Chapter 1: The Invisible Boyfriend’s Last Night

I’d spent three years with Chicago’s nightlife king—the guy everyone in the clubs knew by name—and we’d tried every position you could think of. But you know what? Not once did he ever acknowledge me as his partner. Not once. Sometimes I wonder if he even saw me standing next to him, or if I was just another part of the scenery.

Three years, and not once did he call me his boyfriend. Not to me, not to anyone. I’d show up at every party with him, smile at his friends, wear that cologne he loved. But out in public? I was just Chris. Just there. Invisible. Sometimes I’d catch myself wondering—am I even real to him? It was like being a ghost at my own life.

Then there was that night at the club. I watched him blocking the bartender from pouring Eli another shot, his voice all gentle and smiling: “Eli’s got a weak stomach, I’ll drink for him.”

He’d never done that for me. Not once. Not ever. I stood there, glass in hand, just watching as he laughed and knocked back the shot, his arm slung around Eli’s shoulder like it belonged there. Like it always had. And for a split second, the pounding bass, the pulsing lights, the sweat and heat—all of it faded away. That soft, protective tone—he’d never used it on me. Not once.

I didn’t even get a chance to process it before a wall of comments popped up over my head.

[Yo, Mason’s got stomach issues himself but he can’t stand to see our Eli suffer.]

[Now that’s real love—his one and only. The second Eli’s back in the States, he gets treated like a real boyfriend.]

[Only with Eli does the main guy act all sweet. With Chris, he’s just using him to scratch an itch.]

[Chicago’s nightlife king only lets Eli take the lead. It’s obvious who’s number one.]

It was like the whole world had decided to live-tweet my humiliation. Seriously, did I need play-by-play commentary on my own heartbreak? I could feel the heat crawling up my neck. I swear, some of them were probably right there, watching me lose it in real time.

I looked down at the chicken soup I’d made—the one I thought would help him feel better—and without another thought, tossed it straight into the trash.

The container hit the bottom of the can with a dull thud, broth splattering up the sides. I didn’t even bother to wipe it up. All those hours, all that effort, just—gone. The smell of home-cooked food clung to the air, making me want to gag.

So I stormed off to the next private room, ordered up ten beefcakes, and—because why not—posted this on my Instagram story:

[Broke up. After three years of letting someone else call the shots, tonight I’m taking over the whole place!]

The second I hit post, adrenaline surged through me. My heart was racing, hands trembling. I didn’t even know if I meant it, but damn, those words looked good on the screen. For once, I wanted to be the one in charge.

The notifications started rolling in immediately—Messenger blowing up with pings.

“Chris, are you outta your mind? Hooking up behind Mason’s back?!”

“Dude, is this you and Mason trying some open-relationship thing?”

“What’s going on? Did you and Mason Carter actually break up?”

My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. It was a flood of messages, half disbelief, half gleeful curiosity. This was the kind of drama our crew lived for.

But then Jamie Torres’s name popped up, and bitterness hit me hard.

Jamie’s name always used to calm me down, but this time it just made my throat close up. He’d seen it all—the late-night rants, the ugly breakdowns I never let anyone else see. If even Jamie was worried, maybe I really had lost it this time.

I’d been with Mason Carter for three years. Everyone in his orbit figured I was just in it for the money. Only Jamie knew how much I actually liked him. Really liked him.

Jamie was the only one who knew about the little things—how I memorized Mason’s coffee order, how I could tell from a single emoji if he was having a rough day. The rest just saw a pretty face in designer clothes, hanging on for the ride.

He said he wanted to see me every day when he got home, so I moved in. Did his laundry, cooked his meals, tried to be the perfect stay-at-home boyfriend. I thought that’s what he wanted.

I tried to build a home for him—folded his shirts just the way he liked, set out his vitamins every morning. I even learned how to make his mom’s lasagna from scratch, hoping maybe he’d notice. Sometimes I wondered if he ever really looked at me at all.

His friends would tease him about finding such a young live-in assistant, and he’d just laugh—like it was all some big joke.

I’d force a smile, pretend it was funny, but every time he called me his “roommate” or “helper,” it stung. Hard. I wanted to be his person, not just the guy who did his errands.

I made him soup—chicken noodle, whatever he needed—went to social events, drank on his behalf. All I wanted was for him to be healthy. But what does he do? He turns around and drinks for someone else. Unbelievable.

It burned. It was so unfair. I’d spent nights holding his hair back after too many shots, and now he was playing hero for someone else. The club was spinning, but maybe that was just my head.

To please him, I played the passive one for three years. Every single time, he’d go so hard I could barely walk the next day. Once he was satisfied, he’d go out and let someone else take the lead—grinning like it was the best thing ever.

I’d tell myself it was love, that I was giving him what he needed. But I was always the one left behind—sore, alone—while he found his happiness somewhere else.

[Does the side character really think posting this will make the main guy care? LMAO. That’s his longtime crush, his one and only.]

[If Eli hadn’t been with Mason’s older bro back then, Mason wouldn’t have had to wait so long. Now his patience finally pays off.]

[Can’t wait to see the side character try to mess with Eli, only to help bring Mason and Eli together—and then Mason lets Eli take the lead. Iconic.]

Reading those comments felt like getting kicked in the ribs, again and again. It was like everyone else had gotten the script, and I was just the extra who never got the memo.

No wonder I’d been so pathetic for him. Turns out I’m just a side character in someone else’s story—a stepping stone for the main couple.

It was like I’d been written in as a plot device, just to make Mason and Eli’s love story more dramatic. Ha. I almost laughed—almost.

“Yeah, we broke up.”

It felt so damn final, saying it out loud—even if it was just to my phone. Maybe if I kept repeating it, it would finally stick.

“I just found out I’m the clown in this whole mess.”

The words tasted sharp, bitter, but weirdly freeing. I was so tired of pretending.

“Damn it, I spent years letting him do whatever he wanted. And now he turns around and lets someone else call the shots—all happy about it!”

I slammed my fist on the table. Didn’t give a damn who heard. For once, I wanted someone to see how much it hurt.

The more I thought about it, the angrier—and more miserable—I got. My head felt like it was going to explode.

It was like the anger and the sadness were fighting for space in my chest. Neither one willing to back down. I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.

“Tonight, I’m taking charge for once. He can go screw himself!”

I grabbed another drink, the burn running down my throat, reminding me I was still alive. If I was gonna be reckless, tonight was the night. Screw it.

“Chris, calm down. I’m coming over right now—don’t do anything stupid!”

Jamie’s voice crackled through my phone, urgent and worried. He always knew when I was about to do something dumb. That’s my best friend for you—always got my back.

By the time Jamie showed up, I had a hand on each of the male models, grinning like an idiot.

The room was packed with laughter and music, but it all felt kind of empty. Still, at least I wasn’t alone. For tonight, that would have to be enough.

“God, are you really done with him?”

Jamie stared at my Instagram post, eyes wide in disbelief.

He looked from me to the guys, then back again, like he was seeing a UFO. Honestly? I couldn’t believe it either.

“You used to say Mason only liked obedient, clean-cut guys. You wouldn’t even hit a bar with me, and now look at you…”

He shook his head, half-smiling. “Guess heartbreak makes you wild, huh?”