Phoenix From The Ashes He Created

My boyfriend Jax and I were San Francisco's golden couple, our futures perfectly intertwined. Then his long-lost half-sister, Cinda, arrived, and he began choosing her endless, manufactured crises over me.

The night my restaurant caught fire, he abandoned me in the smoke to comfort a whimpering Cinda.

"Can't you handle your own drama for once?" he sneered, as my life's work burned.

He left me to nearly drown, accused me of faking a concussion after Cinda pushed me down the stairs, and called my pain a pathetic game for attention.

I couldn't understand how the man I had loved since high school could become so monstrous. I thought I had lost him to her.

But then I overheard his confession. Cinda was just a pawn, a tool he was using to "teach me a lesson" and ensure I'd come crawling back. In that moment, my heartbreak turned to ice. He hadn't just betrayed me; he had proven our entire love story was a lie.

Chapter 1

Kylie Baxter POV:

The final thread snapped, not with a bang, but with the quiet, suffocating sigh of my own surrender. Jax and I, the golden couple of San Francisco' s tech elite, were officially over. Finished. The man I had loved for what felt like an eternity, the man whose future I had meticulously woven into my own, had finally shown me the true cost of his love. It was a price I could no longer afford to pay.

There was a time, not so long ago, when our lives were a perfectly choreographed dance. We met in high school, two ambitious kids with stars in our eyes. He, a burgeoning tech genius, already sketching out the next big thing on crumpled napkins. I, a culinary prodigy, dreaming of Michelin stars and innovative flavors. Our love story was epic, everyone said so. We were the perfect pair, destined for greatness, hand-in-hand.

Jax was charismatic, undeniably brilliant. His ambition was a magnet, pulling me into his orbit, making me feel like an indispensable part of his world. He had a way of looking at me, a possessive gleam in his eyes, that made me feel cherished, unique. I mistook that possessiveness for deep love, a bond so strong it could withstand anything. I was young, naive, and completely devoted. I saw myself as his partner, his equal, his queen. He saw me as a prized possession, another perfect acquisition for his perfect life.

Our shared history stretched back years, a tapestry woven with first kisses, whispered dreams, and countless late-night study sessions fueled by my experimental pastries and his endless lines of code. Every memory, every milestone, was punctuated by us. The thought of a future without him felt like trying to breathe without air. He was my first everything, my anchor, my horizon. I loved him with a fierce, tender loyalty that, in hindsight, bordered on blind adoration. It was a love that convinced me I could fix anything, endure anything.

Then Cinda arrived.

She walked into our lives like a storm front, unexpected and uninvited. Her eyes, a startling blue that mirrored Jax' s, held a flicker of something unsettling, a vulnerability that seemed almost calculated. She was Jax' s long-lost half-sister, a revelation that had sent shockwaves through his meticulously ordered world. Suddenly, this fragile, lost girl was his responsibility, a duty he felt compelled to shoulder. She had a delicate beauty, a waifish charm that instantly activated Jax' s protector instincts. But beneath the surface, I felt a prickle of unease. There was something in her smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"She needs me, Kylie," Jax had said, his brow furrowed with a seriousness I hadn't seen much of lately. "She's been through so much. Abandoned, alone. I can't just turn my back on family."

I remember looking at him, my heart swelling with a misguided sense of pride. He was good, I thought. So responsible, so caring. "Of course, Jax," I' d replied, my voice soft, laced with an innocence I now bitterly regretted. "She's your sister. We'll help her. We're a team." I even offered to cook for her, to help her settle in, to be a sister to her. God, I was such a fool.

Looking back, the naive girl I was then is almost unrecognizable. How could I have been so blind? So trusting? I was so caught up in the fantasy of our perfect life, our perfect future, that I couldn't see the cracks forming right beneath my feet. I genuinely believed that our love, built on years of shared history and unwavering loyalty, was impregnable. I thought we were strong enough to weather any storm. I thought wrong.

The subtle shifts began almost immediately. Dinner dates were postponed, then canceled, always for some manufactured crisis Cinda was supposedly facing. Jax' s phone, once filled with my texts, became a constant portal to Cinda' s dramatic pleas. "She had a panic attack," he'd explain, rushing out the door. "Her landlord is threatening eviction," he' d say, his voice tight with concern, leaving me to dine alone in our quiet, once-vibrant apartment.

