Chapter 1: Neon Betrayal
The air in Mulligan’s was thick with the smell of yesterday’s fryer oil and cheap disinfectant. Svetlana Petrova traced a fingertip through the condensation on her pint glass, watching the water bead and run. She wasn’t even drinking the beer. It was just a prop, something to do with her hands while the low hum of golf talk and classic rock washed over her.
“Rough day, Red?”
She didn’t look up. “The usual existential dread, Mick. Just served with a side of vendor reports.”
The bartender chuckled and moved away. Svet’s eyes were on the door, reflected in the smudged mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles. She knew he’d come. He couldn’t help himself.
The bell above the door jangled, and there he was. Toni. He scanned the room, his gaze landing on her with a practiced, easy smile. He weaved through the scattered tables, looking for all the world like a man who owned every square inch of floor he walked on. He slid onto the stool next to hers, his cologne—something expensive and woody—clashing violently with the scent of stale hops.
“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice a low purr.
“Toni.” She kept her eyes on her glass.
He placed her small leather purse on the bar between them with a soft, definitive thud. “You left this at my place last night, babe.”
A lie. She’d been at her sister’s last night, eating ice cream straight from the carton and watching terrible reality TV. She’d last seen that purse in her own entryway three days ago. She finally turned her head, her green eyes meeting his brown ones. He had a good face, open and honest-looking. It was his best feature.
“My place?” she repeated, her voice flat.
“Yeah. You were in such a hurry this morning.” He grinned, flashing white teeth. His left hand rested on the bar, the cheap silver promise ring he still wore—a relic from their first six-month anniversary—glinting dully under the neon Coors sign.
Her heart wasn’t breaking. That had happened two weeks ago, when she’d seen the text light up his phone while he was in the shower. A brunette emoji, a heart, a time. It was a clean, surgical sort of pain now. This was something else. This was the simmering anger of being treated like a idiot.
“Funny,” Svet said, picking up her purse. The weight was all wrong. She unclasped it, peered inside. Her lipstick, her cards, the little tin of mints. And nestled at the bottom, a single golf tee. A bright, obnoxious pink one. She’d never owned a pink golf tee in her life.
“I don’t remember being at your place,” she said, pulling the tee out and holding it between her thumb and forefinger.
Toni’s smile didn’t falter, but a tiny muscle ticked in his jaw. “You had a lot of wine. It was a great night.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “We should do it again soon. I’ve missed you.”
She let the silence stretch. She heard the clack of pool balls from the back room, a burst of laughter from a group celebrating a good round. She thought about the text. She thought about the brunette from his office, the one with the loud laugh she’d met once at a holiday party. She pictured her, maybe in Toni’s back room right now, waiting for him to return after tidying up his loose end—her.
Svet dropped the pink tee onto the bar. It rolled in a small, defiant circle before stopping.
“You know what’s weird, Toni?” Her voice was conversational, light. “I got a new set of clubs today. Top-of-the-line drivers. Pretty irons. The whole obnoxious package.”
He blinked, thrown by the non sequitur. “Yeah? That’s… great, Svet. You’ll look cute on the range.”
“The thing is,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “I don’t know the first thing about golf. It seems complicated. All these rules. All this… etiquette.” She paused, her eyes locking onto his. “But I’m a quick study. And I’m learning the most important rule first.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t get to play a hole with someone else’s ball and then pretend your scorecard is still clean.” She pushed the pink tee toward him with one fingertip. “This isn’t mine. The story isn’t mine. And I’m not interested in the game you’re playing anymore.”
The color drained from his face. The charming facade cracked, revealing a flash of panic, then irritation. “What are you talking about? You’re being paranoid.”
“Am I?” She stood up, slinging her purse over her shoulder. The forgotten beer sat abandoned. “Tell me, was she at least a good liar? Or did she buy the ‘my crazy ex forgot her purse’ routine, too?”
He stared, his mouth a tight line. No denial came. Just a cold, calculating look as he realized the act was over.
Svet felt a surge of something pure and fierce. It wasn’t happiness. It was better. It was certainty. She tossed a twenty on the bar for the beer she didn’t drink.
“Keep the change, Mick,” she said, her voice clear in the sudden quiet of their little bubble.
She walked out of Mulligan’s without a backward glance. The night air was cool, washing the smell of grease and deceit from her lungs. In her car, she sat for a moment, hands on the steering wheel. In the passenger footwell, a brand-new golf bag gleaned, the heads of the clubs still shrouded in plastic.
She started the engine. The radio came on, some driving rock anthem. She turned it up, loud enough to fill the empty spaces. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but for the first time in weeks, she knew exactly what she was leaving behind.