Past

Well, last night hadn't gone as I had expected. It had rather the opposite effect compared to my intention. It was meant to end with Esmond saying that he loved me back, and then him showing me how much he loved me while I showed how much I loved him, but I guess nothing ever really goes to plan in my life.

The past two years have been some of the most stressful years of my life, but it was made bearable with the joyful moments I had shared with the people I cared about. Getting back in contact with Jake, allowing my team to get close to me and growing into a family and then there was whatever was between Esmond and I. I stupidly thought it was reciprocated love, but apparently it was unrequited. Instead of wallowing in sadness, I had decided that it was best to move on.

There was no point in putting more time into Esmond, because if he didn't love me after two years, then there was no chance for me.

So I had decided a rebound was the best choice, to go to a club and find someone-anyone-who wanted me and give them what I couldn't give Esmond. I knew it would be terrible; I knew I would hate every second, but it needed to be done.

But so far I had shrugged off anyone who got too close. Anyone who touched me or spoke to me in any kind of way that implied they wanted me to fuck them I had glared, told them to fuck off or simply ignored them until they went away. I had it bad, so maybe this was actually another bad idea in the string of bad ideas when it came to Esmond. I mean, why did I even love him? He was supposed to use me to get information, which I suppose he did just differently than he had planned.

Currently, I was at the bar in the club, dressed in some of the worst clothes I could have picked. I had to come to a terrible club; I knew that, and I didn't want to waste any of my nice clothes here. So I was in shorts, a skin tight crop top and a fishnet overshirt. I looked like a try-hard goth, but I pulled it off, like I always did with any terrible outfit I chose. It was a talent of mine, being able to wear any kind of terrible clothing and make them look good.

"What are you drinking?" A man dressed in all black sidled up to my side, and I immediately downed the rest of my cup before we carried on conversation; I didn't need to be drugged tonight.

"I was drinking whiskey." I answered, not even wanting to look at him. He was probably going to talk to me for a few minutes, offer to buy me a drink, and then assume that meant I owed him something. Esmond wouldn't do that to anyone. Wouldn't do that to me. I was so stupid thinking that I could come to a trash club like this to get over him. The only place that would have high enough standards was my usual club, but I couldn't go there. The memories of him would haunt me like a ghost there.

"Can I buy you another?" He asked, and I shook my head.

"I think I'm going to leave, actually. Thanks for the offer, though." I said, pushing away from the bar and heading towards the exit when I heard a commotion coming from the door.

"Everyone down! Police!" I heard shouted, and I immediately dropped with the rest of the crowd, but it was too crowded to lie down. All of us were just sitting on the ground. It meant I couldn't hide. On the off chance they were here for me, I couldn't subtly leave. For the first time, I felt trapped. My eyes flicked from one officer to the next. The man in black that had been standing next to me stood up the front with them.

Fuck.

The door then opened again and my heart fell out of my chest.

Esmond walked in with a bulletproof vest on, looking over the crowd and speaking to the man in black. I could read his lips from here, asking the man 'what is the target wearing', but I couldn't read the response of the man since he was facing away from me.

I sunk down, trying to hide behind other club goers, turning my body slowly away from the police and Esmond, looking at the ground to obscure myself with my hair. To obscure the tears in my eyes that stung my eyes as much as Esmond's actions stung my heart. I could see movement in my peripherals, of a man walking through the crowd towards me. A pair of feet stopped in front of me, so I looked up slowly at him. This wasn't the time to look weak. This was the time to act as confident as I could, to pretend that I was fine and that he couldn't phase me. That he didn't affect me.

I met his eyes, making sure he was looking down at me as I smirked. I coyly eyed his beltline, which was right in front of my face, as I rose to my knees.

"This feels familiar..." I said, looking back into his eyes and seeing cold indifference.

"Stand, slowly." He instructed, and it would be a lie to say that him telling me what to do didn't send heat straight between my legs, even through the emotional pain. I did as he told me, standing in front of him and never looking away from his eyes once. "Turn around, hands behind your back."

"Why? So you don't have to look me in the eye while you arrest me?" I asked. I knew it was a bad idea to argue with him, knew that he had the power in this situation and that I would eventually have to succumb to his instructions.

"Turn around, Hyde." He said, and hearing my last name tumble from his mouth was another blow that I had to pretend didn't hurt. I turned around, holding my hands behind my back before he cuffed me.

"This also feels familiar..." I trailed off again, forcing out a brief laugh. "Is this turning you on as much as it is me?" I asked, both to throw him off as much as to get an answer from him. I hated the fact that I was turned on right now, his gentle hands on my skin as he put on the cold metal cuffs, his tight grip on my forearm as he directed me back through the crowd to the door. He never answered me, which I expected.

But he didn't say anything else to me aside from reading my rights, aside from the bare minimum he had to say because I was his prisoner.

And from there, he threw me into jail. The court proceedings had been short because there wasn't any point in saying I was innocent. I took a plea deal to shorten my sentence, to give me a chance of still being able to live afterwards. He only saw me once when I was in prison, to interview me and get a finalised statement. To ask if there was any other information I could give him, that if I did, he could get my sentence shortened once more.

The coldness from him cut me to the core.

But I couldn't tell him anything, because he already knew it all. To act as if I hadn't cared for him, trusted him and told him everything I could about myself and the Court... he designed his actions to hurt me.

I never knew why.

But I made sure that I hurt him just as much with my own.

No one could hurt me and get away with it.

Least of all someone replaceable.