Page 8 of Broken Hearts

“Yeah, sure. I could use some unwinding,” I reply nonchalantly.

“Great! Heard it’s going to be one of the best this year. Everyone’s talking about it,” Peters says, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

I nod, a plan slowly forming in my mind. A party at Delta Sigma—notorious for their extravagance and lack of boundaries. It’s the perfect scene for every girl who wants to be seen.

Okay, time to review the strategy.

By the time evening rolls around, I head to the party with a few half-baked plans, all crazier than the next, and with a few items in my pockets that, if I were to be checked, would raise far more questions than I could answer.

Dressing for the party, I choose clothes I know she’d like and hopefully remind her of the times when we were close. It’s ridiculous, I know, especially since she won’t be there, but I can’t help it.

The guys might see my obsession with Eva as only physical, and part of me wishes it were just that—simple and superficial. It would be so much easier if it were only skin deep, but it’s something far more profound and personal.

The way Eva looked at me in high school—truly saw me—resonates in my memory. She saw beyond the facade, the image I projected to the world. She saw the flaws, the shortcomings, the struggles. And yet, she stood by me, fighting to help me overcome them. Her kindness, her genuine caring—it was something I hadn’t known I needed until she gave it to me and I lost it. She made me believe I was enough, just as I was. She made me feel seen, understood, and valued—not for my athletic skills or my family’s wealth, but for who I was beneath all that.

Gazing into the mirror, the reflection shows a man who’s achieved much but still yearns for something more meaningful. Eva gave me a taste of that, a glimpse of a connection that goes beyond the superficial. And her betrayal when she revealed my secret to Jenny and then her leaving after prom, abandoning the fight, it didn’t just hurt—it tore a hole right through me.

As I head out, my thoughts are a mix of strategy and genuine emotion. This party tonight is a step in my plan to get her back. Beneath the schemes and the manipulation, there’s a simple truth—I want to feel that connection again, to feel like I’m enough. She did that for me, and I can’t let go of the hope that she might do it again.

The Delta Sigma house is already buzzing when I get there, the bass from the music vibrating through the ground. The air is thick with anticipation and the promise of reckless abandon. I scan the room, my eyes searching, always searching for her, even knowing for a fact she’s at home right now. This is not her scene.

Looking through the crowd, I wince as my eyes connect with a blonde girl. She smiles as she sways toward me, her Solo cup in one hand, her body language screaming with intent.

“Cole Westbrook, the legend himself. Thought you’d be too cool for this kind of party,” she says, her voice low and flirtatious.

A thought crosses my mind as she steps so close her tits brush against my chest. I don’t have the energy for this tonight.

A forced half smirk appears, not really in the mood for this dance. “Linda,” I greet her, not bothering to hide my disinterest.

“It’s Fiona,” she corrects me, but there’s a playful edge to her voice.

Raising an eyebrow, my response is flat. “Right, Fiona.” The old me would have taken this as an opportunity, but now it’s just another tiresome routine.

“So, anyway, my friend Brooke”—she tilts her head toward a brunette by the drinks station who’s now eyeing us—“is totally into re-creating that night from last year, if you’re up for it.”

The game has lost its appeal, especially since Eva reentered my life. My cock, seemingly on life support, is unresponsive to anyone but her.

“Not tonight, Fiona. I’ve got… other things on my mind,” I say, my gaze drifting across the room, searching for a distraction, any distraction from this unwelcome conversation.

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a killjoy,” She pouts, leaning in closer, her perfume enveloping me. It’s too strong, too bold… I don’t like it.

It doesn’t smell like her; the voice in my head taunts.

Suddenly, my eyes zero in on someone. It’s not Eva, but it’s as close as it gets. It’s her goth roommate, looking so bored that I wonder what she’s doing here, but I’m way too pleased to have this opportunity to question it.

A smile crosses my face as the evening takes a promising turn. I stride in her direction, parting the flow of partying, sweating bodies.

Approaching Vanessa from behind, she seems absorbed in her own world, unaware of my presence.

“Hey,” I call, but she’s in a bubble of isolation. Impulsively, I reach out, my fingers brushing her shoulder.

She startles, turns around, and her bag falls down in the process. Shiny keys catch my eye as I bend to pick up the bag. Seizing the moment, I subtly pocket the keys and then hand the bag back to her.

She glares as she takes her bag from my grip, her eyes shooting daggers. “Don’t touch me,” she snaps, her voice sharp as a whip. “I don’t remember us being on touching terms, Westbrook.”

I can’t help but be taken aback by her intensity. “Just trying to get your attention. You seemed lost in your own world,” I say, attempting to sound casual.

She gives me a look that could freeze lava, her posture rigid, a defensive barrier. “Oh, please. Save your charm for someone who hasn’t seen a hundred guys like you. I’m not interested.”

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