Graduation Kiss Betrayal

The graduation ceremony was supposed to be our moment. Three years of secret relationship, three years of Maverick insisting we keep things private because he "valued privacy," and now we were finally graduating. I'd spent hours getting ready, choosing the perfect dress, hoping today might be the day he'd finally acknowledge me publicly.

The hotel ballroom glowed with warm light as our classmates gathered for the post-ceremony celebration. Someone suggested Truth or Dare, and the crowd cheered enthusiastically. I sat beside Maverick, my fingers nervously twisting the ring he'd given me last Christmas—though he'd never called it an engagement ring, despite my hints.

"Bridget! You're up!" Jessica called out, spinning the bottle.

My heart fluttered as I chose truth, answering a harmless question about my first kiss. Then it was Maverick's turn.

"Truth or dare?" the game master asked.

Maverick's eyes gleamed with something I couldn't quite read. "Dare."

"Kiss someone seven times on different spots!" The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers.

My stomach dropped. Surely he'd decline, or choose me—his girlfriend of three years. I reached for his hand, but he pulled away.

"I choose Keily Andrews," he announced, his voice carrying across the room.

The room spun around me. Keily—the pretty underclassman who'd been flirting with him for months. The same Keily he'd sworn meant nothing to him when I'd questioned him last week.

Keily stepped forward, her lips curved in a triumphant smile as she glanced at me. "I accept."

Maverick cupped her face with a tenderness I hadn't seen in months. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then each cheek, lingering longer than necessary. The crowd cheered as he moved to her nose, her chin, her neck—each kiss deliberate, each touch a knife in my heart.

"Last one," he murmured, his voice husky as he tilted Keily's chin up.

He kissed her lips—not a peck, not a game kiss, but deep and passionate. The room exploded in catcalls and applause.

I couldn't breathe. My hand flew to my chest as pain radiated through me. The room blurred at the edges as I gripped the table edge, knuckles white.

Across the room, Professor Peter Richardson's eyes locked on mine. Unlike the others, he wasn't smiling. He'd seen my distress signal—the hand over my heart that I always did when stressed. He started moving toward me, but the crowd shifted, blocking my view.

---

"You're overreacting." Maverick's voice cut through the evening air as we stood in the parking lot. "It was just a stupid game, Bridget."

"It wasn't just a game." My voice shook, but I forced myself to meet his eyes. "You humiliated me in front of everyone. You chose her."

"And?"

"And I'm done." The words felt foreign on my tongue. "We're over, Maverick."

He laughed—actually laughed—the sound harsh and unfamiliar. "You're being dramatic about a stupid game. Get over yourself."

"I'm serious." I stepped back as he moved closer. "We're finished."

Something dark flickered across his face. The laughter vanished, replaced by