Most of the people here were drunk by now, their laughter and shouts growing louder with every passing minute. Even Isabella, though not visibly tipsy, had the unmistakable glow of someone fully immersed in the party's energy. I envied her ability to thrive in this chaos. Meanwhile, I was counting down the minutes until I could slip out unnoticed.

But, of course, fate—and Isabella—had other plans.

"Amber!" Her voice cut through the dance floor like a fire alarm, and I froze. Turning, I saw her weaving through the crowd, her blonde hair bouncing as she made her way toward me. She was grinning, cheeks flushed from either the warmth of the party or her own excitement.

"Oh no," I muttered under my breath, already dreading whatever she was about to say.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, grabbing my arm like she'd just discovered buried treasure. "Come on, we're playing spin the bottle!"

I stared at her, my stomach flipping at the very idea. "What? No. Absolutely not."

"Yes!" she insisted, her grip on my arm tightening. "This is your chance to let loose."

"Let loose?" I echoed, incredulous. "Izzy, this is my worst nightmare. Sitting in a circle, kissing strangers while everyone watches? No thank you."

"Amber," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "most of them are too drunk to even remember it tomorrow. Besides, you might actually have fun. You trust me, right?"

I gave her a long, skeptical look. "You've given me absolutely no reason to trust you right now."

She laughed, undeterred, and started pulling me toward the living room. "Trust me anyway."

The living room felt like it had shrunk. The group was packed tightly, the energy buzzing with a mix of drunken laughter and anticipation. Most of the circle was loud and tipsy, leaning on one another as they giggled and whispered. I glanced around, searching for a corner where I could sit unnoticed, but my heart sank when I spotted Bryan.

He was lounging on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, one arm draped over the backrest like he owned the place. He wasn't holding a drink, and the steady, calculating look in his dark eyes told me he was far more sober than most of the people here. His black T-shirt clung to his broad chest, the tattoos on his arms visible under the dim lights. He looked relaxed, almost bored, but when his gaze flicked to me, something sharp and amused sparked in his expression.

"Amber, sit!" Isabella urged, pushing me down beside her.

I folded myself into the smallest space possible, crossing my legs and wishing I could melt into the floor. My palms were already clammy, and the idea of spinning that stupid bottle made my stomach churn. This was my worst nightmare—being the center of attention, forced into awkward situations while everyone watched. The noise, the laughter, the heat of too many bodies—it was all too much.

The game began, the bottle spinning wildly as the group cheered and shouted encouragement. The first kiss was clumsy and awkward, the pair laughing as they pulled apart. The second was bold, the couple leaning into it with exaggerated flair, earning a roar of approval. I tried to disappear into the carpet, my heart pounding with every spin.

The bottle landed on Isabella at one point, and she played it up for the crowd, planting a dramatic kiss on Blake's cheek. He chuckled, his easy smile making it clear he was used to her antics. The circle loved it, clapping and shouting for more.

But then, inevitably, it was my turn.

"Amber!" someone called, shoving the bottle toward me.

My stomach dropped. "No, no, no, no," I mumbled, but Isabella nudged me, her grin wide and mischievous.

"Come on, rules are rules!" she teased.

With trembling hands, I reached for the bottle and spun it. The room blurred as it spun, and I silently prayed for it to land on someone—anyone—harmless.

It slowed, then stopped, pointing directly at Wes.

Relief flooded me, though my nerves didn't entirely dissipate. Wes gave me a friendly smile and leaned in. "Don't worry, we'll keep it PG."

I nodded, meeting him halfway. The kiss was brief and awkward, more like a friendly bump than anything remotely romantic. Still, the circle cheered, and my cheeks burned as I quickly leaned back, wishing I could disappear.

I dared a glance at Bryan. He was watching, his expression unreadable, though something in his eyes made my stomach twist. Was he annoyed? Amused? I couldn't tell, and it only made me more nervous.

The game continued, and I tried to focus on anything but Bryan. When it was his turn to spin, the bottle landed on a girl with curly hair sitting next to him. She blushed as he leaned closer, his movements deliberate and confident. The kiss was smooth—too smooth—and the group erupted in cheers. The girl giggled, clearly flustered, and Bryan leaned back with that infuriating smirk.

I told myself I didn't care. But the knot in my chest said otherwise.

My turn came again too quickly. I spun the bottle, my hands trembling, and watched in horror as it slowed, its neck pointing directly at Bryan.

