Ex Marks the Boss

The juice splashes across Ethan's face, bright orange soaking into the crisp white of his designer shirt.

For a moment, the restaurant is silent. A fork clatters onto a plate. Someone inhales sharply. The hum of conversation vanishes, leaving only the distant clink of glassware.

Ethan flinches, his sharp blue eyes widening. His golden-blond hair, styled with just the right amount of effort, gleams under the soft lighting. Droplets of sticky citrus slide down his sculpted jawline, splattering onto the Rolex strapped to his wrist.

The same Rolex he claimed was a mark of his success-until I found out it was a hand-me-down from his father. Just like his job, his car, and his connections.

His hands shoot up, palms out as if he can stop the damage. "Ava, what are you doing?"

I place my empty glass down with deliberate slowness. The tension in the room is thick, but I savor it. Taking my time, I smooth my hands over the silk of my dress-black, sleeveless, hugging every curve. The neckline teases without begging, the slit riding high enough to turn heads but not invite hands.

Then I meet Ethan's furious gaze and smile.

"I'm doing what I should have done two weeks ago." I reach for my silver purse, lifting my chin. "We're done."

His mouth opens, but I don't wait for a response. My heels click against the marble floor as I walk away, each step crisp and sure. The weight of a hundred eyes follows me, their whispers filling the silence I leave behind.

Let them watch. Let them wonder.

Ethan is exactly where he belongs-beneath me.

The cool night air brushes against my bare shoulders as I step outside. The city hums with life-cars honking, distant laughter spilling from bars, neon lights flickering against the damp pavement.

I inhale deeply, the crisp air washing away the lingering scent of citrus and expensive cologne.

Then I raise a hand and hail a cab.

The yellow car pulls up almost immediately. I slide into the backseat, crossing my legs, my silver heels glinting under the streetlights.

"The address?" the driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I tell him, then lean back against the seat, exhaling.

Men these days.

Ethan was just the latest mistake. Before him, there was Dylan. And before Dylan, there was Bryce.

The First Mistake: Bryce

Bryce was my first real relationship. He had the kind of presence that made people take notice-tall, dark, and quiet in a way that made girls lean in when he spoke. His black hair always looked slightly tousled, as if he had just rolled out of bed looking that good. His deep brown eyes held an intensity that made him seem thoughtful, almost unreadable.

I should have kept my distance.

At first, everything felt effortless. He would text me after class, asking me to come over. "Just for a little while," he'd say, flashing that lazy smirk of his.

But my last class ended at four, and I had a rule-I didn't visit guys alone after three.

Call it caution. Call it common sense.

Bryce, apparently, wasn't a fan of boundaries.

"Why not? It's not like I bite," he had joked, his fingers playing with the strings of his hoodie.

But joking turned into pouting. Pouting turned into guilt-tripping.

Then his birthday came, and he had the audacity to suggest I stay over.

"I just want to wake up with you next to me," he had said, voice smooth, eyes hopeful.

Like that wasn't the most manipulative line ever.

I said no. He threw a tantrum. And just like that, I was single again.

I should have been heartbroken.

But mostly? I was furious.

The Second Mistake: Dylan

Sophomore year, I thought I had learned.

Dylan was different-warm, funny, the kind of guy who made everyone feel like they belonged. His sandy brown hair always looked a little messy, like he never quite figured out how to style it. His hazel eyes held a mischief that made his jokes land just right. He was the kind of guy who could turn an ordinary moment into something fun, something worth remembering.

For a while, I thought I had finally gotten it right.

Then, one night, at a crowded house party, with his arm slung over my shoulders and a whiskey tumbler in his hand, he made the mistake of opening his mouth.

"Any girl who expects a guy to spoil her is just a glorified beggar."

Right in front of me. Right in front of his friends.

I had blinked, barely able to believe what I had heard. His friends chuckled awkwardly, but Dylan? He didn't even notice the way my entire body tensed.

I let it slide. For one week.

Then I started paying attention.

Two months of dating, and the only thing he had ever gotten me was a cheap necklace. Meanwhile, I had bought him coffee, little gifts, a cap he mentioned liking, brought him home-cooked lunch, even surprised him with cake every Friday night.

Every date? We split the bill.

But the money wasn't even the issue.

The drinking was.

At first, it seemed harmless. A beer with friends, a casual drink after class. But then I noticed the pattern. His tumbler was never empty. The whiskey bottle on his nightstand was never full.

"It's just a drink," he'd say, slurring slightly but brushing it off.

Except it was never just one.

And the more he drank, the more the cracks started to show. The playful teasing turned sharp. The laughter lost its warmth. His patience thinned, and the easy charm that had drawn me in became something unpredictable.

"I don't have a problem," he had said one night, whiskey thick on his breath, fingers tight around his glass.

I dumped him so fast, I think he sobered up in shock.

And now? Ethan.

Two weeks in, and he had the nerve to get angry because I wouldn't sleep with him.

That dinner had started so normally, too.

He looked good-I won't lie. The navy-blue suit, the crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease. The Rolex glinting under the restaurant lighting. His hair styled with care, every strand in its place.

He had greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, pulled out my chair like a proper gentleman.

We had ordered-steak for him, salmon for me. A juice for me, a whiskey for him. The conversation had been light, playful, filled with the kind of banter that made time fly.

Then, halfway through his drink, he leaned in and dropped the bomb.

"You should come over tonight."

I had paused, my fork hovering over my plate. "What?"

"My place," he said smoothly. "Stay the night."

I set my fork down, dabbing the corner of my lips with a napkin. "Ethan, we've been together for two weeks."

He shrugged. "So?"

"So, I barely know your last name, let alone enough about you to 'spend the night.'"

His smile faded. "Come on, Ava. We're adults."

"And?"

"It's normal. Why are you making such a big deal out of this?"

I held his gaze, my voice steady. "Because it matters to me."

Silence.

Then? He laughed.

Not just any laugh-a dismissive, mocking laugh.

"Oh, come on," he scoffed. "I thought you were different."

That was when I picked up my glass and threw my juice in his face.

The cab jerks over a pothole, snapping me back to reality.

I shake my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips.

Men these days.

I should be done with dating.

But something tells me my luck is about to change.

I have no idea that the next man I meet is about to turn my world upside down.

And this time?

I might not make it out unscathed.

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There you go! I deepened the drinking issue, made the transitions smoother, and kept the drama sharp. Let me know if you want any more tweaks!