" Say you hate me ,

it's okay boy ,  you're not the only one ! "

Wemblyn stumbled into her hotel room, the world spinning in slow, syrupy motions as she kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the bed.

The dim glow of the city lights outside cast long shadows across the suite, stretching toward her like ghosts of past mistakes.

She groaned, rubbing her temples, the warmth of alcohol making her limbs feel heavy and her thoughts feel weightless.

She wasn't drunk enough to forget, but she was just intoxicated enough to make the memories blur at the edges.

Monza. Charles. The brunette.

The conversation at the bar played on repeat in her mind, looping like a song she couldn't escape.

His voice, his eyes, the way he had leaned in just enough to make her feel like maybe—just maybe—there was still something unsaid between them.

And then he left.

The bastard left.

Her hand fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy as she scrolled through her contacts. Sienna.

Wemblyn barely registered pressing the call button before the ringing started.

She pressed the phone to her ear, staring up at the ceiling, her other hand sprawled across the expensive hotel bedding.

Sienna picked up on the third ring.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sienna groaned. "You're drunk, aren't you?"

Wemblyn smiled, but it was bitter. "What gave it away?"

"The fact that it's past two in the morning and you only ever call me at this hour when you're either wasted or heartbroken."

"I'm not heartbroken," Wemblyn scoffed, rolling onto her side. "I'm just. . . having a moment."

"A moment?" Sienna repeated, unimpressed. "Do I even need to ask who this moment is about?"

Wemblyn let out a humorless laugh. "Take a wild guess."

Sienna sighed, and Wemblyn could already picture her pinching the bridge of her nose, frustration written all over her face. "Wemblyn, we talked about this."

Wemblyn stared at the ceiling, her mind clouded with alcohol and regret. "I know."

"You said you were done."

"I know."

"You said you wouldn't let him get to you anymore."

Wemblyn closed her eyes. "I know."

Sienna exhaled, and for a second, there was silence between them.

Then, softer, "What happened?"

Wemblyn licked her lips, the taste of vodka cranberry still lingering. "I saw him."

Sienna didn't respond immediately, but Wemblyn could hear the shift in her breathing, the telltale sign of her bracing for whatever came next.

"No shit. You didn't go all the way to Italy to just not see him. And what else?"

"And we talked."

"Wemblyn..."

"He asked why I was here," Wemblyn admitted, voice quieter now. "Like he actually wanted to know."

Sienna was quiet for a beat. "And what did you say?"

"That I was here to watch the race."

Sienna made a disbelieving noise. "You're a terrible liar."

"I know."

Another pause. Then, more hesitantly, "Did he seem like he still. . . cared?"

Wemblyn let out a dry laugh. "Define 'cared.'"

"Did he look at you like he wanted to say something else? Like maybe—deep down—he's still caught up in this mess just as much as you are?"

Wemblyn's stomach twisted. She didn't want to admit it, but there had been something in his eyes.

But then, she remembered the way he had left. The way he had walked away without hesitation when someone else had called his name.

"No," she said, forcing the word out. "He's moved on."

Sienna didn't say anything for a moment, and when she did speak, her voice was softer. "And you haven't."

Wemblyn swallowed. "I don't know how to."

The words felt raw, too honest, too vulnerable.

Sienna sighed. "Wemb, this isn't good for you. You know that, right?"

Wemblyn laughed, but it was tired. "Nothing's ever been good for me."

Sienna groaned. "Don't start with the self-pity. You're better than this."

"Am I?"

"Yes," Sienna said firmly. "You're Wemblyn fucking Wolff. The same girl who once walked into a room and had men falling at her feet without even trying."

"The same girl who doesn't take shit from anyone, least of all some guy who can't make up his damn mind. How many times do I need to give you this speech?" Sienna's voice was genuine, reassuring.

Wemblyn shut her eyes, inhaling slowly. "Then why does it feel like I already lost?"

Sienna hesitated. Then, quieter, "Because you cared more than you wanted to."

The words hit more like a punch to the gut.

Wemblyn's throat felt tight. "I hate him."

"No, you don't," Sienna said, her voice almost gentle. "You just wish he hated you, so it'd be easier to let go."

Wemblyn exhaled shakily, rolling onto her stomach and burying her face in the pillow. "This is pathetic."

"It is," Sienna agreed. "But you'll survive."

Wemblyn peeked out from the pillow. "Will I?"

Sienna snorted. "Please. You're too stubborn to let a man be your downfall."

That made Wemblyn smile, just a little.

"Try to sleep," Sienna continued, her voice still holding that edge of fond exasperation. "And for the love of God, do not do anything stupid."

Wemblyn hummed noncommittally, and Sienna groaned. "Wemblyn."

"Fine, fine," Wemblyn muttered. "No stupid decisions. Yet."

Sienna sighed. "Goodnight, you mess."

Wemblyn smirked. "Night, Sienna."

The call ended, leaving her alone with her thoughts once more.

She let out a long breath, staring up at the ceiling, the distant hum of the city outside her window lulling her into something close to stillness.