The room was alive with energy—cheers, whistles, and laughter reverberating off the walls. But for me, everything else had fallen away. All I could focus on was Bryan, sitting across from me, leaning forward with that insufferable smirk that made my blood boil.

His dark eyes glinted under the dim lights, steady and unrelenting as they held mine. The cheers around us might as well have been white noise. My stomach twisted, half from embarrassment and half from sheer frustration. Of all people, it had to be him.

"Well, Ballerina," he said, his voice low and laced with condescension. "¿Qué pasó? Are you going to sit there looking terrified all night, or are you actually going to follow through?"

I narrowed my eyes, heat rising to my cheeks. "I'm not terrified," I shot back.

"Sure, you're not," he replied, his smirk deepening. "But we're all waiting. Unless, of course, you're going to back out. That wouldn't surprise me."

The group laughed at his words, and I clenched my fists, my pride stinging under the weight of his taunts. "I'm not backing out."

"Then, ¿qué esperas?" His words were smooth, deliberate, and maddeningly calm. "I'm right here."

The challenge in his tone sent a fresh wave of irritation coursing through me, but it wasn't just anger. It was something heavier, hotter, that made my pulse quicken in a way I didn't want to acknowledge.

"You're so full of yourself," I muttered, leaning forward just enough to match his posture.

"And you're stalling," he countered, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I can wait all night, princesa, but can you?"

The nickname felt like a deliberate jab, his tone dripping with mockery. My skin prickled, and I knew he could see my hesitation, my nerves. I hated him for it—for seeing through me, for always knowing exactly how to get under my skin.

The noise around us seemed to swell as the group cheered again, urging me on. I could feel everyone's eyes on us, the weight of their attention pressing down like a spotlight. Bryan's gaze didn't waver, his confidence infuriatingly steady. He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a smirk that sent my irritation skyrocketing.

"Dímelo," he said softly, his voice carrying just enough edge to cut through the noise. "What's stopping you, Amber? Or are you scared I'll be better at this too?"

That was the final straw. I wasn't about to let him win, not here, not like this. Without thinking, I surged forward, closing the distance between us.

The moment our lips met, the world seemed to tilt. It wasn't a tentative kiss—it was intense, electric, the kind of kiss that demanded attention. His hand came up to cup my jaw, steadying me, and his touch sent a jolt through my entire body. It was maddening, infuriating, and utterly consuming.

Bryan didn't kiss like someone playing a game. He kissed like someone who wanted to prove a point. His lips were firm, warm, and relentless, moving against mine with a confidence that left no room for hesitation. It was a challenge, a battle, and I hated how easily my body responded, how quickly the rest of the room faded into nothing.

I pressed back with just as much intensity, refusing to let him have the upper hand. My fingers curled into the fabric of my skirt as I leaned closer, every nerve in my body alive with frustration and something else—something I didn't want to name.

His thumb brushed lightly along my jawline, a subtle movement that sent a shiver down my spine. I could feel the faint scrape of his stubble against my skin, the way his lips curved slightly into a smirk even as we kissed. It infuriated me, but it also pulled me deeper, igniting a fire I couldn't control.

The cheers and whistles from the group barely registered, muffled by the pounding of my heart. Bryan tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and for a moment, I forgot why I hated him. All I could feel was the heat, the intensity, the way he kissed me like he wanted to leave a mark.

When I finally pulled back, my breath came in shallow gasps, my chest rising and falling as I tried to steady myself. The circle erupted into applause and laughter, but all I could see was Bryan, his dark eyes locked onto mine. His smirk was back, but there was something else in his expression now—something quieter, more dangerous.

"Not bad, Ballerina," he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "Maybe you're not as shy as I thought."

I scowled, my cheeks burning. " I hate you."

"And yet," he said, his smirk widening, "you kissed me anyway."

My jaw tightened, and I stood abruptly, ignoring the way my legs wobbled slightly. "I need air," I muttered, pushing past Isabella and ignoring her teasing grin.

As I escaped to the kitchen, my mind raced, replaying the kiss over and over. My lips still tingled, and my pulse was still racing, but more than anything, I was furious—with him, with myself, with whatever had just happened.