At first, he' d apologize. Sincere, remorseful apologies, delivered with a hand cupping my cheek, his thumb tracing my jawline. "I'm so sorry, babe. I know this isn't fair to you. It'll get better once she's settled." I' d nod, forcing a smile, clinging to the fragments of our old life, the hope that this was just a temporary detour.

But the detours became the main road. His apologies grew shorter, then became rote, then non-existent. My feelings, my needs, my very presence, faded into the background. I was a beautiful vase on a mantelpiece-admired, perhaps, but ultimately decorative, easily overlooked. The prickle of unease I' d felt when Cinda first arrived intensified into a gnawing ache in my stomach. Conversations became clipped, his attention a scarce commodity. My questions were met with sighs, my concerns dismissed as "drama."

"Jax, I feel like I'm losing you," I' d whispered one night, the words tearing through my throat. "This isn't us. We used to be a team."

He' d pull me close, his embrace a familiar comfort that now felt hollow. "Don't be silly, Kylie. You're my world. It's just... Cinda needs me right now. She literally has no one else." He'd talk about our future, our restaurant, all the dreams we had built together, painting a picture so vivid it would temporarily soothe the rising panic in my chest. And like a fool, I' d believe him, again and again.

The cycle became predictable, a cruel, repetitive dance. Cinda would create a problem, Jax would rush to her side, I would voice my hurt, he would placate me with promises, only for the pattern to repeat. He' d learned my breaking point, learned how much I would tolerate before threatening to leave, and then he' d pull me back with just enough warmth, just enough hope, to keep me tethered. He held the leash, and I, desperate for the life we once shared, kept coming back.

His arrogance, once a charming quirk, morphed into a suffocating shroud. He was convinced I would never truly leave. He saw my love as an unbreakable chain, my loyalty a given. My pain became a dramatic performance in his eyes, something to be managed, not felt. "Kylie, don't make a big deal out of nothing," he' d say, his voice flat, his gaze already drifting away. "It's just Cinda. It's family. You're overreacting."

I was drowning, but he just watched from the shore, convinced I was merely splashing for attention. His dismissal was a knife twist, sharper than any angry word. He called my valid emotions "drama," effectively silencing me, invalidating my very existence in our relationship.

The final, brutal blow came not in a private moment, but in a blaze of public humiliation. It was the night my restaurant, Phoenix, was supposed to take flight. A culmination of years of hard work, sleepless nights, and every penny I had. The grand opening was a dream realized, the culmination of my life's passion. Then the fire started.

It wasn't a raging inferno, but a small, contained fire in the kitchen, caused by a faulty fryer. Chaos erupted, but the fire suppression system kicked in, and the staff, trained by me, moved to evacuate the guests. I was in the thick of it, directing people, making sure everyone was safe. That's when I saw Jax. He had Cinda draped over him, her face tear-streaked, her dress subtly singed at the hem. She was whimpering about the "trauma" of it all.

"Jax!" I yelled, my voice hoarse from the smoke and the shouting, a desperate plea for him to help me. To help us. This was my dream, our future, literally going up in smoke.

He looked at me, his eyes cold, devoid of the concern I so desperately craved. Then he looked at Cinda, patting her back. "Kylie, for God's sake, not now," he said, his voice dripping with annoyance. "Cinda is clearly traumatized. Can't you handle your own drama for once?"

My breath hitched. The words hit me harder than any physical blow. My own drama. My dream, my life's work, burning, and he called it my drama. He saw Cinda' s manufactured terror as more real, more valid, than the very real crisis unfolding around me. He didn' t just abandon me; he dismissed my entire world.

I barely registered the smoke, the heat, the shouts. All I saw was his retreating back, Cinda clinging to him, her eyes, usually so meek, now flashing with a triumphant smirk directed straight at me. He carried her out, his precious Cinda, leaving me to fight the flames, both literal and metaphorical, alone.

It was over. My heart, which had endured so much, finally cracked, shattered into a million irreparable pieces. My world telescoped into a tunnel of searing pain. I stood there, smoke stinging my eyes, the heat biting my skin, the acrid smell of burning hope filling my lungs. I was alone. Truly, utterly alone.

