. but at night—when the nurses dim the lights and chris passes out in the chair and nick finally goes home to shower—you sit there in the dark and stare at him, and you wonder if maybe it is personal.

maybe some part of him, deep down, chose to forget you.

because the truth is—you were always the softest part of his life. the most fragile. the one he let see all the ugly pieces. maybe that's why his brain protected him from you. maybe forgetting you was the safest thing it could do.

and god, if that's true…

then what the hell are you still doing here?

you ask yourself that every morning, in the echo of your bathroom mirror, in the hallway outside his room, in the sterile quiet between check-ins from the nurses. you're not family. you're not listed on any of his forms. not a girlfriend, not a fiancée, not a wife. just a name he doesn't recognize and a face that makes him frown like he's trying to place it in some half-formed dream.

but you stay. you stay because you don't know how to leave him. because even if he doesn't remember you, you remember everything. every birthday. every 3am conversation. every whispered i love you against your neck. it's all still living inside you, gnawing at the edges of your chest.

he catches you crying one night. the room is quiet—chris stepped out to call their mom, and matt's flipping through hospital channels with the volume turned low. your face is turned away from him, hidden behind your sleeve, and you think you've managed to stay quiet enough.

until you hear it:

"did we… used to be something?"

you freeze. slowly wipe under your eyes. glance at him.

he's not smirking. not teasing. he's dead serious, mouth drawn tight, brow furrowed—not with suspicion, but guilt. like he already knows the answer, and he's afraid to hear it.

you nod. "yeah," you say, barely above a whisper. "we were."

his throat bobs as he swallows. he sets the remote down slowly, like he's afraid it might break. "for how long?"

you hesitate. part of you wants to lie—to protect yourself from the humiliation of the truth. but the other part of you is tired of pretending. tired of tiptoeing around the pieces of something that used to be whole.

"almost four years."

his eyes widen. like that number is too big to fit inside his head. "fuck," he murmurs. "i… i had no idea. no one told me."

"they didn't want to overwhelm you," you explain. "i asked them not to. figured it'd be easier if you remembered on your own."

he's quiet for a second. then:

"m'sorry."

you nod again, but it doesn't mean anything anymore.

"did you... love me?" he asks, voice softer now, almost boyish.

you blink, stare at him. your chest burns like someone lit a match in your throat.

"still do," you say. "every second."

matt's eyes drop to the blanket over his lap. his fingers twist in the fabric, tugging gently at the threads.

"i wish i could say the same," he says quietly. "i wan' to. but i don't… i don't feel it."

you don't respond.

what the hell are you supposed to say to that?

it's not his fault. you know that. he's not cruel. he's not doing this on purpose. but still—it lands like a car crash. like the moment of impact, all over again. only this time, he's the one behind the wheel.

and you're the one watching it all happen in slow motion. the moment he opens his mouth. the way the words hit you. the way you still smile through it because you don't want him to feel bad for something he can't control.

you go home that night, but not because you want to.

nick is the one who says it—gently, carefully, like he's trying to unwrap a bomb without making it explode.

"you've been here since the first day," he says, hand on your shoulder. "jus' for a few hours. go home, shower, sleep in your bed. we'll text if anything changes. he's stable now."

you nod. not because you're ready to leave, but because you know they won't stop asking until you do. so you pack your things slowly. the hoodie he didn't wear. the half-eaten granola bar he said thanks for and barely touched. your charger, your notebook, your silence.

matt's sitting up in bed when you step toward the door. awake, alert, flipping through some tv channel with the volume down low again. his eyes flick to you, just for a second.

but he doesn't say anything.

doesn't ask where you're going.

doesn't say come back soon, or be safe, or see you later.

just nods at you—cordial, distant, polite.

like a fucking stranger.

you whisper a soft, "bye," anyway. like maybe, maybe something in him will twitch. some reflex will fire. some small part of his muscle memory will reach for you.

but nothing happens.

so you leave.

the hallway outside his room is colder than usual. the walls feel too white, like they're glowing, and every footstep sounds like a punch to the gut. you press the elevator button and tell yourself not to cry until you get to your car, but you don't make it that far.

you barely make it to the lobby before your knees go weak and you have to sit down. not because you're tired—but because everything in you feels like it's slipping. like gravity isn't holding you the same way anymore.

it's stupid. pathetic, even.

you weren't in the crash. you weren't the one who almost died. you weren't the one who forgot.

but you're the one grieving.

grieving someone who's still breathing. who's still alive. who still looks at you with the same eyes—but doesn't know who he's looking at. doesn't feel anything when your name is spoken. doesn't even miss you, because how can you miss something you've never known?

that's the part that kills you the most.

he's okay.

and you're not.

you go home. sleep for five hours. stare at the ceiling for three more. your apartment smells like him, faint and haunting, like he walked out only minutes ago instead of forgetting you days ago.

you change your clothes. grab a new hoodie. brush your teeth with a hand that won't stop shaking. and then you go back.

you don't even think about it. just get in your car and drive like your body's on autopilot. because what else is there to do? sit at home and not think about him?

you'd rather die.

when you walk into the hospital room, matt's awake again. sitting up straighter now. hair messy, curls flattened against the pillow, eyes on the window. he turns his head when you step in and gives you the same soft, polite smile he's been giving everyone lately. the one that says thanks for coming, but not i missed you.

you sit in the same chair.

he looks at you for a beat, then says it—calm, casual, like he's just making conversation:

"y'didn't have to come."

and it doesn't even register at first.

you blink. "what?"

