Summer's Last Firefly

1

The day I decided to leave Vincent Yates was my birthday.

Wearing the bluebell-colored dress he bought for me and carrying a cake, I headed to his apartment, brimming with excitement. I spent hours cooking a full table of dishes, starting at 6 p.m.

By midnight, the food had gone cold and been reheated several times.

Finally, at twelve sharp, his assistant knocked on the door, half-carrying a drunken and completely unconscious Vincent.

After his assistant left, I worried he wouldn't rest well on the couch, so I dragged him to the bedroom. As I maneuvered his weight, I stumbled, hitting my head on the doorframe.

For a moment, my vision went black, and a dull buzzing filled my ears. Ignoring the pain and injury, I instinctively checked on him.

"Vincent..." I coaxed softly, "Are you hungry? Let's eat something."

He held onto my hand, mumbling like a child in his sleep, "Selena, don't leave me."

Warm blood trickled from my forehead, staining the dress he had given me. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror – my pale face, streaked with red – looking almost surreal.

Vincent's grip on my hand tightened, his expression earnest, filled with a vulnerability that seemed foreign to his usual proud demeanor. Over and over, he murmured about his longing, his love, his regret.

The cruel irony?

I wasn't Selena.

2

I left the city where Vincent lived and relocated to a new one.

There, I found a job as an editor and eventually met Clint Ford.

Clint was one of the authors I managed – gentle, refined, with a hint of childishness. He loved to cook and often went out of his way to accommodate me.

Our relationship blossomed into something romantic, but we had an unspoken agreement to avoid discussing our past relationships. In many ways, we were more like kindred spirits than passionate lovers.

The day I ran into Vincent again, Clint and I had plans to see a movie at the mall.

The movie was about to start, and I was still rushing up an escalator. Typing furiously, I texted Clint, "Sorry, I was stuck in a meeting! Just give me two more minutes – I'll be there soon."

His reply came almost instantly, "No rush. By the way, if you, my dear editor, were as patient with my deadlines as you expect me to be now, that'd be amazing."

I chuckled at his message and was about to reply with an emphatic "Never gonna happen" when a voice called my name.

"Serena?"

I turned to look. A group of people was descending on the opposite escalator.

At the center of the group stood Vincent, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his striking presence commanding attention.

His gaze locked onto mine, lips moving ever so slightly.

Like two parallel lines heading in opposite directions, we grew farther and farther apart.

I heard what he said, though. "Wait for me."

But I didn't look back.

3

Vincent changed direction and followed me relentlessly.

At the entrance to the theater, he caught up, breathless. "Serena, I told you to wait! Did you hear me or not?"

I looked at him calmly. "Do you need something?"

I had always been deferential in front of him, but now, I refused to show even a hint of weakness.

"Do you think I'd come to you if it wasn't important?" His tone was sharp, his usual overbearing demeanor creeping back in.

I hadn't decided how to respond when footsteps approached behind me.

"Serena." Clint's voice was gentle but steady. My colorful cartoon hoodie made me easy to spot, and he approached with a large bucket of popcorn. "The movie's started. Why aren't you inside yet?"

Clint reached for my hand, intertwining our fingers naturally.

I took a step forward, but Vincent grabbed my other hand.

He sneered coldly, his eyes glinting with anger. "Serena, I forbid you to go."

Clint, usually so composed, frowned deeply. He never put me in difficult situations, but Vincent's actions stirred an unmistakable irritation in him.

"Serena," Vincent repeated, his tone sharper. "I'm telling you – you're not going."

Who does he think he is? I thought.

I tightened my grip on Clint's hand. "Vincent, I'm here to watch a movie with my boyfriend. If you want to wait, that's up to you. If not, feel free to leave."

4

I had always known Vincent was self-centered. What I didn't realize was just how far he would go when pushed.

Clint and I were already late, and the movie had progressed to a pivotal moment when Vincent, following us, stormed into the theater, his voice cutting through the background score. "Serena!"

At six feet tall, Vincent's towering frame blocked the view of several rows. His voice drew irritated murmurs from the audience.

"Vincent, stop this!" I hissed.

With glaring eyes from all directions, I sank deeper into my seat, torn between anger and embarrassment. "What are you even trying to do?"

"Come outside. We need to talk."

"I told you to wait–"

"I don't have time for that," he interrupted, his expression as cold as stone. He reached for my arm, intending to pull me up.

I recoiled, but before he could succeed, Clint, usually mild-mannered, sprang to his feet. Placing himself squarely between Vincent and me, he raised his arm defensively. "Mr. Yates, please stop harassing my girlfriend!"

"Hey, sit down! We can't see!"

"Seriously, what's wrong with you people?"

The complaints rippled through the crowd. Both Clint and I were painfully aware that continuing this would only cause more disruption. Frustrated but resigned, I stood and followed Vincent out of the theater.

In a nearby café, Vincent slid into a booth and threw a sharp glance at Clint, who had trailed us. "I didn't invite outsiders to this conversation."

Ignoring him, Clint crouched to check on me. Satisfied that I was unhurt, he lowered his gaze slightly.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but Clint spoke first, as if anticipating my words.

"I'll wait outside. Call if you need anything."

...

Vincent's long fingers curled around a porcelain coffee cup. His composed demeanor betrayed no hint of hardship.

"Why did you leave without a word?" he asked, setting the cup down with deliberate precision. It felt less like a question and more like an indictment.

"You even changed your number. Serena, did you really think I'd come looking for you?"

"I didn't think that," I replied evenly.

Our history began when I had just graduated and applied for an editor position at his publishing company.

My modest academic background and lack of experience meant repeated rejections elsewhere, so when HR suggested an alternative role, I accepted without hesitation.

I became Vincent's personal assistant. After completing his tasks, I'd summon the courage to show him my project proposals, like the other editors. But he would always chuckle dismissively and toss them aside, saying, "This isn't your job."

One night, he was drunk, and I wasn't much better. When we woke up, everything had changed.

Vincent was the CEO of a large publishing firm. I was a fresh graduate. Being with him felt like reaching for the stars.

Following his suggestion, I quit my job, abandoned my dreams of editing, and devoted myself entirely to his needs – a compliant canary in a gilded cage.