The fire department arrived, and the blaze was quickly contained. No one was seriously hurt, thankfully, but the restaurant was a mess. A smoldering, water-logged ruin. Just like my heart.

When it was all over, when the last siren had faded, I found myself sitting on the sidewalk amidst the debris, my hands shaking, my clothes blackened. A text message came through, illuminated by the flickering emergency lights. It was from Jax.

"Hope Cinda is okay. You really need to get your act together, Kylie. This is unprofessional."

My fingers, numb and clumsy, pressed delete. The phone slipped from my grasp, landing with a soft thud on the wet pavement. That was it. The absolute, undeniable end. There would be no more second chances, no more forgiving, no more clinging to a ghost of a future. He had made his choice, and in doing so, he had set me free.

I knew he wouldn't care. He'd rationalize it, turn it into another one of my "overreactions." He'd think I was playing a game, as he always did. He'd never understand that this wasn't a threat, not a plea, but a quiet, resolute death. He'd probably just shrug and return to Cinda, relieved to be rid of my "drama."

And perhaps, in his detached callousness, he was right. My drama, my pain, my dreams-they were mine. And from this moment on, they would belong solely to me.

I stood up, the smoke-filled air a harsh reminder of everything I had lost. There was no going back. The future I had planned with Jax was a phantom, dissipating into the night. It was time to build a new one. Alone.

Back in the apartment that no longer felt like ours, I moved with a strange, detached precision. My eyes fell on the college acceptance letter, still unopened, for the culinary program we'd both planned to attend in San Francisco. Our shared dream. It mocked me now. I ripped it in half.

Then I remembered my grandmother's house. The dilapidated Victorian in Napa Valley, left to me just last year, along with her secret recipe book. A place I'd always dismissed as a quaint, distant inheritance, a project for "someday." Someday had arrived.

I pulled out my phone, fingers cold but steady, and scrolled through my contacts. I found the number for Napa Valley University's culinary arts program. A risky move, a wild card, but the thought brought a flicker of rebellious hope to my chest. I typed a quick email, requesting information on late admissions, explaining the sudden change in my circumstances. A few minutes later, the reply popped up. An acceptance. A scholarship. A fresh start. The universe, it seemed, was pushing me forward, away from the wreckage.

Tears, hot and stinging, finally flowed, but they weren't tears of sorrow. They were tears of relief, of a profound, painful liberation. I was crying for the girl I used to be, for the love I had sacrificed, but mostly, I was crying for the exhilarating, terrifying blank slate that lay before me.

I began to pack. Not just clothes, but my life. All the things Jax and I had accumulated together, all the tokens of our "perfect" relationship. The framed photos of us smiling, so full of false promises. The expensive watch he'd given me, gleaming smugly on my dresser. The silly, sentimental trinkets, each a pinprick of a memory. I gathered them all, every single item that bore his mark, or ours. Our old movie ticket stubs. The dried rose from our first Valentine's Day. Even the worn-out t-shirt he' d accidentally left at my place, still carrying the faint scent of him.

Each item felt heavy, a physical weight of betrayal and lost time. They were relics of a past I needed to sever, to burn, to bury. I thought of the fire, the smoke, the way he had looked at me. The way he had called my burning restaurant "my drama." The thought hardened my resolve, turning my grief into a cold, steady resolve.

I found the small wooden box, intricately carved, that he had given me on our first anniversary. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a silver locket, engraved with our initials. "Forever," he had promised, his eyes shining with what I had believed was sincere love.

My fingers traced the delicate engraving, a ghost of memory. A wave of nausea washed over me. Forever. The word tasted like ash in my mouth. Did he even remember giving me this? Or was it just another prop in the grand performance of his life?

The memory of his cruel words at the restaurant, his dismissive gaze, flashed through my mind, a cold, hard slap to the face. "Can't you handle your own drama for once?"

I snapped the box shut. No more. This was not a game. This was my life. And he was not going to be a part of it anymore.

Kylie Baxter POV:

The next morning, the box was heavy in my arms. It contained every tangible piece of our shared history, a graveyard of forgotten promises. I drove to Jax' s house, my heart a dull, rhythmic thud against my ribs. I had to do this. I had to cut every single tie.