"i mean," he shrugs, "i don't want you to feel obligated or anything. i know you and i were… something. but if this is hard for you, s'okay. y'don't have to keep showin' up."

you want to scream. want to say obligated? you think i'm here out of obligation? like this is a favor? like i wouldn't crawl through fire just to sit beside you for five minutes?

but instead, you smile.

you fucking smile.

because what else can you do? he's not being mean. not trying to hurt you. he's just being honest.

and that's the worst part.

you look down at your hands, voice flat. "i want to be here."

matt watches you for a second longer, then nods, satisfied. like that's all he needed to hear.

and just like that, you're back to being the girl who brings snacks and sits in silence and listens to stories she already knows the ending to.

now it's a few days later.

he's stronger. laughing more. his bruises are fading, and he's started asking for his phone, getting restless. which means people start visiting. people who knew him before you. people who don't have to tread carefully when they speak.

you walk into the room that afternoon and stop cold in the doorway.

there's a girl sitting in your chair.

one of his old friends—someone from high school maybe, or one of those mutual circles you never really crossed paths with. she's got her feet tucked under her, a smoothie on the tray beside her, and she's saying something that makes matt laugh.

like—actually laugh. head back, nose scrunched, eyes crinkling at the corners.

you haven't seen him do that in a week.

and something inside you fractures.

you stand there for a second too long. long enough that she notices you. she waves, casual. "hey! you're the one who's been coming by a lot, right?"

you nod. matt glances over. he smiles again, same one as before.

thanks for coming. not i missed you.

"hey," he says, like it's nothing.

like you didn't spend last night crying into the same hoodie he once said made you look like home.

"i brought your charger," you murmur, holding it out.

"oh—thanks." he takes it. sets it beside the smoothie. doesn't invite you to sit. doesn't scoot over. doesn't say stay.

you take a step back, heart caving in on itself. "i'll come back later," you say, voice light, too light. you smile again—god, you wish you'd stop smiling—and back out of the room.

he doesn't stop you.

doesn't even look up.

you close the door quietly behind you, the hospital's cold fluorescent light replaced by the soft hum of the parking lot. your hands are shaking so hard you fumble for your keys, finally gripping the wheel and sinking down into the driver's seat.

the world outside blurs as tears spill over, uncontrollable. you bury your face into the steering wheel, hot and raw, sobs shaking your body with a force you didn't know you had left. the loneliness of the empty car swallowing you whole, and for a moment, you wonder if you'll ever find your way back.

you don't notice nick creeping up beside the car until his voice breaks through the darkness, soft and hesitant.

"hey," he says, knocking lightly on the window.

you wipe your face quickly, but it's useless. the evidence is there—red eyes, fucked up hair, shoulders trembling.

nick sighs, pulling the door open and sliding in beside you without waiting for an invitation. he looks over at you with that worried, almost guilty expression he always wears when things get real.

"m'sorry,” he says, voice low. "you didn't deserve this."

you blink, confused.

"what?"

"matt," nick starts, rubbing his neck. "he's not… he's been asking about you."

your heart stutters. "asking?"

"yeah. about us. about everything you told him. but—" he hesitates, biting his lip. "he says it feels like a story he's reading, not something he lived. like someone else's life."

you swallow hard. "so?"

"so," nick says, eyes dark, "he's scared. scared he won't ever get it back. scared that maybe… maybe he's already lost you."

the words hit you like a fist to the ribs. your chest tightens until it feels like you can't breathe.

"but he doesn't know how to fix it," nick continues, voice breaking just a little. "he doesn't know how to get you back."

you stare out the windshield, heart shattering into pieces too small to gather.

"i don't know if he ever will," you whisper. "and i don't know if i can keep pretending."

nick nods, silent for a long moment.

then he reaches over, squeezing your hand like he wishes he could fix everything with a touch.

"whatever happens," he says quietly, "we'll be here. okay? you're not alone."

you nod again, the tears starting up once more.

because sometimes, that's all there is.

you sit in the car long after nick leaves, the parking lot emptying until you're alone with the quiet and your racing thoughts. every memory of matt—the way his laugh used to fill rooms, the way he used to pull you close like you were the only person in the world—feels like a cruel joke now, a story you're desperate to rewrite but can't.

the next morning, you walk back into that hospital room with a hollow ache tightening your chest. matt’s there, but not really—he's a ghost of who you loved. the light in his eyes is distant, flickering, like he's searching for something just beyond reach.

he looks at you and for a moment, there's something—recognition? hope?—but it's fleeting.

"m'sorry," he says quietly, voice cracking. "i wan' to remember. i wan' to feel what you feel. but s'like tryin' to catch smoke with my hands."

you swallow the sob that rises in your throat, forcing that small, broken smile. "i know."

he reaches out, but his fingers don't quite find yours. the space between you feels wider than ever—an invisible wall made of forgetfulness and grief.

"maybe," he whispers, "we're meant to be strangers now."

and with that, the last thread between you snaps.

you nod, tears spilling freely now. "maybe we are."

you stand, looking at him one last time, every heartbeat screaming how much you want to stay, how much you want to fight for a love that's slipping away.

but sometimes love isn't enough.

you walk out of that room, and the door closes behind you with a finality that echoes through your soul.

you leave without looking back.

the hallway stretches out before you—endless, empty, and cold. your footsteps feel too loud, too real, in the hollow space. you don't look back. you can't.

because some goodbyes aren't meant to be spoken.

some loves aren't meant to be remembered.

and some losses don't heal at all.

you step outside into the pale morning light, the world moving around you but somehow feeling completely still.

and in the quiet, you let the tears fall again.

because this is what forgetting feels like.

not the erasure of memories, but the breaking of something too fragile to fix.

and somewhere deep inside, you wonder if matt is crying too—somewhere you can't reach, somewhere you'll never find.

but you carry the weight of him with you, always.

like a ghost that never leaves.

author's note. inspired by my emotional instability and an alarming amount of silence in my apartment. consider this a group therapy session except no one heals. kisses.

taglist. @sugarraez @dominicfikeenthusiast @mi-co-uk @zenithsturniolo @tezzzzzzzz @bbgirlmatt @courta13 @grace-sturnz @salaciousxsturniolo @eyesonmattyb @matts-wife @ariieeesworld @mattybsgroupie ꒱ ₊˚⊹ .ᐟ

to be added to my taglist, please refer to this post.

