My vision blurred.
Christ. I was crying in a bar, watching my boss fall apart and be caught, and I couldn’t look away.
Because she’d done it. She’d surrendered control and he’d been there, exactly like she’d hoped. Like she’d trusted he would be. When was the last time I’d trusted anyone like that? When was the last time I’d let myself want something I couldn’t manage, or plan, or control?
The final chords faded. Applause echoed around me, but it felt distant. I leaned against the wall, farther into the shadows, grateful to be the man behind-the-scenes, invisible to everyone else.
Until I felt eyes on me. I'd been invisible to everyoneexceptHannah, watching from behind the bar.
Hannah
WhenIagreedtocome in early, I had no idea that I would watch Victoria Blackstone swan dive without a parachute, trusting a net would appear.
Then a guy with a man-bun and tattoos climbed up the steps, mouthing ‘I love you’ as she sobbed into the mic. He crossed the stage, cupped her face, kissed her forehead with a tenderness that made my knees go weak.
I leaned hard against the bar, forgetting every drink order on the rail.
My ex Sebastian used to talk about Victoria Blackstone like she was the template for corporate feminine perfection, flawless and untouchable.Why can’t you be more like Victoria Blackstone?he’d ask when I got emotional about work, when I cried after the partners ignored my reports, when I couldn’t just move on like nothing mattered.
Sebastian never would’ve risked looking foolish for love. Hell, when I told him I was moving out, he’d said, “You’re throwing away the best thing you’ve ever had.”
He never asked me to stay. Never apologized.
And here was the woman Sebastian held up as the ideal,choosingto break. Trusting she would be caught so publicly, so gently.
What would it be like to be loved like that?
The final chords faded out, meeting reverent applause. Victoria and Cruz slipped off the stage in a quiet tangle of soft smiles and whispered promises.
I exhaled, gripping the bar, and caught movement at the other end.
Connor standing still in the chaos, eyes fixed on the stage, jaw tight. A silent wipe beneath one eye.
And when he caught me watching him, he blinked like he’d been underwater.
We stared at each other, like we were the only two people in the bar who understood what we’d just witnessed.
I set a clean napkin on the bar, close enough for him to take but far enough not to assume.
He looked down, nodded once, took the napkin and blotted his glassy eyes.
I quickly mixed a drink and placed it in front of him. He didn’t smile, but one corner of his mouth tugged up like he wanted to.
Then he took a sip, and let out a breath like it unraveled something in his chest.
I leaned on the bar. “Must be weird, seeing her let her guard down.”
He looked down at the glass, thumb brushing the condensation. “She’s had a hell of a year. We both have.”
I paused. Did he want me to ask? Was this one of those 'unload your problems on the bartender' situations?
“Connor!” Victoria yelled from a table near the stage, waving him over.
He lifted the glass in gratitude and crossed the room. Cruz slapped him on the back and Victoria threw her arms around hisshoulders, pulling him tight. When she released him, she took a sip of his drink and sighed in appreciation. The happy couple left, and Connor sat at the table with their other friends—two women and a man.
Then someone hollered for a beer and I focused on work. Drink orders flew in from all sides, beer taps hissed, wine bottles clanged. The customers returned to their half-hearted debates and half-eaten wings.
The constant motion was a balm on my nerves. Here, nobody was questioning my life decisions or value to the company. Nobody cared who I was as long as I could mix a mojito. I reveled in the constant demand, shrouded by anonymity.
