They drove back in heavy silence the next day, the countryside blurring into city chaos. Derek dropped her a few miles from the penthouse, a quick kiss—rough, lingering—before pulling away. “Take care, Stiles,” he muttered, voice thick. No promises, no texts after. Just… nothing.

Stiles slipped back into her life like nothing happened, but inside? She was wrecked. Sad all the time—fake smiles for Peter, zoning out during wedding tastings, staring at her phone willing it to buzz. Nights, she’d finger herself quiet in the shower, whispering Derek’s name, but it felt empty. “He doesn’t want me,” she’d tell herself, heart aching. “Just a fuck.” And Derek? Holed up in his apartment, stripping at the club with a scowl, turning down private dances, sad and pissed. He’d punch his pillow at night, imagining her walking down the aisle to his dad. “Fuck this,” he’d growl, but no contact. Too risky, too wrong.