Chapter 3

A violent pounding rattled my apartment door.

Ryan Quinn casually grabbed a towel from the floor, wrapped it securely around his waist, and walked barefoot out of the bedroom to answer it.

Oscar was standing in the hallway. His face was ghostly pale. His eyes darted wildly between Ryan's chiseled chest and my head, which was currently poking out from the bedroom doorframe. I was tightly wrapped in a duvet.

Oscar's signature cocky smirk was completely gone.

His eyes widened in absolute terror, as if he were witnessing something truly horrific. His gaze scanned frantically my disheveled hair and vivid hickeys blooming across my neck.

"M-Mr. Quinn?" Oscar croaked, his voice cracking. His knees looked like they were going to buckle. He took an involuntary step back, his shoulders hunching forward in a display of groveling submission I had never, ever seen from him.

"What... what are you doing here? This is a misunderstanding. A huge, massive misunderstanding, I swear..."

Ryan leaned lazily against the doorframe. It was a staggering contrast to Oscar's panic. Ryan didn't say a word. He just stared down at Oscar, but his striking eyes were completely devoid of warmth.

The silence was suffocating. It held more weight than a shouting match ever could.

A bead of cold sweat rolled down Oscar's temple. He frantically looked past Ryan, locking eyes with me. His gaze was a chaotic mix of desperation, accusation, and genuine fear.

"Claire. What the hell is going on? Why are you with Mr. Quinn? The gift I sent you was..."

"Was what?" Ryan finally spoke. His voice was low and deadly calm, but it snapped Oscar's mouth shut like a bear trap.

Oscar's face flushed beet red and then drained to white. "It... it was a joke..." he stammered weakly.

He looked back at me like a drowning man begging for a life preserver. "Claire, talk to me. Did you get too drunk and mistake him for someone else? How could Mr. Quinn be a birthday present? My gift was..."

He couldn't even say it. He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

I just stared at him. I had known Oscar for twenty years. I knew his cocky grin, his annoying teasing, his relentless charm, and his rare moments of genuine sweetness.

But I had never seen him groveling at the feet of a man he was clearly terrified of.

In that exact moment, whatever lingering romantic fantasies I held onto about Oscar shattered like fragile glass on concrete.

There was nothing left but the cold, sobering reality of how absurd my life had become.

"I know what you sent me, Oscar," I said. My voice was eerily calm, though beneath the duvet, my knuckles were white. "You sent me a meticulously wrapped box of dog shit."

Ryan's eyebrow twitched upward, just a fraction of an inch.

Oscar looked like he had been physically struck. His face burned crimson as he stepped forward, desperate to explain, "No. Claire, you know me. I was just messing with you. I thought it would be funny. You know I always..."

"You have a very unique sense of humor, Mr. Gibson," Ryan cut in. His tone remained entirely flat, but the words hit like a backhand across the face.

Oscar deflated instantly. His mouth clamped shut, his shoulders slumping in total defeat.

Ryan didn't spare him another glance. He turned his back on the hallway and walked into the apartment. Stopping by the edge of the bed, he scooped up his discarded white shirt from the floor and methodically pulled it on.

As he fastened the buttons one by one, the aloof aura returned to him. It was as if the ravenous man who had pinned me to my front door was just a figment of my imagination.

"Ms. Clark," he said, buttoning the cuffs and finally meeting my eyes. "I'm very glad I could be your birthday present."

Oscar was still hovering in the hallway, caught in a miserable limbo between fleeing and staying, watching us with a tortured expression.

Ryan walked back to the door. Oscar immediately scrambled out of the way.

"Mr. Quinn, about today..." Oscar started, desperate to salvage the situation.

Ryan paused in the doorway. He turned his head, his gaze sweeping dismissively past Oscar before landing squarely on me.

His eyes were swirling with something heavy I couldn't read.

"Mr. Gibson," Ryan said. "When you send the wrong gift to the wrong person, you deal with the consequences."

The door clicked shut. It completely sealed away Oscar's pale, panicked face and the stinking gift box I still hadn't taken out to the dumpster.