[espressqe]

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introducing . . .

molly long

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IM LIKE UGH AT THIS VIDEO IM LIKE HYPERVENTILATING N SHI

This is footage of him going to fuck reader after she kept teasing him

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AYYYYY

Embroidery & Lace Dividers!!!

Reblog this post and tag @bernardsbendystraws when using. Credit tag must be visible by image!!!

[espressqe]

periodd

Don’t care + didn’t ask + boobs bounce when i walk

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so so so so so so good

all for show

slight cheating + angst + happy ending

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You hadn’t even made it through the front door when the texts started flooding in.

“Did you see this?” “Is this real?” “Are you and Chris okay???”

Chris went out tonight to an influencer party. I didn't go because both of us want to keep our relationship a secret.

Confused and already a little anxious, you opened your phone, only to have your stomach drop.

My eyes scanned all the messages I was getting before landing on paparazzi photos.

Chris laughing with some girl.

Chris sitting next to same girl.

Chris posing for a photo with same girl.

Chris and this same girl leaving the party together.

My eyes begin to well up with tears as my mind runs wild. He's cheating on me with some other infuencer.

as if on queu he messages me

chris<3: don't look at ur phone.

Too late. I try to wipe my eyes that are now spilling over with tears and put my phone down.

he starts calling me.

I scoff and immediately decline it. I can't even bring myself to listen to his excuse.

You press the side button on your phone, locking the screen as if that would somehow make all of it go away.

Another text lights it up.

chris<3: “Please. Y/N. Just talk to me.”

Then another call.

chris<3: baby please. you know i'd never hurt you And another. You silence it again with shaky fingers.

Your chest feels tight, like your lungs don’t know how to work properly. You try to remind yourself to breathe, but all you can see is that girl. All you can picture is her smile next to his. Her hand on his arm. The way he looked so comfortable. So happy.

instead of thinking I press the block button on Chris contact. Maybe he has an excuse. Maybe he doesn't. I just know I can't listen to it right now.

--------

Hours have passed and your still crying on your couch.

articles continue to surface about Chris and his "new girl"

You drop your phone onto the couch and wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, frustration boiling in your chest. You can’t tell if you’re more heartbroken or furious.

Then it rings again.

But this time, it’s not Chris.

Nick.

Your heart skips. Confused, you answer. “Hello?”

Nick’s voice comes through, panicked. “Y/N? What the hell is going on with Chris?”

You freeze. “What?”

“He’s at the house losing it. Like full-on sobbing. I’ve never seen him like this. I tried asking him what was wrong and he just kept saying your name over and over again. Then he got up and said he was going to your place and ran out the door.”

Your breath catches.

Nick keeps going. “He looked like he was gonna throw up. I thought maybe something happened to you—but now I’m guessing it’s about whatever that internet thing is?”

You sink down onto the couch, silent.

“He didn’t cheat on you, Y/N,” Nick says, voice lower now. “He’s not that guy. I don’t know what happened exactly, but I know my brother. He’d rather burn everything down than lose you.”

Your eyes fill up again—this time not just from the photos, but from the image of Chris sobbing and saying your name. What am i supposed to believe?

“I gotta go,” you whisper.

You hang up before Nick can say more.

And that’s when you hear the knock.

Soft at first. Then more desperate.

You don’t need to look. You know it’s him.

“Y/N,” Chris’s voice comes through, cracking immediately. “Please open the door.”

You don’t move.

“I know what it looked like. I know how bad it looks. But just let me explain. Let me fix it.....angel please.”

You slowly get up, every part of you trembling from ur previous crying, and walk toward the door—but you don’t open it. You just stand there. Fists clenched. Jaw tight.

“I saw the photos,” you say, voice hoarse. “I saw everything, Chris.”

There’s a pause. A sharp breath from the other side.

"ill explain everything I-.....I really need to see you" Chris pleading from the other side of the door shatters your heart more. With your heart still cracked wide open, you reach for the doorknob with shaking fingers and slowly twist it open.

Chris is a mess.

His eyes are bloodshot, his hair a mess, and tears pour out of his eyes. You almost give in.

you watch him examine my face and slowly break down more.

"God baby i'm so sorry, I never want to hurt you like this"

You watch him try to reach out to you but you step back. His face falls more.

You didn’t say anything. You just stepped aside.

He walked in slowly, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to. Then he turned to face you.

“They told me to sit with her. To smile. To be seen leaving together. For press. For some fake relationship stunt to get attention. I didn’t want to do it, I swear. But I felt like I didn’t have a choice.”

You crossed your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “You always have a choice, Chris.”

“I know,” he choked out. “I know. And I made the wrong one. I should’ve told them no. I should’ve told you. I just… I didn’t want to scare you off. We’ve been keeping things quiet and I thought—I thought maybe if I didn’t involve you, you wouldn’t have to deal with the mess.”

He stepped closer, eyes glossy.

“But I hurt you. And that’s the opposite of what I ever wanted.”

