"Michael?"

Harry repeated the name like it carried weight, like it had already inflicted damage before the man himself had even spoken a word. I stood frozen, unable to respond, react, or even move.

"As in your ex?" he pressed, brows furrowing. Still, I gave no answer.

"Oh my God. It's him, isn't it?" Chrys gasped, looking between Harry and me. She'd heard of him before but never met him—Michael was my past, a chapter I had long since tried to close before she and I became roommates.

I managed a weak nod.

Harry turned to Chrys abruptly. "Go back and tell him she doesn't want to see him."

His words snapped me out of my daze. My confusion quickly turned into something sharper—annoyance. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Tell him to leave," he demanded, gripping my arm like he was trying to shake some sense into me.

I yanked my arm away. "I can deal with this myself. And she will do no such thing."

His jaw clenched. "You're actually going to talk to him after everything he did to you?"

The anger in his voice felt like a warning, a plea, but it only made me defensive.

"What's it to you?" I countered, crossing my arms.

His eyes darkened. "Are you serious? Ella, he's a selfish prick who didn't care about you. He cheated on you, shattered your trust, and you think he deserves—"

"—And you're better?"

Harry went still, as if my words physically struck him.

"What?" His voice was quieter now, wary.

"You know exactly what I mean," I said, looking away. "You're with Charlie. You sleep with countless women. And yet... you just kissed me."

The weight of my own words made my stomach twist. What had that kiss even meant? What was I expecting from Harry when I knew exactly who he was?

His mouth parted like he wanted to speak but thought better of it.

"Tell me, Harry," I pushed. "Why do you care?"

His expression hardened.

"I don't," he lied. "Do whatever the fuck you want."

And with that, he shoved open the heavy club door, letting the music crash into the alley like a tidal wave. He walked inside without looking back, disappearing into the sea of bodies like he was never even there.

I inhaled sharply, feeling like I had just been sucker-punched. My mind was on overdrive, flashing between Harry pinning me against the door, his lips moving against mine, his hands tangled in my hair, and Michael's hands—hands that once knew every part of me—holding someone else. Michael leaving. Harry touching Charlie. Harry holding me by the fire. Michael's voice in my ear, laughing. Harry kissing me again, whispering that he wanted me.

Everything blurred into a dizzying mess of past and present, and I had no idea where I stood anymore.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miss Ella Cameron!"

Jimmy's voice blasted through the speakers, startling me. Before I could even think, he was reaching for my hand, pulling me up onto the bar for our routine.

"What the hell took you so long?" he muttered through gritted teeth.

The familiar beat of Sugar by Robin Schulz started, and I had no time to think—only act. The fake smile I had perfected slid into place, the mask I wore every night in this club fitting like second nature. Harry's words from his interview echoed in my mind.

"Nobody cares if you have problems. When they go out, they want to have fun. They want you to entertain them."

So, I entertained them.

Jimmy twirled me, pulling me against him, our bodies moving effortlessly through the rehearsed routine. He spun me, his hand sliding down my arm, down my leg, before releasing me and catching me again. The crowd went wild. I didn't have time to be anything other than what they wanted.

When the song ended, applause erupted. I forced myself to breathe, but as Jimmy helped me back behind the bar, reality came crashing back.

Michael. Harry. Both ghosts of my past and present, haunting me in real time.

"Are you okay?" Jimmy asked as I stiffened.

"I'm fine," I lied, immediately grabbing a bottle of tequila and focusing on the drinks waiting to be made.

I moved quickly, my hands working on autopilot as I served orders. It was only when I turned to grab ice that I saw him.

Michael.

He was standing right there, leaning against the bar, watching me with the same dark eyes that once made me melt. He smiled, effortlessly, like we were just old friends catching up.

"A Black Russian, please," he said, his voice thick with familiarity.

I nodded stiffly, keeping my hands busy to disguise the way my heart hammered against my ribs. I grabbed a short glass, filled it with ice, poured in the vodka first, then the Kahlua.

"Anything else?" I asked, my voice void of warmth.

"No. I'm good," he said smoothly. "How have you been, Ella?"

I exhaled sharply, finally meeting his gaze.

"Are we really doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"The whole 'everything is fine, nothing happened, let's pretend we're cool' thing?" I said flatly.

Michael sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ella—"

"Please, take your drink and go."

His jaw twitched. "I missed you."

"I didn't."

He flinched, caught off guard.

"Well, that's just cold."

"Okay," I said, moving on, pretending he wasn't even there, like he was just another guy at the bar.

"Were we really that bad?"

"Yes."

"Come on, we need to talk."

"No, we don't."

He reached across the bar, covering my hand with his. I flinched, pulling away.

"There's nothing left to say, Michael," I said, firm but calm.

"There's plenty," he argued.

Before I could respond, another voice cut in.

"Everything okay here, mate?"

I turned to see Jimmy standing beside me, arms crossed, his voice steady but sharp.

Michael glanced at him, smirking. "Jimmy. Been a while."

"Not long enough," Jimmy shot back.

Michael chuckled, leaning in slightly. "You her bodyguard now?"

"No," another voice said. "Her boyfriend."

I stiffened. My stomach lurched.

Michael turned, facing Harry, who stood casually beside him, drink in hand, but there was nothing casual about the way he stared him down.

I barely had time to register my own emotions before Michael let out a short laugh. "Oh, is that so?"

Harry didn't blink. "Yeah. So I'd appreciate it if you backed off."

A silence settled over us, thick and suffocating.

"No, he isn't," I spoke up, my voice slicing through the tension. "Harry isn't my boyfriend."

Michael's smirk widened.

I took a deep breath. "Michael, there is nothing to talk about. You made your choices. I made mine. Please leave."

Michael studied me, but I didn't waver.

Jimmy and Harry didn't move.

After a long moment, Michael exhaled and muttered, "Alright, Ella. Have it your way."

And just like that, he walked off.

I turned back to work, feeling Harry's presence still lingering. I didn't look at him, but I could feel the weight of his stare. Minutes later, he was gone.

When I finally glanced up, I spotted him near the dance floor.

He had a drink in one hand, Sylvia in the other. She was dancing against him, his hands firmly on her hips, his head thrown back in laughter. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world.

A lump formed in my throat.

I forced myself to focus on my work, on the orders coming in, on anything but the feeling in my chest.

"He's coming back over here," Anne said softly beside me.

I looked up, expecting to see Harry dragging some girl along with him.

Instead, I locked eyes with a familiar face.

Gemma.

Fucking hell.