Chapter 3
Arched brows framing eyes full of sarcasm, with a black obsidian earring in his left ear catching the cold gleam.
At twenty, Jackson had this edgy, magnetic pull that screamed trouble.
"You're okay now." He peeled off his leather jacket and tossed it my way. "Buttons."
Only then did I notice my shirt had popped open to the third button. I hurriedly bundled up in his jacket.
The leftover body heat on the leather, mingled with a subtle whiff of tobacco—it was strangely reassuring.
"Th-thanks..." I mumbled, barely audible, my face on fire.
He leaned in all of a sudden. I backed up instinctively, my back smacking the chilly brick wall again.
One hand planted by my ear, he dipped his head, his breath tickling my burning earlobe.
"So shy? But you've been checking out my abs for ages."
My cheeks blazed even hotter.
He wasn't wrong—whenever he was on the court, I'd steal glances at those sweat-slicked muscle lines.
But getting busted like that? Never saw it coming.
The next day at the dorm party, I was tucked in the corner of the club lounge, mindlessly popping fruit into my mouth.
The door flew open, and in walked Jackson with a crew of sports guys.
My forkful of fruit slipped and splattered right onto my skirt.
"Hey, little bunny." He slid into the seat next to me like it was no big deal and passed me a napkin.
"That jumpy?"
Our fingers brushed as I took it, and I jerked back like I'd touched a hot stove.
In the low light, his eyes seemed endlessly deep, with the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
"What song? Let me hear you belt it out."
He snatched the mic and thrust it into my hand before I could protest.
I jabbed at a random track, my voice wobbling like crazy.
But he chimed in seamlessly, his deep, gravelly tone making my ears buzz.
My roommates kept shooting us these teasing looks, and I wished the floor would swallow me whole.
Things got boozy after that—my recall turned fuzzy.
All that stuck was him yanking me into the bathroom stall, my back against the icy tiles.
As his boozy kiss landed, he whispered in my ear, "Be good. Eyes on me."
From that night on, I was totally gone for him.
Any campus run-in, and he'd pull me into some hidden spot for a stolen kiss.
My diary pages were crammed with his initials doodled all over, my phone gallery stuffed with covert snaps of his silhouette.
That time he said, "Be good, give it to me."
That time he said, "I'll have you hooked on me forever."
A decade later, I'd transformed from the girl who'd flush crimson over the slightest brush...
Into the woman who took all his bedroom requests in stride, cool as anything.
I foolishly believed this was real love—he showed me the art of kissing, the joys of my own body, the ways to drive him wild.
I'd spent years waiting, just holding out for his proposal.
I'd even fantasized about our wedding, picturing a son who was his mini-me.
The type who'd have girls fawning over him, hearts in their eyes.
I never thought we'd actually break up...
We were so in sync, after all—so perfectly matched in every way...
I let out a bitter laugh. Spending your whole life sleeping with just one man? Yeah, that'd be a real shame.
Before leaving, though, I wanted one last face-to-face.
Whatever happened next, I owed it to myself to wrap up these ten years on my terms.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the closet, trailing my fingers along the rows of soft, neutral dresses.
Over time, my wardrobe had basically been whitewashed—
Creamy knits in off-white, flowing chiffon skirts in ivory, silk blouses in pearl...
Every piece nailed that "pure and innocent" look Jackson couldn't get enough of.
"You always look best in white," he'd say.
I'd show him the Dior 999 lipstick.
"Too bold."
Then he'd pick out a subtle nude lip balm instead.
"That's more your style."
For the first time in ten years, I really studied my reflection.
A twenty-eight-year-old woman staring back, with a sultry edge to her features that made my nineteen-year-old self seem almost plain.
I pulled out the pearl hair clip, letting my curls cascade down like a midnight waterfall.
Way in the back of the closet hung that vibrant red bodycon dress—a birthday present from my best friend Freida Donaldson three years ago.
"Girl, with a figure like yours, why do you always dress like such a scared little rabbit?"
She'd shoved the bag into my hands, all frustrated.
I'd never told her the truth: Jackson loved me looking pristine on the outside, like a blank canvas, but wild and unrestrained once the door shut.
Just thinking about his demands made my ears burn.
I'd only worn the dress once, in secret, while Jackson was away on a business trip.
Today, I put it on deliberately.
The silk fabric draped over my body like flowing water.
The deep V-neckline showed off my collarbones, and the side slit gave teasing glimpses of my legs.
Paired with 3-inch red-soled heels, I towered close to five-nine.
My hips swayed naturally as I walked, like my body was reclaiming its innate grace.
I lined my eyes with deep brown for a sharp wing,
Loaded up on mascara for thick lashes, and finished with that long-forgotten bold red lipstick.
The woman in the mirror felt both strange and familiar: tousled waves of hair, full crimson lips, delicate ankles flashing under the hem.
This was a side of me Jackson had never laid eyes on.
My phone buzzed—a message from him in the WhatsApp group.
[7 PM tonight, usual spot.]
His go-to for gathering the crew for drinks.
The moment I pushed open the door to the private club room, the noisy chatter cut off abruptly.
A dozen pairs of eyes snapped my way; I tightened my grip on my clutch without even realizing it.
"Damn, she's a knockout," someone muttered under their breath.
"Yeah, total smoke show—I'm all in," another chimed in.
Gaston Foley approached first, flashing his usual cocky smirk.
"Hey, beautiful, here alone? I'm Gaston..."
I interrupted with a sly smile. "It's me, Essie."
The room went dead silent—you could've heard a pin drop.