You said nothing, lips trembling as you tried to process it all.

“I didn’t kiss her. I didn’t touch her. I left that party alone, came straight here. And I’ve been freaking out ever since.”

He swallowed hard, then said it—barely above a whisper:

“Please don’t leave me.”

You watched him slowly crouch down to his knees in front of you. gripping onto your legs for support.

You looked down at him, voice quiet but steady. “You broke my trust.”

Chris nodded slowly, tears slipping down his cheeks now. “I know. And I’ll do whatever it takes to earn it back. I’ll never let them use me like that again. I’ll go public with us, I’ll post your name everywhere if you want me to. Just—please, Y/N. I can’t lose you over something fake. Because what we have… it’s real.”

You took a shaky breath, torn, aching—but deep down, part of you could see the truth in his eyes. The pain. The regret. The love.

You didn’t say anything.

But you crouched down to him.

you slow caressed his face, wiping his tears with the pad of your thumb. Chris let out a breath and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to yours.

"i wont hurt you again, baby. Just don't leave me" he whispered.

You take a breath and nod.

And that was enough—for now.

He pulled you in his arms on the floor and held you like he never wanted to let go again. Whispering he was sorry over and over.

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I wrote this for @espressqe hope you enjoy!! <3

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is ur pfp Alabama Barker?

yes ❤️

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i love , i love , i loooooooveeee .

drummer!chris headcannons.....

(🥁) drummer!chris... who loves physical touch, he always has to be touching you in any way, even if it's his fingertips on your leg.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who always jokingly teases reader for how shy she is.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who is very creative, he always has a little art project going on, whether it's drawing or painting.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who is very clingy when he is sick, he is always clung on to you as if you're going to disappear forever.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who always spoils you, if you mention a book you've been wanting to read, he will buy it for you. if you mention a shop you want to go to, he's taking you.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who memorizes your drink order and always comes to your room with your drink in hand, a stupid grin playing on his face.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who loves to have you sitting on his lap when he's playing the drums, his chin resting on your shoulder as he plays away, sometimes letting you try.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who loves kissing you, no matter where the kiss is, he loves it. he loves little pecks, he loves open-mouthed kisses and he loves trying to be sneaky and sneaking his tongue into your mouth.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who loves marking you up, letting everyone know you're his. he loves the pretty noises that escape your mouth, the noises that are from his actions.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who gives you his spare change to hold on to when you guys are out, but instead of placing it in your pockets or in your bag, he puts it in your bra. he loves reaching his hand in your bra before muttering a 'sorry, was getting the money ma,' whilst smirking.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who hates studying, but will study with you. he prefers to study with you because most of the time you just give him the answers and after a while of 'studying' you guys just end up making out.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who hates seeing you cry, he will do anything to make you happier. he loves holding you and cracking silly jokes when you're upset.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who talks to his friend's and brother's about how much he loves you. before you guys started dating, chris would tell his brother's and friend's every interaction he had with you.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who buys you lego flowers and builds them with you as you eat cupcakes.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who sometimes listens to the music you like, so you guys can talk about it. he does this with movies aswell.

(🥁) drummer!chris... who loves you and doesn't plan on leaving you!

bea speaks💬: hiii! not proofread! @st7rnioioss inspired my with the cupcake and she told me to post lol ty baby♡♡

dividers by: @adornedwithlight @graphicsbymouse thank you!💞

[espressqe]

I NEED NEED NEED.

begging, praying, YEARNING, for babydaddy!chris from ANYONEEE JUST PLEASEEE😣🙏🙏

[espressqe]

chat

how much aura did i lose for putting an ‘e’ at the end of my user when you spell espresso like that instead of espressoe.

[espressqe]

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐗 𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑

❝ lil mama a party girl ,

she js wanna have fun too ❞

dividers - @bernardsbendystraws

⌗ 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅．𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

⌗ 𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗋．𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗌 

❝ they say you aint wifey type,

buy ion care i want you ❞

[espressqe]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 ...

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝒽ℯ𝓇 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

❛ pink whitney , wkd , a$ap rocky + rhianna , fast n

furious , gold and silver , pinterest , her cars , hooking up with

random guys at partys , grillz , iced caramel latte , summer nights

blasting music , latto , glorilla , cardi b , giving gifts , body shots ,

singing ❜

𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 : rapper.dealer chris !

[espressqe]

QUEENNN

Like, Reblog, and tag @bernardsbendystraws when using pls <333

Requested by @sturniolo-szn2

[espressqe]

OMG

CONTRACT // C.S [16]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: suggestive comments, betrayal.

wc: 4665

Chapter 16: End Of The Beginning

"Alright, girls, get into order."

It was the end of February, and everything felt like it was moving at double speed. My first catalog was due at the end of March, and the fashion show—the one that determined our final standing—was set for mid-April. Deadlines were stacking up, pressure mounting with every passing day.

The studio buzzed with energy as fabric rustled, sewing machines hummed, and voices overlapped in chaotic harmony. My classmates scrambled to organize their models, pin final fittings, and adjust last-minute details. I tightened my grip on my sketchbook, heart racing with both anxiety and excitement.

I glanced across the room at my lineup. My models stood tall in the sample pieces I’d spent the last month agonizing over. Sleek lines. Soft silks. Details that whispered rather than shouted. My signature.

My supervisor came around the corner, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as the room seemed to tense around her presence. She scanned each model with a practiced eye, up, down, expression unreadable. Her sharp gaze sliced through the chatter like a knife.

When her eyes landed on me, my stomach tightened. My heart thudded in my chest like it wanted to escape. She wasn’t the friendliest woman, respected–yes, and feared as well. 

