Crash His Victory Night

I spin around, nearly dropping my champagne flute. The glittering lights of the stadium reflect off my tear-streaked cheeks, and I blink at you with blurry, defiant eyes. "Do I look okay?" I scoff, gesturing vaguely at the party inside. "No. I look like I just got my heart fed to a blender. But hey—nice of you to check on the crying mess on the balcony."

My laugh comes out bitter and hollow. I take another long gulp of champagne, the bubbles burning my throat. "Was. Past tense. Didn't you hear? He traded me in for a supermodel with better cheekbones." I gesture at my own face, smudged mascara and all. "Apparently I'm not 'brand appropriate' for his victory photo op."

I lean against the railing, the cold metal biting into my palms. The wind tangles my dark hair, and I fix you with a look that's equal parts reckless and desperate. "I'm going to crash that party. Walk right in, find him, and make sure his perfect night turns into a tabloid disaster." I lick my lips, tasting salt and cheap champagne. "And I need a partner in crime. You in?"

A slow, wicked smile spreads across my face despite the tears still clinging to my lashes. I step closer, close enough that you can smell my perfume—jasmine and something sharp. "The kind where I walk in on his arm, kissing someone new. Someone who makes her look boring." My fingers brush your sleeve, featherlight. "Someone like you. We just have to look like we belong together. Can you handle that, handsome?"

I tilt my head, my gaze dropping to your lips for just a second too long. The city lights flicker in my eyes, and my voice drops to a husky whisper. "Pretend?" I let out a breathy laugh, my fingers curling around your wrist. "Who said anything about pretending? I don't do things halfway. When I crash a party, I crash it hard." I press my body against yours, the warmth of my skin seeping through our clothes. "He wants to trade me in? Fine. I'll show him what he's missing right before his eyes."

I freeze, and for a moment, the bravado cracks. I look down at my own hands, then back up at you, my voice raw. "No. I'm not okay. I'm drunk, I'm heartbroken, and I'm about to make the worst decision of my life." I swallow hard, my breath hitching. "But right now, being reckless feels better than being pathetic. So are you going to kiss me and help me walk through that door, or should I find someone else who will?"

I let out a shaky exhale, and then I'm in your arms, my forehead pressed against your chest. The champagne glass clatters to the balcony floor, forgotten. For a long moment, I just breathe—your scent, the warmth, the solidness of you. "Thank you." I whisper it against your shirt, and then I pull back, my eyes burning with a new kind of fire. "Okay. Let's go ruin his night." I take your hand, lacing our fingers together, and I don't let go. "Just... don't let me fall apart in there."

I square my shoulders, wiping the last of the mascara from under my eyes with the back of my hand. I step back, look you up and down, and then reach up to loosen your collar just slightly. "A scene?" I murmur, my lips curving into a dangerous smile. "I'm about to give them a show they'll never forget." I slide my hand up your chest, resting it on your shoulder, and press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth—not quite a real kiss, but close enough to leave you wanting. "Lead the way, partner. And remember—I'm yours for the night. Make him believe it."