Page 49 of Broken Rivalry

I blush again, remembering his manhood in my hand, in my mouth. “How would you even know that Ethan is impressive?”

Nessa leans forward, her mischievous grin widening. “Your blush says it all, and the guy transpires big dick energy.”

I frown. “Why do you call him Small Prick then?”

She scoffs, waving her hand dismissively. “I would never call an actual small prick that. It would be cruel.”

I laugh and shake my head. I love the banter and how they have managed in a few minutes to ease my anxiety.

“Oh, one sec!” Nessa dashes off to her room, returning with a pack of condoms. “Here.” She drops the box on my lap. “Safety first, Poppy. Some guys would do anything to go bare.”

Eva deepens her voice, mimicking a macho tone. “I love being inside you without protection, babe. Don’t worry, I’m safe.” We all burst into laughter, the tension in the room dissipating even further.

Nessa winks. “Always be prepared.”

Eva adds, “And always trust your instincts. If something feels off, it probably is.”

I nod, taking in their advice. “Thanks, guys. I’m… nervous, you know?”

Nessa pats my hand. “It’s natural. But whatever you did yesterday pleased you, right?”

I nod. “More than pleased,” I admit.

Eva nods in agreement. “Then it’s a good start. Share your thoughts with him. If he’s the right guy, he’ll listen.”

Their words reassure me. Ethan, no matter our history, is a good guy. He was patient, caring, and loving yesterday, and I want to stop overthinking it now and do as I please for once.

The next evening, I stand in front of my mirror, my eyes tracing over the simple black dress that falls above my knees. It’s nothing fancy, a basic piece I found at a charity shop—something I bought for the scholarship interview process and a far cry from the designer dresses I used to wear. But it’s all I have, and neither Eva nor Nessa’s wardrobes offer any alternatives since we’re all different sizes.

My fingers trace the fabric, memories of a different time, a different Poppy, flickering in my mind. I used to be that girl, draped in luxury, every piece of clothing a statement of wealth and status. Now, this simple, cheap dress is my reality, and there’s a part of me that fears Ethan will see the change too starkly tonight.

Taking a deep breath, I try to steady the fluttering in my chest. Ethan has been nothing but kind and understanding thus far. He’s seen where I live, he knows the compromises I have to make daily, and still, he looks at me like I’m something precious. I saw it last night; it was plain in his face. The awe… as if he was the luckiest man on earth. I know that, and it makes my stomach flutter, but the fear of being seen as less, especially in the eyes of someone who knew me during my “better days,” clings tightly.

I apply a light coat of lipstick, trying to push away the nagging insecurity. My hand unconsciously goes to the locket around my neck, the only piece of real value I still own. It’s more than just jewelry; it’s a piece of my past, a reminder of who I used to be and who I’ve become.

I give myself a final once-over in the mirror, take a deep breath, and decide to embrace the evening, no matter what it may bring. After all, if Ethan and I are going to have any kind of future, he’s going to see all sides of me, not the polished, put-together version I used to be. And I have to trust that he’ll see beyond the Target dresses and charity shop finds to the real me underneath.

With one last steadying breath, I grab my bag and my coat and head out, ready to face whatever the evening with Ethan brings.

My heart skips a beat as I see him, dressed impeccably in his designer pants and cashmere coat, leaning against his SUV. I tighten my used coat around me and stop a couple of steps in front of him.

He straightens up as I approach, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes my stomach do somersaults. “You look beautiful,” he says sincerely.

I wave him off. “Stop being nice.”

He steps closer and rests his forefinger under my chin, tilting my chin up to meet his eyes. “We both know I’m not nice.”

“You’re nicer than you think,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles. A soft, genuine expression. “Let’s keep that between us.” He extends an Osiria rose toward me.

My breath catches in my throat. “Oh! It’s my favorite.”

“Is it?” His smile widens, taking on a mysteriously playful edge. “How lucky for me.”

Memories flood back to high school, to birthdays where I’d find an Osiria rose in my locker. My heart pounds as I look at him, the question on the tip of my tongue. “You didn’t—”

He interrupts, “What?” His eyes are innocent, but there’s a twinkle in them that betrays his nonchalance.

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