She paused in front of my lineup. Silence stretched.

“Beautiful,” she said at last, the word slow, deliberate, curling into a small, rare smile. “I hope to see these on the runway during the end of term.”

I exhaled—quietly, carefully. A compliment. From her. It was like getting a blessing from a storm.

“Thank you, miss” I said, steadying my voice.

She gave one last approving nod and moved on.

When I left class, I made my way across campus to meet up with Jen. It had been a while since I’d seen her in person—a hot minute, as she liked to say. We’d both been drowning in deadlines and late-night assignments, our friendship lately surviving through texts and voice notes.

I spotted her by the coffee stand near the arts building, already holding two cups. A bright smile lit up her face when she saw me.

“Aurora freakin’ Devereaux,” she called out, arms open for a dramatic hug. “Still breathing?”

“Barely,” I laughed, letting her pull me into a hug. The scent of vanilla latte clung to her hoodie.

“Come on,” she said, handing me a drink. “I need the full breakdown."

 I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at my lips.

"were do I even start?"

“Maybe start with your hot fiancé,” Jen said, wiggling her eyebrows with a mischievous grin.

I laughed, shaking my head. “You freak.”

We didn’t jump into talking about my hot fiance right away. First, we caught up on her life—her new internship, a painting she’d just finished, and, of course, the latest person she’d hooked up with at that one house party I bailed on. The conversation flowed easily, the kind that felt like breathing after holding it in too long.

Then it was my turn.

There was a lot to say. About school, the show, the pressure, and, eventually, about Chris. I tried to keep it light, but truth had a way of slipping through my words.

“So yeah,” I said finally, “I’d say we… touch each other often.”

Jen blinked at me, eyebrows raised. “Okay, but like… no sex?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Why?” she asked, blunt as ever.

I sighed and looked down at the cup in my hands. The lid was warm but not comforting.

“I’ll be honest, Jen. It’s me. I just… I don’t know. I’ve always related sex to like… really deep connection. Like trust and stuff, and with everything going on, I don’t know if I’ve fully let myself get there yet.”

She was quiet for a moment, uncharacteristically thoughtful.

“Wow,” she said eventually. “That’s mature.”

I looked up, surprised. “You’re not going to call me a prude?”

“No. I mean, I could,” she smirked. “But that’d be a lie. You’re in a complicated situation. Honestly, it makes sense.”

I smiled, a soft one. “Thanks.”

“Besides,” she added, “when it does happen, it’s gonna be good.”

I chuckled, but she wasn’t done.

She sipped her coffee, then tilted her head. “Do you think Chris wants to go the whole way?”

I looked at her, the answer already there. “I mean… yeah. I can tell he does. The man had a proper sexual life before me. He’s not exactly shy.”

Memories of Chris not being shy crossed my mind, and I couldn't help but smile at myself.

Jen snorted. “No kidding.”

I smiled softly. “But he’s never pushed. He always says when I’m ready, he’s ready. That he doesn’t want me to feel pressured.”

Jen leaned back against the bench, looking thoughtful. “That’s really… good of him. I know guys like that exist, but it’s rare.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “He’s patient with me, even when I can tell it’s not easy for him, not just in like physical manners.”

Jen looked over at me, her usual playfulness gone. “I think he loves you, Rory.”

My breath hitched for a second, and I stared into my coffee cup like it could offer me an answer. “Chris doesn’t love me,” I murmured. “At least… I doubt he does.”

Jen raised a brow. “Has he ever said it?”

I shook my head. “No. Never.”

She let out a soft hmm and nodded, thinking it through. “Well… to be fair, you two only really started getting close, what—two months ago?”

“Yeah,” I said, letting out a slow breath. “Right after Christmas.”

“Exactly,” she said. “So maybe he does, but he just hasn’t gotten there yet. Or maybe he’s scared to say it first.”

I glanced at her, a little surprised. “You think Chris Sturniolo is scared?”

Jen grinned. “Everyone’s scared when it comes to love. Makes you say and do things you thought you wouldn’t”

She wasn’t wrong.

After we finished our coffee, Jen and I hugged goodbye and promised to hang out again soon. I walked back home with the afternoon sun dipping low behind the buildings, casting long shadows over the quiet streets. The wind had picked up a bit, tugging at my coat as I approached our place.

When I stepped inside, I immediately noticed how quiet it was—too quiet. 

Chris was in the living room, standing near the tall windows, his phone pressed to his ear. His back was to me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the phone tightly. His voice was low, clipped—tense.

“No, that’s not what we agreed on,” he said, his tone sharp. “I don’t care what he told you, I want everything run through me first. No exceptions.”

He paused, listening, then sighed heavily. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He hung up and let out a loud, frustrated, “Fuck,” running both hands through his hair and gripping it for a second before letting go.

“Chris?” I said gently.

He turned around quickly, clearly startled. But when he saw me, his shoulders eased a little, and his whole expression softened. “Hey,” he said, voice quieter now. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you okay?” I asked, taking a step closer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, brushing it off. “I’m fine.”

I didn’t buy it. “What’s wrong?”

He hesitated for a second, then shook his head. “Nothing. Just work stuff. It’s been a long day.”

I nodded, still unsure, but before I could say anything else, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his chest. I sank into him without thinking, letting the silence say what he wouldn’t.

His hold was tight, like he needed it more than he was willing to admit.

“You can tell me if anything’s bothering you, y’know?” I said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I just don’t want you to stress about things you don’t need to.” 

I pulled back slightly to look at him. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

Chris didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment, unreadable, like something was fighting behind them. Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“I’m gonna head into my office for a bit,” he mumbled.

