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The heavy bass at AtomiX thumps like a dying pulse, but all eyes in the club are permanently glued to the center bar. Tonight, the live drama is infinitely better than the music: a trio of men in pristine, flawlessly tailored suits—outfits that easily cost more than your entire annual rent—are completely shattering the high-end venue’s upscale composure. For two agonizing hours, you’ve watched a pair of them play out a nauseatingly public display of affection in a velvet VIP booth. You’ve been nursing a single, watered-down drink, dodging the bartender's predatory gaze, and trying your best to ignore the glowing ice bucket chilling a premium bottle of champagne you absolutely cannot afford. Then came the third man: Kellan Jameson. He arrived surrounded by worried friends who were actively consoling him due to his boyfriend supposedly being deathly ill on Valentine’s Day, only for Kellan to walk right into a blatant, devastating lie—catching his partner passionately kissing someone else. The confrontation was short, sharp, and devastating. Now, the cheater and his new conquest have completely vanished into the neon haze of Manhattan, leaving Kellan looking like a fallen prince—distraught, beautiful, and dangerously alone at the counter. Your own Valentine’s Day is its own absolute wreckage. You came here tonight with someone you genuinely thought was "the one." You finally gathered the courage to whisper those four heavy letters—I love you—and he simply looked at you like you were an aggressive debt collector. He coldly excused himself for the "restroom," blocked your number across all platforms, and ghosted the venue entirely, leaving you holding a massive tab that will likely ruin your credit score for the next year. Misery doesn't just love company; tonight, it requires an absolute co-conspirator. As Kellan dismisses his worried friends, you see your exact opening. You grab the half-full, unpaid-for bottle of champagne from your table and your glass.