—----

As I leaned against the counter, sipping my sparkling water, I allowed myself a moment of quiet. The chaos of the party hummed in the background, muffled by the chatter and the occasional bursts of laughter from the living room. My legs still buzzed from dancing, and for the first time all evening, I felt like I could breathe.

Of course, that peace didn't last.

I heard the sharp sound of footsteps behind me, a heavy presence entering the kitchen, and before I even turned around, I knew who it was. His voice, low and deliberate, confirmed it.

"Are you avoiding me, Ballerina?"

I stiffened and turned slowly, clutching the can in my hand like it was a lifeline. Bryan leaned casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. The tattoos that snaked along his tanned skin seemed even more pronounced in the dim light. His dark eyes, always so frustratingly intense, locked onto mine with a mixture of amusement and something else I couldn't place.

"I'm not avoiding you," I said, keeping my tone even. "I'm just... staying hydrated."

"Uh-huh." His lips twitched into that infuriating smirk, the one that made my pulse spike for all the wrong reasons. He stepped closer, and suddenly the kitchen felt smaller, the air heavier. "Funny, because every time I'm in the same room as you, you disappear."

"Maybe I'm allergic to arrogance," I shot back, taking another sip of my drink to mask my unease.

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound curling around me in a way I hated. "Ouch. And here I thought we were bonding after that kiss."

Heat flared in my cheeks. "That wasn't bonding. That was a stupid game."

"Oh, claro," he said, slipping into Spanish with ease. "Just a game. And yet, you're still thinking about it."

I blinked, caught off guard. "I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," he interrupted, stepping closer. He placed a hand on the counter beside me, leaning in just enough to make my heart race. "You're thinking about it right now, aren't you?"

"No," I said quickly, though my voice wavered. "You're just imagining things, as usual."

He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. "You know, you're even more fun when you're lying."

"Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?" I snapped, hoping to derail the conversation.

"Do you?" he countered smoothly, his smirk widening. "Because every time we argue, I swear you talk just as much as I do."

I opened my mouth to retort, but his words hit too close to home. He wasn't entirely wrong—our arguments were always fiery, sharp, and way too frequent. They felt like matches struck against dry kindling, ready to ignite at the slightest provocation. And yet, I couldn't stop myself from engaging, even now.

The tension between us thickened, crackling in the air like a live wire. I hated him. Hated the way he got under my skin, the way he always seemed to have the upper hand. But more than anything, I hated the way he looked at me now, like he saw something I didn't want him to see.

"You're impossible," I muttered, shoving past him in an attempt to escape the suffocating intensity of the moment.

But he didn't let me go so easily.

"Impossible, huh?" he said, his voice trailing behind me as I reached the doorway. "Funny, because you seemed pretty willing earlier."

I stopped dead in my tracks, the memory of our kiss flashing through my mind. I turned slowly, my fists clenched at my sides. "You think you're so clever, don't you?"

"Soy inteligente," he replied, the Spanish rolling off his tongue like silk. "And I know exactly how to get under your skin."

"Congratulations," I snapped, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're officially the most infuriating person I've ever met."

"And yet," he said, stepping closer again, his voice softer now, more measured, "you're still standing here. Still arguing with me. Why is that, Amber?"

I hated the way my name sounded when he said it, hated the way it sent a shiver down my spine despite the heat rising in my cheeks. I opened my mouth to fire back, but no words came out. His smirk deepened, and I could see the triumph in his eyes.

"Just admit it," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "You don't hate me as much as you want to."

"Get over yourself," I shot back, finally finding my voice. But even as I said it, I couldn't deny the truth in his words—not entirely.

He leaned in slightly, his dark eyes boring into mine. "You first."

I sucked in a sharp breath, stepping back until I hit the counter. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating, and yet I couldn't bring myself to leave. My heart hammered in my chest as the silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words and undeniable tension.

"I don't have time for this," I muttered, brushing past him and making a beeline for the door. But even as I escaped, his voice followed me, low and taunting.

"Sure you don't, Ballerina. Keep telling yourself that."

---------------

💌 Thank You for Reading Chapter Twenty! 💌

Wow, we've made it to Chapter Twenty, and I couldn't be more grateful for your support along the way. Writing The Bad Boy's Ballerina has been such an incredible journey, and it's all thanks to amazing readers like you.

Your reactions, comments, and love for this story truly inspire me to keep going. I can't wait to hear what you think as the story unfolds even further.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being a part of this journey. You make it all so special! 💕✨