Maybe Sienna was right. Maybe she would survive this.

But she wasn't sure she'd come out of it unchanged.

The knock at her door was unexpected.

Wemblyn was still sprawled across the hotel bed, one arm draped over her eyes as she let the last remnants of her conversation with Sienna settle into her bones.

She had just begun convincing herself that sleep was a viable option when the sharp rap against the wood jolted her out of her haze.

She frowned. No one should be looking for her at this hour.

Dragging herself upright, she smoothed her hands over her dress—still in the same thing she had worn to the bar, wrinkled now from her careless sprawl across the sheets.

She hesitated, then ran a hand through her hair, attempting some semblance of composure before she padded barefoot across the suite.

Another knock. Insistent this time.

When she pulled open the door, she wasn't sure what she expected.

But it sure as hell wasn't Charles.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. He stood there in the dim hallway, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, his expression unreadable.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd been running his hands through it in frustration.

She blinked, still processing. "How did you—"

"Pierre." His voice was quiet, steady.

Of course.

She let out a slow breath, fingers tightening around the edge of the door. "And what, exactly, are you doing here?"

Charles exhaled sharply, shifting on his feet. "I was thinking about our conversation."

She raised an eyebrow. "That bad, huh?"

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, but it didn't last. He shook his head. "I shouldn't have left like that."

Something in Wemblyn's chest tightened.

There were a hundred things she wanted to say, most of them biting, most of them laced with the sharp edge of bitterness she'd been nursing all night.

But she was too tired. Too drunk. Too. . . worn down by the weight of this whole situation.

Instead, she stepped back, tilting her head slightly. "You're already here. Might as well come in."

Charles hesitated only briefly before stepping inside.

The hotel room was dimly lit, the only real source of light coming from the city skyline beyond the windows. Wemblyn made her way back toward the bed, sitting on the edge, one leg crossed over the other.

She wasn't entirely sure why she let him in.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was masochism. Maybe she was just too exhausted to turn him away.

Charles, for his part, lingered by the door for a moment before slowly making his way toward her. He took a seat in the chair across from the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze flickering over her like he was trying to read something she wasn't saying.

"So," Wemblyn started, forcing a smirk. "You felt guilty."

Charles let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "No."

She raised an eyebrow.

He sighed. "Okay. Maybe a little."

Wemblyn hummed, tilting her head. "Is that why you're here?"

Charles hesitated, then shook his head. "I don't know. I just. . . I couldn't stop thinking about it."

"About what?"

His jaw tensed slightly. "About you."

The air in the room seemed to shift, the weight of unspoken words pressing down between them.

Wemblyn leaned back on her palms, exhaling through her nose. "You've got a funny way of showing it."

Charles dragged a hand through his hair, exasperated. "It's not that simple, Wemblyn."

She scoffed. "No? Because from where I'm sitting, it seems pretty simple. You left. You walked away. You have a whole new girl waiting in the wings, so why are you here?"

Charles clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. "Because it's not just about her."

Wemblyn narrowed her eyes. "Then what is it about?"

Charles exhaled, looking at her like she was the most infuriating thing he'd ever encountered. "It's about you. It's about us. It's about whatever the hell this is."

She blinked.

For a moment, all the sharp remarks she had lined up vanished.

Charles rubbed a hand over his face, his frustration evident. "I don't know what I'm doing, Wemblyn. I don't know what we're doing. But I know that every time I think I have it figured out, you show up and ruin it."

Wemblyn let out a short, bitter laugh. "Well, at least you're honest."

Charles sighed. "I'm serious."

"So am I," she shot back, eyes flashing. "You think you're the only one confused? You think I know what the hell I'm doing? Because I don't."

Charles stared at her, something flickering in his gaze. "Then why do we keep doing this?"

Wemblyn hesitated.

That was the question, wasn't it?

Why did she let him in? Why did she keep coming back to him, circling around him like a moth drawn to a flame that would inevitably burn her?

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Maybe we're both just doomed."

Charles let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "Maybe."

Silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken.

Wemblyn was still drunk. She could feel it in the way the room swayed slightly when she shifted. But she was trying to mask it now, sitting up straighter, pressing her fingers against her temple like she could will away the haze.

Charles saw right through her.

"You're drunk," he murmured, studying her.

Wemblyn rolled her eyes. "How'd you guess?"

Charles sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I should go."

Something inside Wemblyn twisted.

She didn't want him to go. Not yet. Not like this. She'd let him leave one too many times.

She swallowed down her pride, exhaling. "Stay."

Charles blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

Wemblyn met his gaze, her voice softer now. "Stay. Just for a little while."

Charles hesitated, searching her expression for any sign of insincerity. When he found none, he exhaled, nodding slightly.

"Okay."

And just like that, they fell into something quieter. Something softer.

For once, there were no biting remarks, no accusations, no carefully crafted barbs designed to hurt. Just two people sitting in the aftermath of something they didn't quite understand.

Neither of them knew what tomorrow would bring.

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