Watching You Burn In Regret novel Chapter 49

Sheridan was far too proud to stoop so low as to borrow someone else's phone just to check if Seren had blocked his number, not here, not in front of this crowd.

Everyone in the room understood what was going on, but no one dared to tear away the thin veil of pretense. With laughter and banter, the awkward moment was quickly glossed over and never mentioned again.

Once Quentin had had his fill of the drama, he slipped out early, satisfied.

On his way out, Quentin shrugged off his jacket and handed it to a waiter. "You can toss this in the trash," he said.

Even from a distance, after sitting in that private lounge for so long, it felt like the jacket had absorbed that unpleasant, cloying scent. If his father caught a whiff of it, he'd think Quentin had been keeping company with the wrong sort of woman—and probably break his legs for it.

After Quentin left, the rest of their so-called friends, catching on to Sheridan's distracted mood, quickly found excuses to leave as well.

Soon, only Sheridan and Willa remained in the opulent lounge.

Willa lounged back in her seat, one leg crossed over the other with an easy confidence. She wore a crimson dress with a daring slit, showing off her long, slender legs—pale and smooth beneath the dim lights.

She looked at Sheridan, a faint, knowing smile playing at her lips, her eyes cool and slightly mocking as she arched a brow.

"So, is it because I'm back that your lady at home is throwing a tantrum?" she drawled, her tone unhurried.

Willa, of course, knew all about Seren.

Sheridan stayed silent, which Willa took as agreement.

She lit a cigar, drawing in a slow breath before setting it down, smoke curling lazily around her as she lifted her eyes.

"Sheridan, you're being a little thoughtless here. Just be honest with her—tell her you and I aren't what we once were, and now we're just friends. Simple as that," she said, her voice casual.

"Besides, she's been by your side for three years. I have no interest in playing the third wheel, nor do I need to compete for you. I've got plenty of admirers. Tell her to stop being so petty."

Her words drifted through the air, light and careless—Willa, as always, was unapologetically free-spirited.

Sheridan used to adore this about her—the way she was like the wind: wild, impossible to grasp or control. She was a shot of whiskey, burning hot and intoxicating.

But tonight…

Sheridan looked up at her. Her eyeliner was heavy, and when she arched her brow, it cast her features in a sharper, almost harsh light. Whether it was the lighting or something else, she seemed less alluring than he remembered—almost severe.

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