Playing for Keeps: Finding Love Beyond the Lies - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

I was dragging my suitcase up the stairs when I saw her—some girl slipping out of our apartment door.
Black oversized sweater sliding off one shoulder, nothing but YSL heels on her endless legs. Pepper Rogers. The bassist from Dante's band. Twenty-two, gorgeous, and apparently very comfortable in my boyfriend's apartment.
My stomach dropped. I pressed myself against the hallway wall, praying she wouldn't see me.
Seconds later, Dante appeared in the doorway. Shirtless. Water still dripping down that perfect torso I used to worship with my hands.
He tossed a Chanel bag at her feet like it was nothing.
"Here."
Her whole face lit up. "Holy shit, Dante! I've been dying for this bag!" She launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Where'd you get it?"
"Paris. Last trip."
"You're amazing, baby!" She was all over him, pressing kisses to his jaw, his neck.
When she got too clingy, I saw his face change. That flash of annoyance I knew so well.
"Yeah, okay. You should probably head out."
She pulled back with this pouty little smile. "Wow, harsh. Two seconds ago I was 'baby,' now you're tossing me out?"
But she wasn't really upset. She grabbed the bag, blew him a kiss. "Whatever. Call me later, yeah?"
The second she left, I stepped into view.
Dante's eyes went wide for maybe half a second before that trademark smirk slid into place.
"Jesus, you scared me. A heads up would've been nice."
I stared at him. At the fresh bite marks scattered across his collarbone like some twisted art project.
"It was late," I said quietly. "Didn't want to wake you."
The lie burned my throat.
He pulled me inside, acting like I hadn't just caught him red-handed. "I'm starving. Cook something, will you?"
He dropped onto the couch, grabbed the remote. Same old Dante. Same old routine.
I stood there, frozen.
"What?" He glanced over, irritated. "Why are you just standing there?"
Then his expression shifted. That cocky grin I used to find charming. "Oh, I get it. You missed me."
He got up, moved behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist. His lips found my neck, hands already sliding under my shirt.
"Let me remind you what you've been missing—"
Those guitar-calloused fingers that used to set me on fire now felt rough, invasive.
I pulled away. Hard.
God, I used to be obsessed with his body. That face was literally the reason I'd made a fool of myself chasing him for months.
But right now? After seeing him with her? I felt sick.
Dante wasn't used to being rejected. His jaw tightened.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
That's when I saw it. A torn black stocking twisted in the carpet.
Dante followed my stare. Something flickered across his face.
The silence stretched between us like a blade. He lit a cigarette, bit down on the menthol bead until it popped.
"Look, her lease was up. She had nowhere else to go."
He took a long drag. "It's not what you think."
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.
This wasn't the first time. Hell, it wasn't even the tenth time.
Dante was a player—always had been since the night I first saw him three years ago. My friend had dragged me to this dive bar to see his band, raving about how "insanely hot" the lead singer was.
I'd rolled my eyes. Until Dante stepped onto that tiny stage.
Head down, tuning his guitar, black hair falling into his eyes. Just jeans and a faded t-shirt. But when he looked up—those golden eyes catching the stage lights—every woman in that room stopped breathing.
Including me.
The music was incredible, but I didn't hear a single note. Just my heart hammering against my ribs.
After the show, I did something completely out of character: I fought through a sea of groupies to get his Instagram.
Dante gave his handle to everyone. Why wouldn't he?
But somehow, a year later, all those other girls had given up. Only I was still there, still trying, still hoping.
Maybe he kept me around out of pity. Maybe I was just convenient. The girl who never asked questions, never made scenes, never demanded more than he was willing to give.
Because deep down, I knew the truth: Dante had never actually loved me.
He liked that I was easy. That I cleaned up his messes. That I forgave him every single time he cheated.
He'd told me straight up I wasn't his type. Said he was only with me because I "didn't cause drama."
He'd even joked about leaving me when someone better came along.
And I'd stayed. Made excuses. Convinced myself his scraps of attention were enough.
"You promised," I whispered, staring at that ruined stocking. "You said you wouldn't do this anymore."
His laugh was cold, cutting. "Did you actually buy that bullshit?"
He stepped closer, blowing smoke in my face. His eyes were cruel, predatory. "What are you gonna do about it, Katrina? Huh?"
"You don't like it? There's the fucking door."
Those words. Always those same words.
They used to destroy me. Used to send me crawling back, apologizing, begging him not to leave.
But something had shifted tonight. Something had finally broken.
"I'm going to bed." I turned away.
His hand clamped around my wrist, tight enough to leave marks. "We're not done here."
I yanked free, my skin burning where he'd grabbed me. "Yes, we are."
The door slammed so hard behind him that the walls shook.
I collapsed onto the couch and pulled out my phone with shaking hands.
Mom had texted the family group: "Sweetheart, you're 27 now. Time to think about your future. My coworker's son is lovely—a pediatrician. Want to meet him over the holidays?"
My boss had sent a message too: "Katrina, we need someone to run the new branch in Washington. You're wasted in your current role. Interested?"
Washington. Home. A chance to start over.
All the signs pointing toward the same inevitable conclusion.
I closed my eyes, feeling something crack open inside my chest.
I did love Dante. Had loved him desperately, foolishly, completely for three long years.
But I also knew, with painful clarity, that he would never be the kind of man I could build a life with.
Now it was time to choose.