His mother, Mrs. Mathews, opened the door, her face creased with concern. "Kylie, darling! What a surprise. Are you alright? I heard about the fire. Jax said you handled it well, but I was worried sick about you." She pulled me into a warm embrace, her familiar perfume a strange comfort. "Come in, come in. Jax is just upstairs, I think Cinda is with him."

My stomach clenched at Cinda's name, but I forced a polite smile. "I'm fine, Mrs. Mathews, thank you. I just need to speak with Jax for a moment."

I walked up the grand staircase, each step a testament to the life I was leaving behind. Reaching Jax' s bedroom door, I heard it. A light, tinkling laugh, unmistakably Cinda' s. A wave of nausea washed over me. I pushed the door open, my hand trembling slightly.

They were sprawled on his bed, a tangle of limbs and soft whispers. Cinda was giggling, running her hand playfully through Jax' s hair. He was smiling, a genuine, relaxed smile I hadn't seen directed at me in months. My eyes landed on the open box on his nightstand. It was my box. The one containing my old letters, my photographs. And there, in Cinda's hand, was a faded picture of Jax and me from prom night, our faces flushed with innocent joy. She held it up, a triumphant smirk on her face.

"Look, Jax," Cinda purred, her eyes flicking to me with a venomous sweetness. "Isn't this the girl who used to stalk you? So desperate." She crumpled the photo in her hand, her gaze locked on mine.

Jax finally looked up, his smile faltering as he saw me. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. "Kylie? What are you doing here?" His tone was sharp, impatient.

My heart hammered. He wasn' t even surprised to see me, just irritated. He thought I was here to cause a scene. He thought I was still fighting for him. The realization hit me like a physical blow. He truly didn't understand. He never had.

"I came to return your things," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, though my throat felt like sandpaper. I held out the heavy box, filled with what remained of our history. "And to collect mine."

Jax glanced at the box, then back at Cinda, who was now clutching his arm, her lower lip trembling slightly. "My things? What are you talking about? Just leave it, Kylie. I don't want your old junk." His words were laced with dismissiveness, a casual cruelty that made my vision blur. He was throwing away years of memories, years of us, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Something inside me snapped. The carefully constructed facade of composure crumbled. The heavy box still in my hands, I spun around and, with a guttural cry, hurled it down the majestic staircase. It tumbled, end over end, scattering its contents-photos, letters, trinkets-across the polished marble floor. The sound of breaking ceramic, a small, innocent vase I had made him, echoed through the quiet house.

Jax' s eyes widened, a rare flash of genuine shock. "Kylie! What the hell was that for?"

"What was that for?" I repeated, my voice rising, trembling with a fury I hadn't known I possessed. "That was for every time you chose her over me. For every lie. For every broken promise! You want your 'old junk'? There it is! Take it! Burn it! I don't care!"

"Fine!" he shouted back, pushing Cinda gently off him. "Fine. If that's how you want to be. Just get your stuff and leave." He pointed vaguely towards his closet. "And don't you dare come back."

My chest heaved. I walked into his closet, my movements stiff and robotic, grabbing a few boxes I had stored there, packing my clothes, my books, anything that was unequivocally mine. Cinda, now fully recovered from her "shock," had draped herself back onto Jax, whispering conspiratorially in his ear. He was stroking her hair, his back to me, as if I were already invisible.

A small, intricately carved wooden bird, a gift from my grandmother, fell from a shelf. I bent to pick it up, my fingers brushing against a new, gleaming silver bracelet on the floor. It was identical to the one Jax had given me for my birthday, the one he said was "one of a kind." But this one had Cinda's initials engraved on it. My breath caught. The irony was so sharp it made me laugh, a harsh, brittle sound that startled them both.

"Oh, look," Cinda said, her voice sugary sweet, holding up the bracelet to Jax. "Jax just gave me this. It's so much prettier than the rusty old thing he gave you, isn't it, Kylie?" She winked at me, a calculated, malicious glint in her blue eyes.

My gut twisted, but I felt nothing. No pain, no anger. Just a profound, aching emptiness. It was done. He had replaced me, not just in his heart, but with my very possessions. My everything had become her something.

