The Villains Must Win-Chapter 144: Reid Graves 24

The sun bled through the thin hotel curtains, casting stripes of golden light across the tangled sheets and clothes scattered across the room like forgotten confessions.

Gwendolyn stirred, her body aching in unfamiliar ways, and a throbbing headache pulsed in sync with the fluttering panic growing in her chest.

Her eyes blinked open, dry and disoriented. The world spun slightly, like a cruel joke.

Then she remembered.

Flashes—soft at first—began piecing themselves together. The prom. The dancing. The drinking. Roman’s hand on her waist. His voice in her ear. The hotel room. His touch. Her decision. Or lack thereof.

She sat up suddenly, the sheet falling away from her chest, and gripped it tightly to herself. Her breathing came in short gasps, her heart beating like a drum in a parade she never meant to join.

"What have I done . . ." she whispered to the empty room.

A sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. Roman was in the shower. Gwendolyn stared at the door, her eyes wide, her heart falling to her stomach.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. None of it.

She scrambled to find her clothes, her hands shaking as she pulled on her dress from last night. Her lipstick was smudged. Her makeup stained her cheeks. Her hair looked like it had been through a storm.

And in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself.

She had always been the smart one. The composed one. She didn’t make reckless decisions. She didn’t throw herself at boys, especially not at boys like Roman. Especially not out of a drunken state.

Tears began to brim in her eyes. A soft sob escaped her lips just as the bathroom door opened with a hiss of steam. Roman stepped out, towel slung around his waist, his hair damp and tousled like a poster boy for chaos and poor choices.

He froze when he saw her—fully dressed, standing stiffly by the side of the bed, her face red with tears.

". . . Gwen?" he said, voice soft but unsure. "You okay?"

She turned to him slowly, and for a moment, Roman saw something in her eyes he wasn’t prepared for.

"You don’t get to ask me that," she said, voice low and trembling. "You don’t get to stand there and act like you didn’t just ruin everything."

Roman’s brow furrowed. "Ruin—? Wait, what are you talking about? We—we both wanted it. You said—"

"Don’t you dare put this on me!" she snapped, her voice rising like a whipcrack. "You—Roman—you knew I liked you. You knew it. And you took advantage of my drunken state!"

For some reason, her crying—her screeching voice—was getting on his nerves. He used to enjoy it, maybe even sought it out, which was why he tormented her back then. But now . . . it only irritated him, and he wasn’t sure why.

His face paled. "I didn’t force you—"

"You didn’t stop me either," she said, voice sharp as glass. "You didn’t even ask if I was okay. You just . . . kept going. Like you were proving something."

"Gwendolyn, I didn’t mean to—"

"Don’t." She held up a shaking hand. "Don’t stand there and try to justify this. You knew I liked you. You knew I was vulnerable. And you used that. You used me."

"That’s not true," Roman said, his voice hoarse, eyes wide with disbelief. "What happened last night—you wanted it too. Don’t lie to yourself. You liked it. We wouldn’t have done it multiple times if you didn’t."

Gwendolyn’s hands flew to her ears as if trying to physically block the words from lodging into her memory. Her voice trembled with rage and hurt. "Stop it! Just stop talking!" she shouted. "I was drunk, Roman! You should’ve known better! You should’ve been the one to stop it—and you know it!"

Roman’s expression twisted, anger flaring across his face. "Oh, don’t give me that crap," he snapped, stepping forward. "You weren’t that drunk. Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing. You were begging for it."

The slap echoed like a gunshot in the silence of the room.

Gwendolyn’s hand trembled at her side, her chest heaving with emotion as Roman stood stunned, holding the side of his face. Her eyes, once mischievous and teasing, now burned with fury and betrayal.

"Don’t you ever say that to me again," she whispered through clenched teeth. Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of everything she felt—rage, shame, heartbreak.

Tears flooded her eyes as she turned and stormed out of the room, sobs breaking free once she passed the threshold.

The door slammed shut, leaving Roman alone in the suffocating silence. His chest rose and fell as the weight of what just happened sank in. He stood in the center of the room—shirtless, breathless, lost. And then something cracked.

He cursed loudly, a raw, guttural sound, and swept his arm across the desk, sending a lamp, empty bottles, and his phone crashing to the floor. He punched the closet door, denting the wood, then staggered back and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to take it all back. But he couldn’t. And now, the ache in his chest was no longer about losing her affection—it was about destroying something he never truly had in the first place. But above it all, it was still Tabitha in his mind that no cold shower could erase.

But this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

In the original story—the version that should’ve been—nothing had happened between them.

Gwendolyn, though tipsy from just a few drinks—she’d never been good with alcohol—had almost gone with Roman after prom. But Reid had been there for her.

Reid had stepped in and stopped her from making a mistake.

Roman and Reid had gotten into a fight—one Gwendolyn only barely managed to break up. Reid had been at a terrible disadvantage in a fight, but determined to protect her.

Gwendolyn saw the sight of Reid, bloodied and staggering, and the haze of alcohol had left her system the moment he collapsed.

That night, she’d stayed by Reid’s side, tending to his wounds and holding his hand as he shivered from the adrenaline and pain. She never made it to the hotel room. She never looked back at Roman once.

It was a turning point—a night that should’ve brought clarity. And maybe, in some twisted way, it had. Roman’s jealousy had spiraled from that moment, and it had fueled the argument that eventually pushed him and Gwendolyn closer. But not like this.

Not through drunken intimacy. Not through violation disguised as affection.

Now, in this version of reality, Reid was busy with Tabitha, and didn’t care about her and Roman. While Roman’s name would no longer bring warmth to Gwendolyn’s heart. Just nausea. Shame. Disgust.

And for Roman . . . all he could do was curse himself. He cursed his impulsiveness, and Tabitha for making him confused.

He stared at the mess around him—the clothes on the floor, the sheets tangled like chains, the broken lamp—and realized the damage wasn’t just to the room. It was inside him. Irreparable.

He got to do something about this, and the best thought that came to mind was to confront Tabitha and reorganized his feelings.