My Ex-lover Begged for My Love after He Abandoned me

La Notte buzzed with low lights, dirty jazz, and perfume-thick secrets. I sat at the bar, alone, swirling my second—no, third—glass of bourbon. The ice had mostly melted. The heat from the race still pulsed under my skin, but the bitter taste of loss settled heavier than the liquor ever could.

I should’ve won.

I would’ve, if my car hadn’t been tampered with.

But of course, Alina walked away with the trophy. And Creed—my so-called guardian—walked beside her like she owned him.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the crowd to thin. Long enough for my resentment to burn clean.

Then they walked in.

Alina, glowing. Creed, beside her like a knight she’d enchanted. I laughed, quietly. Figures.

Creed’s eyes landed on me instantly. Alina blinked, feigning surprise.

“Oh! Scarlett,” she said sweetly, too sweetly. “Didn’t expect you here. Come join us—we’re celebrating.”

I didn’t answer. Just stood, smoothed down my dress, and walked straight past them. The bass was thumping. I stepped onto the stage without a second thought.

If they wanted a show, I’d give them one.

I danced—free, dangerous, reckless. The lights caught my skin, and soon enough, men began circling. Hands reaching, eyes hungry. I moved around them like smoke.

Then Creed was there. Trying to get to me. His face was tight, brows drawn. Like he had the right to care. Like I was his problem.

But Alina’s voice cut through it. “Let my sister dance,” she said, so gracious, like she was granting me a moment in her spotlight.

I met Creed’s eyes. Smirked. “Jealous?”

For a moment, I was drunk on it. On being seen. On not needing them.

Then I heard him. Heard what he said when he thought I wouldn’t.

“Scarlett looks pathetic. That’s why she’ll always be so far from you, Alina.”

The words sliced through me. Clean. Cold.

Then the music stop.

“Attention!” the MC’s voice cracked through the haze of smoke and jazz. “Tonight’s entertainment—old-school justice! Place your bets!”

The crowd surged toward the pit cage at the center of La Notte, bills flying, drinks spilling. I stayed seated, swirling my wine as if I had nothing better to do than watch a pair of monsters rip each other apart.

The iron gates groaned open.

Two panthers padded into the ring, lean and twitchy. One wore a red tag on its collar—“Vesuvio.” The other, blue—“Lucifero.” The crowd roared louder.

“Five hundred on Lucifero!”

“Two grand on Vesuvio!”

“Million on red,” Alina’s voice rang out, saccharine and smug as she leaned against Creed. “Scarlett?” She grinned at me. “No bet? Or too broke to play?”

I took a slow sip of wine, smirking. “I don’t gamble on things that don’t walk upright.”

Her smile faltered, just a flicker. Creed said nothing.

In the pit, the panthers circled, snarling, muscles rippling under the strobe lights. Bloodlust thickened the air.

Then— Fire alarm. One short beep. Then a second. Too quiet. Then boom.

A curtain behind the bar exploded in flames.

Screams. Bottles shattered. Red light became real fire. People stampeded.

The MC’s voice cracked again—this time in panic.

The cage gate buckled.Metal screamed, then snapped open as the lock gave way. The panthers were loose.

One dove into the crowd. The other locked eyes on me.

Shit!

I was on my feet, wine glass gone. I ran, heels pounding, but Vesuvio was faster. Pain ripped through my thigh—its teeth tore flesh from bone. I hit the ground hard. My blood slicked the tiles beneath me.

Then gunfire.

Creed.

He shot Vesuvio—cold, clean.

But he didn’t come for me.

He turned—wrapped Alina in his arms, dragging her to safety, whispering to her like she was made of porcelain.

The flames climbed higher. The ceiling groaned. Somewhere someone screamed my name, but it didn’t sound real. I bled out alone as the fire consumed the room. And all I could think was:

Even in hell, Alina still wins.

---

I woke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the kind of pain that felt stitched into bone. My body ached like I’d been dragged through hell—and maybe I had.

The good news? No burns. Just torn muscle and a leg wrapped like a war wound. I should’ve been grateful. But gratitude doesn’t come easy when betrayal’s still pulsing louder than pain.

I remembered fire. Screaming. Blood. And a hand—rough, unfamiliar—grabbing me, hauling me out while the flames chased behind.

Not Creed.

Some stranger pulled me from the fire. Not the man who was supposed to protect me. Not the one who once swore he’d never let anything touch me.

The door creaked. Then came the sound I hated more than sirens.

Fake sobbing.

Alina.

Wrapped in Creed’s arms like she was the one who’d nearly been mauled to death. Her crocodile tears leaked onto his shirt as she whimpered, “I shouldn’t have been there… Scarlett got hurt because of me…”

I nearly laughed. Nearly tore out my IV just to shove her against the wall and see if she’d still cry when it wasn’t for show. My fingers twitched with the urge. But I stayed still.

Numb.

Then his voice. Low. Soft. “Don’t say that,” he whispered, stroking her cheek like she was glass. “If I had to choose again, I wouldn’t hesitate to choose you.”

And just like that, the last of me shattered.

Because he meant it. He chose her.

Over me.

I closed my eyes. Not to rest... To forget.

Forget that my boyfriend—my bodyguard—protected her while I bled alone on a nightclub floor. Forget that in this twisted fairytale, the villain keeps winning. And I’m just the girl who keeps getting burned.