His to Fix, His to Break

Twenty days ago

Phew, finally I'm home. When I entered my apartment, I heard some noise coming from the bathroom. I immediately knew who it was. Sinister came out of the shower half-naked, one towel around his waist and another around his neck, his hair still dripping wet. Water slid down his chiseled chest, and I caught myself staring. I finally realized what I was doing when I heard him say, "Like what you see?" A real annoying smirk played on his lips. My face burned with embarrassment. Instead of answering, I asked, "What are you doing here?"

Sinister sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "I'm here to take you to a party."

Straight away, I refused. Even though I had never been to one of these parties, I already knew I'd hate it. These events were filled with elite, rich, and pretentious kids from our university. I was neither rich nor pretentious like those spoiled brats who wasted their parents' money. So why bother going to a party where your status mattered more than who you actually were?

I tried to refuse again, but he wasn't having it. He even brought me a dress, jewelry, and heels. My eyes fell on the outfit—it was beautiful. For a second, I felt warm inside, but I was still not convinced. After a lot of persuasion, I finally agreed to go with him.

The party was at 7 p.m., and I only had an hour to get ready. After throwing Sinister out of the room, I hurried to take a quick shower.

All eyes were on us when we arrived at the party. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I knew Sinister was with me, but I couldn't shake the unease creeping up my spine. I felt people staring at the back of my head. Within minutes, Sinister was surrounded by girls. It wasn't unusual, but that didn't make it any easier to watch. A sharp sting settled in my chest as I excused myself and went to sit in the corner of the room.

Despite being an introvert, I found myself wishing some guy would approach me—just so I could take my mind off Sinister. Or maybe, deep down, I just wanted to make him jealous. The party had barely begun, and I was already regretting coming.

Deep in my thoughts, I nearly missed the uneven cheering as Sinister walked onto the stage. It looked like he was about to make some sort of speech. The crowd started chanting, asking about his partner. They were calling for me.

I felt nervous. I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself before heading toward the stage. But just as I stood up, someone brushed past me, moving toward Sinister before I could take a single step.

Veronica Sinclair.

One moment, she was on stage next to Sinister, entwining their arms, and the next—she was pressing her lips against his.

Announcing to the entire crowd that she was his partner.

Tears started welling up in my eyes, but I refused to cry. I refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing she had successfully hurt me. Then, I looked towards Sinister, hoping he would say something—push her off, refuse her claim, declare that I was the one standing by his side. But the look on his face made my heart sink. He stood there, silent, with an expression as if nothing was wrong with the situation.

A wave of emotions crashed over me—humiliation, rage, and hatred. Was he dating Veronica behind my back? Did Sinister deliberately plan to humiliate me? Why didn't he speak up if he hadn't planned it? Or was it Veronica all along? Even thinking about it made me sick.

Without wasting another second, I left the party. The night was dark, and the streets were eerily empty. I searched for a cab but couldn't find one. I reached for my phone to book a ride, but Ola showed no available drivers. Cursing myself, I muttered, "Fuck it." I just wanted to go home and sleep. To forget about tonight. So I ran.

The night was cold, the streets nearly empty. My feet pounded against the pavement as I ran, the chill biting through my skin. My breath came out in sharp gasps, my heart hammering in my chest. But then—pain. A sharp twist in my ankle sent me stumbling forward. A strangled cry escaped my lips as I barely caught myself. My legs buckled, forcing me to stop.

Frustration burned through me. I ripped off my Christian Louboutin heels and flung them aside. They were worth a fortune, but I couldn't care less. What did it matter now? I just wanted to get away.

My phone rang. I glanced down—Sinister. I hit decline. But the ringing started again. And again. Relentless. Desperate.

Finally, fed up, I swiped to answer. "What the fuck do you want?" My voice was raw, shaking with fury.

"Where are you, Grace?" His voice was tense, urgent. "Why did you leave the party without me?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "Do you even hear yourself? After everything, you still expect me to stay? Or was humiliating me not enough for one night?"

"Grace, I can explain," he insisted. "But before that, tell me where you are. It's late, and you don't even know the way back to your apartment. You shouldn't be alone right now."

I opened my mouth to snap at him, but before I could take another step, a sharp, searing pain tore through my foot. I hissed, stumbling back against a streetlamp. I looked down. A glass shard. Blood welled up, trickling down my skin.

Just my fucking luck.

The phone rang again. I ignored it. But he kept calling. Over and over. His persistence grated on my nerves, but beneath it, there was something else. Desperation. Concern.

With gritted teeth, I picked up. "What now, Sinister?"

"Grace," his voice was breathless, almost frantic, "where are you? You're not okay, are you?"

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. "I already told you—I left. And now… my foot is bleeding."

Silence. Then, softer this time, pleading—"Tell me where you are."

I hesitated, pride warring with the throbbing pain in my foot. But I couldn't take another step.

"Park Avenue," I murmured.

The call ended.

And I sat there, alone in the cold, waiting for him.

After what felt like forever, headlights cut through the darkness, and a familiar car pulled up. Relief washed over me so suddenly that I almost choked on it. The moment Sinister stepped out, he was running toward me.

I hadn't even realized I was crying until his thumb brushed away the tears on my cheek. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he had the right to comfort me. Without a word, he helped me into the car and started driving toward my apartment.

The silence between us was thick, but I welcomed it. No questions. No explanations. Just the quiet hum of the engine and the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on us.

By the time we reached my apartment, I tried to get out on my own, but pain shot through my foot, making me stumble. Before I could protest, Sinister was already there, scooping me up into his arms.

