Chapter 2

The alley was dark, lit only by a flickering bulb above a back door. I leaned against the brick wall, trying to breathe. The punk rock clothes that were supposed to make me feel like I belonged now felt like a cheap, ill-fitting costume.

Suddenly, a group of men stumbled out of the bar's back entrance. They were drunk, their laughter loud and aggressive. They saw me immediately.

"Well, look what we have here," one of them slurred, his eyes raking over my torn fishnets and short skirt.

"Lost, little punk princess?" another one sneered, stepping closer.

They formed a semi-circle around me, trapping me against the wall. Panic seized me. I opened my mouth to scream, but only a choked sound came out. My phone was in my clutch, but my hands were shaking too badly to get it.

"Ethan!" I cried out, the name a desperate reflex.

Just then, the door swung open again and Ethan appeared, silhouetted against the bar's dim light.

"Get the hell away from her," he snarled at the men. They grumbled but backed off, melting back into the darkness.

Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. Ethan turned on me, his face a mask of fury.

"What did you expect, dressing like a slut?" he hissed, his voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "Are you trying to get attention from other guys now? Is that it?"

He grabbed my arm and dragged me back inside the dive bar, where the after-party was in full swing. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of stale beer. His band and their friends were crowded around a table, raising their glasses.

"To Ethan and Molly!" someone shouted, and the group cheered.

Molly, looking effortlessly cool in a vintage band t-shirt and ripped jeans, smiled and leaned into Ethan. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. I stood there, an outsider at my own husband's celebration.

One of Ethan's friends, a roadie named Spike, shoved a tray of shot glasses in front of me. "Come on, Gabrielle! Loosen up! A round for the winner's old lady!"

I recoiled. I rarely drank, and hard liquor made me sick. "No, thank you. I'm okay."

Ethan rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with contempt. "See? Can't even hang. Molly could drink you under the table."

As if on cue, Molly grabbed a full beer from the table, tilted her head back, and chugged the entire thing without stopping. The crowd went wild, cheering her on. She slammed the empty bottle down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a triumphant smirk on her face.

Every eye in the room was on me. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest. I felt small, stupid, and completely out of place. Fine. I would show them. I would show him.

I grabbed a shot glass from the tray. Then another. And another. The cheap tequila burned a path down my throat. The room started to spin. My stomach churned violently.

"I... I have to go," I mumbled, stumbling away from the table.

As I pushed my way toward the door, I heard Ethan's voice cut through the noise.

"What a buzzkill."

The cool night air hit me like a slap. I made it to the alley before my legs gave out. I collapsed onto the grimy pavement, the world dissolving into a black, spinning void. The last thing I remembered was the sound of a stranger's voice, distant and concerned, saying they were calling 911.