Chapter 4

The Twilight Bar buzzed with energy when Malayah Hudson arrived; the private room was drenched in neon lights, and the music thumped loudly. On stage, Desmond Martinez, who was typically confined to a wheelchair, sat on a high stool, strumming his guitar while singing love songs. He was free-spirited — a side Malayah had never seen before.

His gaze was tender as he looked at Waverly Bell, standing like a star beneath the stage lights. With a gentle smile, he spoke into the microphone, "Waverly, I love you. Let's get married."

Malayah stood at the entrance, her legs feeling like lead, tears silently streaming down her cheeks. How could she reconcile three years of emotions? Love and hate intertwined within her mind, and she wished she could rush in and demand an explanation. Why couldn't he just tell her he didn't want to marry her, instead of shattering her heart? Was her love truly so worthless?

The crowd erupted at Desmond's declaration.

"Kiss! Kiss!"

Waverly shyly bowed her head. Desmond set down his guitar, climbed down from the stage, and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in for a kiss. The spectators cheered wildly.

After the kiss, Desmond tidied Waverly’s clothes and hair. Then someone remarked loudly, "Desmond, but your wedding is in six days; did Malayah agree to the breakup?"

"She’s clung to you so desperately over these years. Will she let go easily?"

"Yeah, she even went to the doctor for your leg, she was so pathetic. I still have that photo."

"Desmond, why was she so easy to manipulate?"

Desmond simply held Waverly on the couch, shooting his wheelchair a disdainful glance, "She chose to."

Malayah bit her lip until it nearly bled. She leaned against the wall, feeling weak, her mind blank. Yet, this time, there was a sense of inevitability. Her heart didn’t feel as shattered as before. Just like Desmond said, she chose this path. Even if she stumbled and got hurt along the way, there was no one else to blame.

At that moment, someone suggested, "Desmond, let’s play a game. Want to try it? Waiting for Malayah to arrive..."

Malayah steadied herself, then tapped on the partially open door to the private room. Her eyes settled on Desmond Martinez, who had resumed his place in the wheelchair. She walked over, "Desmond, I came to take you home."

Suddenly, someone viciously kicked Desmond’s wheelchair, sending him tumbling to the floor. His rowdy friends chimed in, "You’re Desmond’s girlfriend? Desmond just lost a bet, and we were going to make him drink as a penalty, but look at him, blind and crippled. Why don’t you drink for him?"

Malayah saw the table was already covered in opened bottles. She turned her gaze to Desmond, her eyes meeting his. She knew he could see.

"Desmond, what do you want?"

"Malayah, you play, you pay."

Malayah let out a bitter laugh, tears pooling. What a phrase, "You play, you pay."

This was Desmond’s chance to prove himself. He knew she was allergic to alcohol. In their most tender times, Desmond would protect her from drinking at gatherings, saying indulgently, "With me here, my girlfriend never has to drink."

Malayah downed one bottle after another. The liquor was cold. Yet her heart burned, feeling like it was ready to burst into flames.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Desmond watching her the entire time, as if observing a performer. Was every moment of her supposed deep affection seen as entertainment by him? Perhaps Waverly was right; Desmond didn’t love her. It was all just a game.

The people around urged her on while Desmond remained silent and detached, watching as she finished the drinks. Malayah staggered, her figure unsteady, and as she walked toward Desmond, someone tripped her, sending her sprawling to the ground, pain shooting through her body.

"Desmond, are you satisfied?"