Knowing Selina's feelings for Adrian, I spiraled into self-loathing and guilt.

I'd always thought I had decent moral standards—that I'd never stoop to stealing someone's love interest. I couldn't understand how "a little alcohol" had destroyed my willpower so completely.


Later, I discovered the truth about that drink.

One tiny sip had me disoriented and foggy—not normal for any cocktail.

But this revelation only made everything more twisted.


In their version of events, I'd deliberately drugged Adrian's drink with aphrodisiacs—my predatory intentions toward him apparently obvious to everyone.

I became the desperate slut who'd do anything to bed Adrian Harrington.


And poor, innocent Selina and Adrian were my victims.

Never mind that Selina handed me the drink. Sweet, innocent Selina would never orchestrate something so devious as drugging her "best friend" and the man she wanted.

Adrian took the drink voluntarily, but he was just being gentlemanly. How could he know his friend's "bestie" was such a conniving bitch?

They were paragons of virtue, pillars of society.

So the villain had to be me. Only me.

Selina was so devastated by her "best friend's" betrayal that she attempted suicide—only to be "miraculously" discovered in time.

So I owed Selina a life debt.

Selina's distress affected her restaurant investments, and "coincidentally" health inspectors found violations, causing massive losses.

Because I owed her, taking the fall was only fair.

And I'd tarnished Adrian's sterling reputation—a crime worthy of death.

I was the sinner, and my cafe must be sacrificed for my sins.

But merciful Adrian promised that if I "atoned properly," he'd help me open a new cafe.

I wanted to scream the truth, but it was like being in a vacuum—no sound could escape, no help could reach me.

Was I really the villain here?

Was my dream tainted too? Did it deserve to die with my reputation?

I could accept my fate, but I couldn't let my passion—my creation—be dragged down with me.

It deserved love, deserved a future filled with light.

The night I signed away my cafe, I cradled my coffee grinder for hours, until the cold brass warmed under my touch.

Pain radiated from my chest, spreading through my body like poison ivy.

I'd lost everything, and the pain felt worse than dying.

As the health officials led me away, I actually laughed.

Maybe it was fate—Clara Reynolds was never meant to have dreams.

I was destined for mediocrity until the bitter end.