I nodded, not wanting to push. “Okay.”

He turned and walked down the hall, the tension still clinging to his shoulders. I stood there for a second, staring at the spot he’d just been, before I made my way into the kitchen. The silence in the house felt heavier now.

I opened the pantry, grabbing a granola bar, but my mind wasn’t on food. It was on Chris—his silence, the way he shut down so quickly, how he always said he was fine when it was so clear he wasn’t.

I went into the living room, snuggled into the big armchair, and pulled the throw blanket over me. The cushions sank around me, warm and familiar, and before I knew it, my eyes fluttered closed. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until my body finally relaxed.

I pulled out my phone, midway through drafting a message to the photographer Matt had recommended. She was my age, graduating from photography this year, and her portfolio aligned almost perfectly with my aesthetic I was going for.

Moments later the quiet hum of the house wrapped around me, and sleep came easily.

A couple of hours later, just past eight, the sudden sound of footsteps jolted me awake.

Chris came marching out of his office, his pace fast and deliberate, like he had somewhere to be. His phone was in one hand, coat in the other, jaw set tight.

I sat up quickly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Chris?”

He turned toward me for a split second, clearly surprised I was awake. 

“What’s going on?” I asked, concern creeping into my voice. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, leaning down to kiss me quickly on the lips. “Everything’s fine.”

I blinked up at him, trying to read his face, but he was already pulling his coat on.

“I probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning,” he added, almost too casually. “Don’t wait up, okay?”

“Wait—what? Chris, where are you—”

“I’ll text you,” he interrupted gently, giving me one last look that I couldn’t quite decipher. 

“I’ll text you, okay? Promise,” he said, already heading toward the door. “Don’t wait up.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I sat there for a second, staring at the closed door, unease crawling under my skin. I didn’t want to overthink it. I trusted Chris, it probably really was just work.

I rubbed my eyes and stood up, stretching a little.

After a hot shower, I changed into one of Chris’s oversized t-shirts and headed down the hall—not to my room, but to his. I liked his bed better. It was bigger, warmer, and always smelled like him.

When I opened the door, I paused.

His room was a mess.

Papers were scattered across the desk and even on the floor. His usually pristine space looked like it had been torn through in a rush. I stepped inside slowly, curiosity getting the better of me. I picked up one of the pages that had landed near the edge of the bed.

My eyes scanned the page. It was a formal wire transfer notice.

“Wire transfer completed: $1,250,000 withdrawn from primary account – recipient: Unknown.”

My brows furrowed. Unknown? That couldn’t be right. For that amount of money, the recipient should be crystal clear.

Curious now, I glanced around the room. More papers were scattered across the desk and floor. I moved slowly, picking up a few more sheets, my fingers trembling slightly.

Each one looked nearly identical.

Date: February 7 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown Date: February 14 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown Date: February 21 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown

Same amount. Same wording. Same unknown account.

I crouched down, reaching for a crumpled page half-hidden beneath Chris’s dresser. The bold header glared up at me as I unfolded it:

August 18 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown.

Another one.

I began gathering more—some from his desk, others tucked between folders, one slipped behind a chair. My heart was racing now as I laid them out on the bed, organizing them by date.

August 18. September 22. November 3.

It had started gradually—once every month or so. But then I reached December’s pile, and everything changed.

December 15. December 22. December 29.

Then January followed, consistent and relentless.

January 5. January 12. January 19. January 26.

Week after week. No breaks.

By the time February rolled around, it had become routine—clockwork withdrawals, like someone draining his account on a schedule.

I pieced it together—this had to be what was weighing so heavily on Chris.

I felt a pang of sympathy for him. Chris was a billionaire, no doubt about that, but losing millions every single week? That had to be rough, no matter how much money you had.

Carefully, I gathered the papers and stacked them neatly, making sure not to disturb anything else. I slid the documents back under a folder on his desk, trying to leave everything as I had found it.

The weight of what I’d discovered settled over me, but exhaustion tugged harder. I needed rest more than answers right now.

I turned off the light and slipped under the covers, letting the quiet darkness swallow me whole. As I closed my eyes, the images of the papers and those endless withdrawals lingered behind my eyelids.

But for tonight, I let sleep take me.

A call came through at 2:07 AM. The sharp ring cut through the silence, pulling me from a restless sleep. I blinked, groggy, my hand instinctively reaching out across the bed, empty. Chris still hadn’t come home.

With a sinking feeling, I fumbled for the phone and answered in a hushed, uncertain voice. “Hello?”

A low, firm voice responded. “This is Officer Ramirez from the Boston Police Department. Am I speaking with Aurora Devereux?”

My entire body tensed.

The air seemed to thicken around me as I shot upright in bed, heart already pounding. “Y-yes, this is Aurora,” I said, my voice trembling.

There was a beat of silence. “I’m going to need you to come down to the station immediately,” the officer continued.

“Your father has been arrested.”

CHRISTOPHER 

Earlier that day…

The city looked cold from where I stood.

One hand in my pocket, the other gripping my phone too tightly, I stared out the window as my voice dropped, sharp and clipped.

“No, that’s not what we agreed on.” I paused, jaw tense. “I don’t care what he told you. I want everything run through me first. No exceptions.”

Another pause. More excuses.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I hung up and let the frustration boil over.

“Fuck,” I muttered, running both hands through my hair, gripping it for a second before letting go.

This wasn’t just work anymore.

At this point, my uncle had been draining $1.25 million every week. Quiet. Calculated. Sneaky as hell.

We’d started tracking the exact times Michael slipped in and out of the storage room—where the real files were kept. Where answers were waiting.