"You know," Cinda continued, her voice gaining confidence, "Jax told me all about your little family. So traditional, so... boring. I heard your parents aren't exactly thrilled with your lack of 'direction'. I bet they'd be devastated if they knew how you were really acting, throwing tantrums like a child." She was poking at my deepest insecurities, the ones Jax knew only too well.

Her words, however, did not sting. They were a revelation. Jax had told her. He had weaponized my vulnerabilities, handed them over to his new pet. The anger, cold and precise, finally returned.

"You know what, Cinda?" I said, my voice low and steady. "You can have him. You can have all of it. Because what you have with him? It's cheap. Just like you."

Before she could react, I lunged, my hand shooting out to push her. She shrieked, stumbling backwards, grabbing onto my arm in a desperate attempt to regain balance. Her pull was unexpected, strong. My head, still tender from the fall a few days ago, cracked against the heavy oak doorframe as we both lost our footing.

We tumbled down the stairs, a clumsy, tangled heap of limbs and fabric. I hit the marble floor hard, the sharp pain in my head blossoming into a dizzying white flash. I tasted blood. Cinda let out a theatrical wail, clutching her ankle, though she seemed remarkably unharmed.

"Oh, my God! Jax! She pushed me! She tried to kill me!" Cinda screamed, tears streaming down her face, her eyes fixed on Jax.

Jax was at her side in an instant, his face contorted with rage. He barely glanced at me, lying there, blood trickling from my temple, my vision swimming.

"What have you done, Kylie?!" he roared, his voice filled with such venom, such disgust, that it felt like a physical blow. "Look at what you did to Cinda! Are you insane? You psycho!"

I tried to speak, to explain, to tell him what she had done, what she had said, how she had provoked me. But the words wouldn't come. My head throbbed, and the world spun sickeningly.

"I..." I began, but he cut me off.

"Get out! Get out of my house, Kylie! I never want to see you again!" His eyes, once so full of a possessive love, now held only raw hatred. He looked at me as if I were a cockroach, an infestation he needed to eradicate.

He didn't help me up. He didn't even look at me. Instead, he gently scooped Cinda into his arms, murmuring reassurances to her, carrying her away from the "monster" I had become in his eyes. As he turned, I saw Cinda' s face over his shoulder, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. She had won.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I remembered a time, long ago, when he would have carried me. When my smallest hurt was his greatest concern. That Jax was long gone, replaced by this cold, unrecognizable stranger.

There was no point in explaining. No point in defending myself. He had already made up his mind, just as he always did when Cinda was involved. My pain, my truth, meant nothing.

I slowly pushed myself up, each movement an agony. The boxes of my belongings lay neglected on the floor. I didn't care. I wouldn't take anything from this house, this life. I stumbled out, ignoring Mrs. Mathews' horrified gasps, ignoring the shattered pieces of our past scattered at my feet. My blood stained the pristine marble.

Somehow, I made it to my car. The drive to the emergency room was a blur of throbbing pain and silent tears. The doctors cleaned my cut, stitched it up, and told me I had a mild concussion. They asked if I had anyone to call. I just shook my head.

Later, in the sterile quiet of my small, empty apartment, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

"He chose me. He always will. You were never good enough. Bye-bye, Kylie. Don't let the door hit you on the way out. Oh, wait, you probably already hit your head on it, didn't you? LOL."

It was Cinda. A selfie of her and Jax, his arm protectively around her, a faint, tender smile on his face, was attached. My last remaining shred of hope, the lingering phantom of what we once were, finally died. I felt nothing. Just a vast, echoing void. My heart had bled itself dry.

I deleted the message. Then I blocked her number. And his. Every social media account. Every email. I severed all ties, not with anger, but with a chilling finality. I was done.

Kylie Baxter POV:

The graduation party was a blur of flashing lights, pulsating music, and the hollow echoes of laughter. It felt like a lifetime ago that I had walked these same halls, hand-in-hand with Jax, dreaming of our future. Now, the future was here, vibrant and loud, but utterly devoid of him. I moved through the crowd, a ghost in my own past, trying to pretend I didn' t see Jax across the room, his arm draped possessively around Cinda. She was laughing, her head thrown back, a picture of manufactured happiness.

