Page 13 of Cupid's Curse

"Listen," I begin, speaking softly. "I have a lot to do tomorrow, so I need to get some sleep tonight. If ya'll stay, we all know that isn't going to happen," I chuckle, giving both of them a smile.

"Alright, we'll go, but can we see you tomorrow?" Kallen gives me a sweet look that tugs at my heartstrings, his green eyes piercing right into my soul.

"Yeah, it won't be until tomorrow night because I have plans with my mother, but I'll text you when I'm done."

Satisfied with my answer, the twins finally get off my bed and kiss me goodbye, gathering their discarded clothes in the hallway and getting dressed in the living room before leaving my apartment, locking the door behind them.

I lay back down, not bothering to get dressed. I stare out my window and light a cigarette, trying to process what just fucking happened. But only one thing keeps coming to me, and that’s the fact that I'm now a fucking whore for fucking twins at the same time.

At least I checked something off my bucket list, and to be honest, I don't ever have to see them again if I don't want to.

Skylar

After attempting to sleepas long as I could, the relentless dinging of my phone finally drives me to frustration, compelling me to awaken before I was ready. Notifications inundate my phone, each ping pricking my curiosity—I can’t help but wonder what’s fucking happening.

As I sit up, I feel utterly shattered; my body cracks and pops like a creaky old house, making me feel like I’ve aged decadesovernight. I knew I would be sore, but this shit is a whole new fucking level of discomfort.

The sun blazes through the window, blinding me—how did I forget to close the blinds? My eyes burn like I’ve been caught in the light of day, as a vampire might. A chilling breeze drifts through the open window, harshly reminding me of still being naked. I wrap a blanket around myself, light a cigarette, and reach for my phone to check the time.

2:34 PM.

Great, I’ve managed to sleep away half the day.

I shrug it off and swipe my phone to life. Tapping on Instagram, my jaw drops at the first image that appears on my feed: over a hundred notifications awaiting me. My stomach knots and a lump forms in my throat as I read the caption on my mother’s post, anger boiling within me.

The picture features her hand, showcasing an enormous engagement ring that steals the spotlight, with the caption that reads, “I said yes!” As I digest the information, shock washes over me, hitting like a fucking brick wall.

He fucking proposed to her? On Valentine’s Day? How incredibly cliché. But what utterly baffles me is their fucking audacity—posting this on social media without telling me first.

Fuming, I immediately navigate to my mother’s profile and hit the block button, then throw my phone across the room in a fit of rage, hoping it shatters upon impact.

It doesn’t. Just my fucking luck.

Knowing I’ll have to face both of them at dinner in a few hours only fuels my anger with every passing second. My mother is fully aware of my temperament; she knows I won’t hold my tongue. She understands that I’m about to unleash a storm of anger on her and Kent, and I'll rip them both a new asshole.

I throw off the blanket and storm out of my room, naked and determined to shower—I need to wash away the remnants oflast night’s indiscretions. Ironically, all I can think about are the twins, and now I’m itching to call them more than ever. I need an escape, a release, before dinner so that I can at least partially temper my rage.

Stepping into the shower, I stand beneath the scalding water, allowing it to wash over me while the heat turns my skin red and raw. The water does little to soothe the burning rage simmering beneath my skin. The twins are still on my mind, their faces a hazy memory of last night's tangled limbs and breathless whispers. I scrub harder, the rough washcloth a poor substitute for the raw, visceral anger I feel. Kent. The audacity. My mother, so fucking self-absorbed, so utterly oblivious to the hurt she inflicts. Fucking Valentine's Day. Of all the goddamn days. The cliché is almost more infuriating than the betrayal.Almost.

The hot water finally begins to lose its sting, replaced by a dull ache in my muscles. I turn the tap to cold, the shock jolting me back to the present. I need a plan. A strategy. I can't just unleash a torrent of fury; I need to be calculated, precise. I need to hurt them as much as they've hurt me. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

Toweling off, I dress quickly, choosing something sharp and unforgiving—tight black jeans, a tight black crop shirt, and boots that make a satisfying thud on the wooden floor. I need to look the part—the part of the furious daughter—the one who won't be silenced. I glance at my reflection—pale, eyes bloodshot, but there's a glint of something else there, something cold and hard. This isn't just anger anymore; it's something colder, something sharper. Revenge.

I grab my phone; the cracked screen is a testament to my earlier outburst. I don't bother to repair it. Instead, I open my contacts and scroll to the twins' number. This isn't an escape; it's a weapon. A carefully chosen weapon to be wielded with precision. I press call, the ringing a counterpoint to the steadybeat of my own heart. This is going to be a long, brutal evening... after I hopefully get my brains fucked out of me first.

Roman answers on the third ring, putting his phone on speaker, his can Kallen's voices a welcome balm to my simmering rage. We exchange breathless greetings, the usual playful banter a thin veil over the underlying tension. I don't mention my mother's engagement, not yet. Instead, I focus on arranging a rendezvous—a pre-dinner meeting that will serve as both distraction and preparation. Their apartment is close, a quick bike ride away. We agree to meet in an hour.

The ride is a blur of angry thoughts and frantic planning. The image of my mother's ring flashes in my mind, a constant reminder of the betrayal. I clench my fists, knuckles turning white. Parking my bike, I climb off, strutting my way up the path to the door of the complex. Of course, the twins are waiting for me at the door.

"Look who couldn't stay away," Roman jokes, flashing me the same wink he kept giving me last night.

"Fuck off, I'm just here for one thing," I snap, giving both of them a sultry look that needs no other explanation.

"Fuck, Skylar, you're looking fine, pretty girl," Kallen says, taking in my tight, black outfit, completely inappropriate for a dinner with my mother, her boyfriend, and his kids, but that was the whole point.

"Oh, this old thing," I tease, finishing my cigarette before following them inside.

The twins' apartment is a haven of controlled chaos, a familiar comfort in the midst of my turmoil. We drink, we smoke, we talk—mostly them about how they're liking it here since they moved. When my turn comes around, they listen intently as I pour outmy fury without telling them the full nature of my anger, my voice rising and falling with the tide of my emotions. They offer words of comfort, but mostly they just listen, their presence a silent affirmation of my pain. Their understanding is a lifeline, a temporary reprieve from the storm raging inside me.

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