But until then, I was stuck.

“Chris?”

Her voice pulled me back. I turned around quickly.

Aurora stood in the hallway, one of my shirts draped over her, hair messy from sleep. Her voice was soft, worried. My shoulders eased without meaning to.

“Hey,” I said quietly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping toward me.

“Yeah,” I said a little too fast. “I’m fine.”

She gave me a look—I knew she didn’t buy it.

“What’s wrong?”

I hesitated. Just for a second.

“Nothing. Just work stuff. It’s been a long day.”

She didn’t press. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. I exhaled, letting myself sink into her for a moment.

Her voice was gentle against my cheek. “You can tell me if anything’s bothering you, y’know? I just don’t want you to stress about things you don’t need to.”

She pulled back slightly, her eyes locking with mine. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

God, she didn’t deserve this.

I kissed her forehead, lingering there for a beat. Letting the smell of Roses linger in my nose.

“I’m gonna head into my office for a bit,” I mumbled, after a moment.

She nodded softly. “Okay.”

I turned and walked down the hall, the feel of her still lingering against my skin like an echo I didn’t want to lose. I had to pull away—there were things I couldn’t explain yet. Things I didn’t even fully understand myself.

Stepping into my office, the weight settled back onto my shoulders like it had never left. The air was thick with tension. I moved straight through to my room, barely glancing at the chaos around me—papers scattered across the floor and desk, financial statements, tracking reports, security logs. All evidence points to one person.

We were close. So damn close to catching that bastard.

I ran a hand over my jaw, my eyes scanning the documents. Every page confirmed the same thing—money bleeding out week after week, disguised under false vendors and dummy accounts. I could feel the walls closing in. Michael had been careful for months, but now he was slipping. I was watching.

I waited and waited, until finally, just before 8 PM, my phone buzzed sharply in my pocket. I yanked it out, my heart already racing.

“Yeah?” I answered.

“It’s happening now,” one of my lead investigators said, voice low and quick. “We’ve got Michael on the move. He’s heading to the storage room. You need to get down here—this is it.”

I didn’t waste a second. Everything snapped into focus.

I marched out of the office, phone in one hand, coat in the other, my mind racing. Every second counted. If we missed him tonight, we might not get another chance.

I didn’t expect her to still be up.

“Aurora?” she said, her voice soft and drowsy, sitting up on the couch. Her eyes found mine instantly, worry already blooming behind them.

“What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

I paused, just for a second. Seeing her like that—tired, concerned, still waiting up for me—something tugged hard at my chest. I couldn’t drag her into this, not yet.

“Everything’s fine,” I said quickly, leaning down and kissing her lips. I didn’t give her time to ask more. I couldn’t.

“I probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning,” I added, trying to sound casual. Normal. But I could feel her gaze trying to peel back the layers. “Wait—what? Chris, where are you—”

“I’ll text you, okay? Promise.” I was already halfway to the door.“Don’t wait up.”

I shut the door behind me, jaw tight as I headed out. 

I stepped out into the cold night, the city buzzing faintly around me as I got into the back seat of the black SUV waiting by the curb. My driver gave a small nod, but I didn’t return it—I just stared out the window as we pulled away.

The image of Aurora sitting up on the couch stuck in my head. Sleepy eyes. Messy hair. That concerned little crease between her brows. She was worried, and I hated that I had to lie to her.

But what was I supposed to say? “Hey, ma, I think my uncle has been stealing over a million dollars a week from me for the last several months. Gonna go confront him in a shady-ass storage facility with a team of men in bulletproof vests—wish me luck.”

No. She didn’t deserve that kind of chaos. Not tonight. Not ever. 

The SUV’s engine rumbled as we pulled away from the building, the city lights blurring past the windows. 

Matt sat next to me. He told me that as a shareholder now, he wanted to be more involved, I didn’t hesitate—I trusted Matt and Nick completely.

“Nick’s coming too,” Matt added.

I shook my head with a smirk. “Good. He’s sat on his ass long enough.”

I rubbed my forehead, feeling the tension building. 

When we arrived at the location, security moved with practiced silence. The SUVs were parked in the shadows between containers and concrete barriers—hidden from any wandering eyes. Every step was calculated. No noise. No sudden movements.

Victor told us to come over with a hand, and we all split into position.

Matt and Nick flanked me, dressed in dark jackets, eyes alert. My other men moved in from the rear, slipping out of the second vehicle with their weapons holstered but ready. I felt the tension simmering under everyone’s skin—like the whole night was holding its breath.

We moved along the side of the warehouse, boots barely making a sound against the gravel. Victor led the way, checking corners, scanning for motion.

Once we reached the side entrance, he crouched by the keypad and picked the lock in under ten seconds. The door clicked open, and we slipped inside.

The air was stale, heavy with dust and the faint hum of old lights. We crept through the dark hallway, past crates and rusted shelves, until we reached the back storage room—the one we had intel on.

Victor counted down with his fingers—three... two...

He swung the door open and rushed in, gun drawn.

“Don’t move!”

We flooded in behind him—and there he was.

Michael.

My uncle froze mid-step, startled and wide-eyed, a laptop still open on the table beside him. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, hands twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to fight or bolt.

“Chris—” Michael started, his voice shaky as he took a step back.

I stepped forward, fists clenched, fury boiling over. My swat team held him down. 

“Don’t you fucking say my name,” I growled. “You’ve been bleeding me dry for months—months—and you think you can stand there and talk?”

His eyes widened, hands lifted slightly like he thought he could reason with me. Like we were still family.

