Page 52 of Never Your Girl

Her reply comes with a virtual eye roll.

FragileLikeABomb

Says the guy who is the definition of “good people.” Don’t even try to argue.

For the first time in hours, a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. She always has a way of turning the worst days into something manageable.

Other than my cousin, she’s the one person I can always count on to be there when shit goes south. She’s become important to me. Ironically, I have no idea what she looks like or the sound of her voice. We could pass each other on campus and not even know it. Every so often, I find myself scanning the crowd, my gaze landing on a random girl before wondering—is that her?

Or is it the chick she’s standing with?

Me

Fine. You win this one. But don’t get used to it.

FragileLikeABomb

Too late. I’m already celebrating.

I chuckle under my breath, the sound foreign after the day I’ve had. For the first time since I left my father’s office, I feel like I can breathe again.

Me

I should go. Talk soon?

FragileLikeABomb

Anytime you need.

I log off, a strange cocktail of emotions lingering in my mind. The hurt and anger have finally abated, and I know that has everything to do with this girl from the chat app. The one I don’t even know in real life.

The one I wish I did.

Would meeting up ruin our relationship? Or make it that much better?

I have no idea.

As soon as that thought pops into my head, an auburn-haired spitfire with a sharp tongue forces her way back into my thoughts.

And suddenly, all I want to do is see her.

Touch her.

I really hope she’s telling the truth and isn’t involved in these messages.

Only time will tell because, one way or another, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.

I just hope Holland isn’t the one I find there.

17

Holland

The bass reverberates through the floor, pulsing up my legs and settling in my chest like a second heartbeat. The lights shift, casting a soft, golden glow across the stage, and I feel the crowd’s attention sharpen, homing in on me. It’s a high I’ve learned to control, a blend of power and vulnerability that keeps me balanced as I move.

My heels click softly against the polished stage as I take one final turn around the pole, the silk ribbons of my costume fluttering with the motion. My body follows the rhythm, every movement choreographed to leave an impression without revealing too much. It’s all an illusion, a performance where confidence masks everything hiding beneath the surface.

I slide down to a graceful crouch, my fingertips brushing the stage as I arch my back in a deliberate tease. The applause swells, and the corner of my mouth lifts in a small smile. They love the act, the persona I’ve created, the woman who isn’t afraid to demand their attention.

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