One Shots | Formula 1

CL♥

"Hey, at least invite me to dinner first!"

I stood outside the Monte Carlo casino, the glittering lights of Monaco fading into the night. I felt a pang of disappointment settle in my chest. This was supposed to be our night—the night of our first official date. We met in an event in Cannes, and that night we talked and laughed, and exchanged contacts. Two months of chatting, flirting, Facetime calls and building anticipation, and now here I was, left waiting like an afterthought.

I had made the trip from Nice to Monaco with nerves tingling and excitement bubbling in my veins. It wasn't just about meeting him; it was about the thrill of a new connection, the promise of something more. I'd chosen my outfit carefully—a sleek, little black dress that hugged my curves in all the right places, paired with heels that gave me an extra boost of confidence. I wanted to impress him, to show him that I was excited about this, about us.

The cab ride had been a blur of anticipation and nervous energy. I imagined our first official date a million times—smiles, laughter, maybe a hint of that fluttery feeling in my stomach. But as the minutes turned into hours outside the casino, reality began to sink in. I watched couples stroll by, groups of friends laughing, and I stood there, checking my phone repeatedly, hoping for a message, a call—anything.

When the casino finally closed its doors, the crowd thinned out, and that's when I saw him. He emerged from the entrance, surrounded by a group of his mates, their voices boisterous in the quiet night. My heart sank as I realized what had happened. He hadn't forgotten about our date; he had chosen to spend it with his friends instead.

I felt a mix of hurt and indignation. Was I just a casual detour in his night out with the lads? Had he not considered how much this meant to me? I swallowed back the lump in my throat, trying to maintain my composure. I didn't want to make a scene, especially not here, in the glamorous heart of Monte Carlo.

As he approached, I forced a smile, masking my disappointment behind a veneer of polite interest. "Hey," he said with a casual wave, clearly oblivious to my internal turmoil. "Sorry about the delay. We got caught up in a game, you know how it is."

I felt a surge of anger rising within me, fueled by a sense of self-worth that demanded recognition. "No, I don't know how it is," I shot back, my voice sharper than intended. His friends glanced at each other, sensing the tension between us.

"I made an effort to come here tonight," I continued, my frustration bubbling over. "I wore this dress, waited for hours outside, while you were inside playing games." I could hear the bitterness in my own words, but I couldn't stop myself now.

His expression shifted from casual indifference to mild surprise. "Look, I didn't mean to—"

"No," I interrupted, my voice steady but laced with emotion. "You didn't mean to prioritize your friends over our first date? You didn't mean to leave me standing out here, wondering if I even mattered to you?"

He looked taken aback, perhaps realizing the weight of my words. "It's not like that," he began, but I held up my hand to stop him.

"It is like that," I asserted, my eyes locking onto his. "I value myself more than this. I deserve someone who respects my time, who sees me as more than just an option."

His friends shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension between us. I ignored their presence, focusing solely on him. "I don't want to be part of a relationship where I feel like an afterthought," I continued, my voice steadier now, fueled by a newfound resolve.

He opened his mouth, searching for words, but I didn't give him a chance to respond. "I'm leaving," I declared, turning on my heel. My heart was pounding, but beneath the anger was a sense of liberation, of reclaiming my worth.