My friends, bless their loyal hearts, clustered around me, shielding me from the sight. "Kylie, are you okay?" Maya asked, squeezing my hand. "It's so weird seeing him with her. After everything."

"Yeah," Liam added, his brow furrowed with concern. "I still can't believe he sided with her after the fire. And that whole scene at his house... it was insane."

I just shrugged, a small, sad smile playing on my lips. "It's over, guys. Really over. I'm okay."

"But... you two were inseparable," Chloe said, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "Remember that time at junior prom? You two danced the entire night, like something out of a movie."

"And that romantic dinner at the beach, when he proposed starting the restaurant together," Maya piped in, a wistful note in her voice. "He was so charming, so devoted."

I nodded, a pang of something sharp and cold hitting my chest. "He was," I agreed, my voice flat. "But people change. Or maybe, I just finally saw who he really was."

Just then, his eyes met mine across the crowded room. That familiar, possessive gaze. He lifted his chin slightly, a subtle challenge. Cinda, noticing his attention had shifted, leaned in, whispering something in his ear. He smirked, then leaned down and kissed her, a long, exaggerated kiss designed for an audience of one: me.

A flicker of the old hurt, the old anger, sparked within me. But it quickly died, replaced by a strange sense of detachment. He was trying to provoke me, to elicit a reaction, to prove he still had control. But he didn't. Not anymore. I simply turned away, engaging Chloe in a conversation about her summer plans. It wasn't an act. It was genuine indifference. He was a closed chapter, a faded memory.

I felt his gaze on me, a palpable heat, even as I pretended not to notice. I caught a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby window. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. He looked... confused. Then angry. Good. Let him wonder. Let him burn.

Cinda, ever the opportunist, tugged on his arm, pulling him deeper into a circle of their mutual friends. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, his eyes still on me, before reluctantly following her lead.

The party continued its boisterous rhythm. Someone started a game of Truth or Dare. The energy shifted, lightened. I found myself almost enjoying the moment, surrounded by friends who genuinely cared.

"Okay, Cinda, your turn!" a loud voice boomed. Cinda, preening, spun the bottle. It landed on her. "Truth or Dare?"

"Dare, obviously!" she declared, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She loved to be the center of attention, especially if it involved humiliation.

"I dare you to kiss the most attractive person in this room!" The crowd cheered, a ripple of excitement going through the room.

Cinda's eyes immediately locked onto mine, a predatory glint in them. She walked directly towards me, her smile wide and malicious. I felt an ice-cold dread seep into my veins. She meant to humiliate me, to rub her 'victory' in my face.

She stopped inches from me, her breath smelling sickly sweet. "Well, I guess I have to pick... you, Kylie," she purred, her eyes wide with mock innocence. "Since you're so clearly still obsessed with Jax, and he's my boyfriend now, I'm just going to show you what you're missing." Her hand reached out, grabbing my chin with surprising force, pulling my face towards hers.

The humiliation was a physical ache in my throat. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to stay still, to not give her the satisfaction of a struggle. I looked past her, searching for Jax, a desperate, foolish part of me hoping he would intervene, put a stop to this cruel charade. He was watching, his face unreadable.

"Go on," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, surprisingly steady. "I don't mind. He's all yours anyway." The words, though painful, were true. And the truth had a strange power.

Jax's eyes widened, a flash of something akin to shock. His jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He looked from me to Cinda, a storm brewing in his gaze. He wasn't expecting my indifference. He was expecting the old Kylie, the one who would crumble, who would fight, who would make a scene.

Cinda, clearly thrown by my calm, hesitated for a split second. But then, urged on by the crowd's expectant murmurs, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine in a quick, pecking kiss. My skin crawled. It was cold and utterly meaningless.

As she pulled back, a triumphant sneer on her face, Jax exploded. He stalked towards us, his eyes blazing, and grabbed Cinda, yanking her away from me. He slammed his lips against hers, a brutal, possessive kiss meant to send a message. He held her face tightly, almost bruising her. It was a kiss of ownership, of defiance, a public spectacle designed to wound. To wound me.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were still on mine, a challenge in their depths. "See, Kylie?" he snarled, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear, his arm wrapped tightly around Cinda' s waist. "This is what a real kiss feels like. Not like your pathetic little pecks. You never knew how to really kiss me, did you?"