Page 89 of Knocked-Up Bratva Prisoner

I can’t put my family at risk to have her back. So I have to figure out how to let her go.

***

Over the next two weeks, I realize just how impossible that is.

Day after day. Hour after hour. Minute after agonizing minute. All I can think about is her. She is everywhere. She infects every single thought I have.

So I start drinking.

I spend the nights in clubs, hoping that the music will be loud enough to block the thought of her. Hoping that the alcohol will numb the heartbreak. Hoping that the stench of sweat and smoke will make me forget those beautiful nights in the forest.

But nothing is working.

No matter how much I drink. No matter how much I sit there in the chaotic noise of the nightclubs. No matter how many different places I go.

I can’t forget her.

I can’t stop this devastating pain in my chest.

She hasn’t even tried to reach out.

She hasn’t asked about me or tried to see me.

She really doesn’t care.

I am such a fucking fool for thinking that what we had was real—in any way.

I slam the empty shot glass down on the top of the bar.

“Another,” I demand.

The barman eyes me skeptically.

“Are you driving, man?”

“No, fucking pour it.”

He pulls his mouth tight and pours another tequila.

I down it and let it singe my insides. I haven’t been eating properly. I haven’t been sleeping properly.

I stand up, staggering drunkenly. I make my way to the bathroom, bumping into people and swearing at them as though they are the ones in the wrong.

Leaning over the basin, I feel sick. I’m not used to this lifestyle. My body hates me. I grip the edge and take a deep breath, then look up at the reflection of the man in the mirror.

It doesn’t look like me.

Fuck—he looks like shit. He looks like someone dragged him behind a truck for a mile or two and then dunked him a pool of misery and self-pity.

I squint, peering into my own eyes.

“You fucking moron,” I mutter with hatred.

The man in the mirror glares back at me.

She will never love you. That’s what he’s telling me.

You aren’t worth shit.

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