“You son of a bitch,” I snarled. “I trusted you. You sat at my table, looked me in the eye, and all this time you were stabbing me in the damn back.”

Victor raised his weapon slightly, keeping it aimed without hesitation.

Then—a sudden noise from the room next door. A scuff. Something shifting.

Everyone froze.

Matt didn’t wait. He bolted to the adjacent door, throwing it open and disappearing inside.

“Matt—what is it?” I shouted.

Silence for a beat.

Then I heard his voice, low and shocked: “What the hell—”

I moved fast, pushing past the doorframe. My stomach dropped.

There he was. The last fucking person I thought i’d see. 

My blood ran cold. 

Thomas Devereaux.

“What the actual fuck” 

Sirens blared in the distance, getting louder by the second. Red and blue lights cut through the night like a warning, flashing against the rusted walls of the warehouse.

Police flooded the scene—uniforms, orders, handcuffs.

Michael was silent now, jaw clenched as officers shoved his hands behind his back and read him his rights. Thomas stood a few feet away, cuffed, still expressionless. No struggle. No words. Like he didn’t even care.

They were both marched out and loaded into separate squad cars.

I stood there, unmoving, as the doors slammed shut behind them.

I felt fucking sick. 

Everything in me churned.

Rage, disbelief, betrayal—twisting together so tight I could hardly breathe.

My uncle. Her father.

How the hell was I supposed to explain this to Aurora?

I couldn’t believe my eyes when Matt had grabbed Thomas. I felt like there was no fucking way. 

It all made sense.

The offer. His relentless push for the engagement. The way he always insisted marriage was the only way to secure the merger. It wasn’t a last-minute solution—it was the plan all along.

He’d orchestrated every detail. Like chess pieces on a board, he moved us exactly where he wanted.

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to slow down the storm in my head.

“Mr. Sturniolo,” a voice called. One of the officers approached. “We’re heading back to Boston now. You can follow us, we’ll need your statement when we get there.”

I nodded stiffly, barely able to focus. “Yeah. I’ll be right behind you.”

The ride back was a blur.

By the time we reached the station, it was nearly 12 AM. Questions came at me fast. What did I know? When did I suspect? How much had been taken? Names, dates, documents—I answered everything I could, my jaw clenched the whole time.

Hours passed.

Finally, they told me I could speak to them. First, Michael, then Thomas.

I walked into the holding room, my footsteps echoing. Michael sat at the table, chained to the floor, eyes cast down.

He looked up when I stepped in.

“Chris—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t you dare say a fucking word.”

He flinched.

“I let you in. I gave you everything. And you robbed me blind like some low-level criminal.”

“It wasn’t supposed to—”

“You’ve been hiding,” I hissed. “For months. My father trusted you. You’re were family.”

He looked away.

“Were you just waiting for a chance to bleed me dry?”

Silence.

I slammed the chair backward with my foot and stormed out before I did something I’d regret. 

Next was Thomas.

I just stared at him.

My uncle meant nothing to me after I saw who was helping him. 

Thomas sat at the table like he didn’t have a single fucking worry. Calm. Unbothered. Like getting caught was just a hiccup in his day, like someone would bail him out and he’d be back to sipping bourbon by the end of the week.

Very different from Michael who knew he lost everything.

It made my blood boil.

I didn’t sit. I slammed the door shut behind me and walked straight in, jaw tight, steps heavy.

Thomas looked up. “Christopher.”

“You look way too comfortable for a man in cuffs,” I snapped. 

He didn’t respond. 

“Let me make one thing clear—I’ll make sure you lose everything. Your company. Your money. Your friends. Hell, I’ll make sure even the local shitty bar down the block doesn’t let you through the door.”

He leaned back in the chair like I was amusing him. “You’re angry. Understandably. But let’s not pretend this didn’t benefit you too.”

“Benefit me?” I barked out a laugh. “You think this helped me? You've been stealing from me”

“Chris, you got the merger. My daughter—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t bring her into this.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who agreed, Chris. No one held a gun to your head.”

Thomas’s expression didn’t flinch. “You’re acting like I did something unusual. You’re the one who wanted control of the Sturniolo empire, weren’t you? The merger made sense. We both got what we needed.”

“Bullshit,” I spat. “You got what you needed. I got dragged into an arranged engagement I never even wanted. I didn’t ask for a wife—I asked for peace. I wanted my company intact. Instead, I got some pretty distraction and a fake relationship that did nothing but waste my time.” 

I didn’t stop. The venom was spilling and working in my words more than my head. I wasn’t thinking—just swinging, lashing out, wanting Thomas to feel the chaos he’d created.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice, words sharp like glass.

“I said yes because I was cornered, because you made sure my company was tangled in this bullshit before I could blink. But don’t twist this—don’t act like I wanted it.”

He tilted his head. “So you didn’t want her?”

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.

“I didn’t want the marriage. I didn’t want the fake smiles, the dinners, the ring. I didn’t want to be tied down.” 

Thomas didn’t say anything.

I kept going, too far in, too angry to stop myself. 

“You made your daughter a pawn in all this, and yeah—maybe I went along with it, but that doesn’t mean I ever wanted a wife. Especially not someone so—” I stopped.

Too late. There was a shift. The door creaked slightly.

Then her voice.

Soft. Cracked.

“Especially not someone so what?” 

My heart dropped.

I turned.

Aurora stood just inside the room. Her eyes were wide, brimming with tears. Her hands were shaking, wrapped tightly around herself. 

Fuck, she had heard everything.

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[a/n: let the angst begin! Don't hate me, ya'll–we needed a climax at some point. Like and reblog! Mwah] – Ceyana

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