A surprised gasp left my lips. "I can walk—"

"Clearly, you can't," he muttered, holding me effortlessly.

Instinctively, I clung to his neck, my fingers curling into his shirt. I should have pushed him away. I should have fought against this. But deep down, I knew he wouldn't let me fall. He never had.

Before I even registered it, we were inside. Sinister gently set me down on the couch and shrugged off his blazer.

"Where's your first aid kit?" he asked.

"Bathroom," I mumbled, still flustered.

He disappeared, then returned moments later with the kit in hand. Kneeling before me, he carefully lifted my injured foot onto his lap. I flinched.

"I can do it myself," I insisted, trying to pull away.

His sharp gaze pinned me in place. "You've done enough for today. Just stay still and let me handle it."

I bit my lip, reluctantly obeying as he opened the kit. Then, to my horror, he started unbuttoning his shirt.

My eyes widened. "Wh-What are you doing?"

He handed me the fabric. "Bite down on it unless you want your neighbors to think you're being murdered."

His sharp eyes scanning my injury with an unsettling calm. He set out the supplies with practiced efficiency—sterilized needle, medical-grade thread, antiseptic wipes, gauze, and a pair of tweezers.

"You've done this before?" My voice came out breathless, half in disbelief, half in pain.

He didn't answer right away, just pulled on a pair of latex gloves from the kit. The snap of the rubber sent a shiver down my spine.

"I need to clean the wound first," he said, ignoring my question. "It's going to hurt."

I barely had time to brace myself before he pressed an alcohol wipe against the cut. Fire. Pure fire. My whole body tensed, fingers clutching the couch as a muffled scream tore from my throat. He held my foot steady, unfazed.

"The cut is deep. You need stitches."

I forced myself to sit up. "All right, let's go to the hospital—"

He stopped me with a firm hand on my shoulder. "I can do it."

I blinked. "You can what?"

"Give you stitches. You don't need to go to the hospital."

A dry laugh escaped me. "I didn't realize business management students were also trained in medical procedures."

His serious expression didn't waver.

"You're not joking, are you?"

"Deep, but clean. No glass left inside," he muttered to himself, more than to me. Then he grabbed the needle.

I swallowed hard. "You sure about this?"

"You trust me or not?" His gaze flickered to mine, challenging.

I hesitated—then, slowly, nodded.

Sinister worked fast. He threaded the curved needle, making sure the suture was secure before holding the wound together with his fingers. His grip was firm but careful.

"Okay, I'll count to three and start."

I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut.

"One."

I waited for "two" and "three"—but instead, a sharp sting shot through my skin.

"Fuck!" I gasped, my entire body jerking. "What happened to two and three?"

"You were expecting it," he said smoothly, his tone edged with amusement. "This way, it doesn't hurt as much. Manipulating the brain."

I glared at him through the haze of pain, but he was already focused again, working with steady, practiced hands.

He pushed the needle through one side of the wound, then out the other, pulling the thread taut with tweezers before tying a secure knot. The sharp pull made my breath hitch.

"That's one," he murmured.

Then again—needle in, thread out, knot tied. Over and over. His movements were precise, methodical, like he'd done this a hundred times before. I gritted my teeth, my nails digging into the couch. Sweat dampened my skin, but I refused to make another sound.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Each stitch was agony, but his hands never wavered. By the time he was done, my body was trembling from the strain.

Sinister reached for the gauze, pressing it gently against the fresh stitches before securing it with medical tape. Finally, he leaned back, surveying his work with a critical eye.

"Done," he said. His voice was softer now, almost careful.

I let out a shaky breath, blinking away the tears I hadn't even realized had fallen. Sinister wiped one away before I could stop him.

"You okay?" he asked.

I forced a weak smirk. "Yeah… I'll live." Then, to lighten the mood, I added, "Not bad. I didn't know you were a doctor."

For the first time that night, he smiled. A real one. The kind that made my chest ache, the kind I hadn't seen since high school.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I'm full of surprises."

Sinister sat beside me, his presence heavy, his eyes searching mine. He reached out, brushing my hair behind my ear, his touch soft but firm.

"Grace," his voice was low, rough. "I'm sorry for tonight. I swear, I'm not cheating on you. And definitely not with her." His jaw tensed. "Veronica was just trying to mess with you, like she always does. She hates that I love you."

Veronica.

The spoiled, entitled daughter of a real estate mogul. She thrived on attention, fed off drama like it was oxygen. She wore Sinister's name on her lips like a trophy, proudly letting people call her his whore because, in her twisted mind, it meant she was close to him.

And tonight… she had been too close.

"You have to trust me, Grace," Sinister said, his voice softer now. "I only love you. You're the only one for me."

I wanted to believe him. But the image of Veronica pressing herself against him, the way she smirked at me, like she had won, wouldn't leave my head.

Still, I forced myself to nod. "I believe you." The words left my lips, but in my heart, I wasn't sure.

Sinister must have seen my hesitation because, suddenly, he kissed me. Hard. Desperate. It wasn't sweet or gentle. It was a claim. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, as if trying to erase every doubt I had.

My body responded before my mind could stop it. My fingers gripped his shirt, holding onto him as he deepened the kiss, his lips moving against mine like he needed me to breathe.

When he finally pulled away, my heart was racing, my breath uneven.

Sinister leaned in, his forehead resting against mine. "Don't overthink, baby," he murmured. "You're mine. And I don't share."

A shiver ran down my spine. Because despite everything—despite the jealousy, the doubt, and the chaos—I wanted to be his.