The Man Who Let Me Go Now Wants Me Back

La Notte hummed with dim chandeliers, smoky jazz that slithered through the air, and perfume laced with secrets. I lingered at the bar alone, swirling what was left of my bourbon—third glass, maybe fourth. The ice had drowned into water. Heat from the race still throbbed under my skin, though the sting of losing pressed down heavier than the liquor in my veins.

I should’ve taken it.

I would’ve, if no one had sabotaged my ride.

But instead, Dahlia left with the trophy—and Leander, my so-called protector, shadowed her like she had him under some spell.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the room to bleed thin of people. Long enough for my bitterness to harden into something sharp and steady.

Then the door swung open.

Dahlia walked in, radiant as ever. Leander followed, her obedient knight. A laugh slipped out of me, low, bitter. Of course.

Leander’s gaze snapped to me immediately. Dahlia blinked, all fake innocence.

“Oh! Raven,” she chirped, voice dripping honey. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Come on—join us, we’re celebrating!”

I didn’t give her the courtesy of an answer. I rose, smoothed my dress down with slow precision, and brushed past them like they didn’t exist. The bassline throbbed against my chest as I climbed onto the stage without hesitation.

If they wanted spectacle, I’d give them one.

I danced—wild, unrestrained, dangerous. The lights bathed me, and soon men circled close, their hands twitching, their stares starving. I moved like smoke, untouchable, letting their hunger fuel me.

Then Leander was there, forcing his way forward. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, as if he had some right to intervene. As if I belonged to him.

But Dahlia’s voice carried over the music: “Let my sister dance,” she said, graciously, like she was blessing me with her mercy.

I locked eyes with Leander, lips curling. “What’s the matter? Jealous?”

For a moment, I drowned in it—in being watched, in proving I didn’t need them.

Then I heard it. The words that weren’t meant for my ears.

“Raven’s pathetic. That’s why she’ll never come close to you, Dahlia.”

The sentence slid through me like a blade. Precise. Icy.

The music cut.

“Attention!” the MC roared, his voice echoing through the haze of jazz and smoke. “Tonight’s main act—old-fashioned justice! Place your bets!”

The crowd surged toward the iron cage at the club’s heart, money flying, glasses spilling. I stayed where I was, lazily swirling my wine as if I had nothing better to do than watch predators tear each other apart.

The gates screeched open.

Two panthers prowled out, sinewy and restless. One wore a collar tagged red—“Vesuvio.” The other, blue—“Lucifero.” The crowd lost its mind.

“Five hundred on Lucifero!”

“Two grand on Vesuvio!”

Dahlia’s voice chimed above them all, syrupy and smug. “A million on red,” she declared, leaning into Leander. Her grin darted toward me. “What about you, Raven? No bet? Or too broke to play?”

I lifted my glass, savoring a sip, then smirked. “I don’t waste money on beasts that don’t walk on two legs.”

Her smile cracked—barely noticeable—but it was enough. Leander stayed silent.

Down below, the cats circled, muscles rippling under strobe light, throats rumbling. The crowd’s hunger thickened with theirs.

Then—shrill. A single fire alarm beeped. Then a second, quiet. And then—boom.

The curtain behind the bar ignited, flames roaring outward.

Screams ripped through the air. Bottles burst. The red light was replaced by real fire. Bodies shoved toward the exit in a panicked tide.

The cage’s lock wailed under pressure, then split wide. Metal shrieked.

The panthers were free.

One bolted into the crowd. The other fixed its yellow gaze on me.

Shit.

I bolted upright, the wine glass shattering at my feet. I ran, heels pounding the slick floor, but Vesuvio was faster. Pain detonated in my thigh—teeth tearing into muscle. My body slammed to the tiles, blood slicking beneath me.

Gunshots cracked.

Leander.

He put Vesuvio down—cold, precise.

But he didn’t reach for me.

He turned straight to Dahlia, gathering her up, cradling her like she was something precious. Whispering reassurances into her hair as fire ate the ceiling.

The room screamed. Someone shouted my name, distant, warped. I lay bleeding, abandoned, flames closing in. And all I could think was:

Even here, in the mouth of hell, Dahlia still walks away the victor.

---

I woke to antiseptic biting my nose and pain stitched deep into my bones. My body ached as if I’d been dragged across glass.

The upside? No burns. Just a torn leg wrapped like shrapnel had kissed it. I should’ve been thankful. But gratitude doesn’t survive when betrayal beats louder than agony.

I remembered the fire. The screaming. My blood painting the floor. A hand—rough, unfamiliar—dragging me out while the inferno roared.

Not Leander’s hand.

A stranger saved me. Not the man who swore he’d always protect me.

The door creaked. And then came the sound I hated more than fire alarms.

Dahlia’s fake sobbing.

She collapsed against Leander, his arms around her as if she were the one torn apart. Her crocodile tears wet his shirt as she whimpered, “I shouldn’t have been there… Raven only got hurt because of me…”

I nearly laughed. Nearly ripped the IV from my arm just to slam her against the wall and see if she could still cry without an audience. My fingers twitched with the urge. But I lay still. Hollow.

Then Leander’s voice—low, soothing. “Don’t say that,” he murmured, caressing her face like she was glass. “If I had to do it again, I’d still choose you.”

And that broke me clean.

Because he meant it. He chose her. Always her.

I shut my eyes. Not for sleep. But to erase it.

Erase the image of my boyfriend—my supposed protector—shielding her while I bled out alone on the nightclub floor. Erase the truth that in this twisted story, the villainess always claims the crown. And me? I’m the girl left behind, burning over and over.