“That’s right.”
I turned fully toward him then, resting my elbow on the bar, offering a small, tired smile that didn’t reach my eyes. The kind of smile born from exhaustion rather than humor. “So,” I asked quietly, “still want to be my knight in shining armor?”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he slowly set his glass down, the faint clink echoing louder than it should have. His gaze flicked around the room—at the exits, the shadows, the corners where danger might hide.
When he looked back at me, the flirtation was gone. Replaced by something like fear. And something like respect.
“I think,” he said carefully, “I just realized I’ve been sitting next to a storm... and mistaking it for rain.”
I let out a soft, bitter laugh.
“Welcome to my life.”
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as his gaze darted around the room again—toward the shadowed corners, the darkened hallway near the restrooms, the reflective glass behind the bar—as if armed men might materialize out of smoke and music at any second.
“Uh... I just remembered,” he stammered, already sliding off the stool. His voice cracked into something thin and nervous. “I’ve got something... important. Really important.”
He stood so quickly his knee struck the bar, the half-full glass wobbling dangerously before settling. He didn’t even notice.
“Later, Elena,” he said, backing away now, palms lifted in a gesture that was half apology, half surrender. “Take care.”
Then he turned and nearly jogged toward the exit, shoulders hunched, head down, disappearing into the night as if the club itself had become hostile territory.
I watched him go without blinking.
A hollow laugh slipped out of me—soft, fractured, stripped of humor. The sound surprised even me. It echoed somewhere deep in my chest, ricocheting off all the empty places inside.
For weeks, I’d let him believe I was just another lonely woman with a wedding ring that felt more like a shackle than a promise. Another sad story soaking into a barstool. The moment I said the name, the illusion shattered. No flirtation survived reality when reality wore Ruslan Baranov’s face.
The bartender leaned closer, concern etching faint lines around his eyes. He’d been watching me night after night, memorizing my patterns the way bartenders do when they know a customer is unraveling.
“Another one, Ms. Elena?” he asked gently.
I shook my head, my throat too tight for words. Then, after a beat, “Just... hand me the bottle.”
His brows lifted. “Ma’am—”
I didn’t wait for permission. I reached across the bar, fingers closing around the neck of the Macallan before he could pull it back. The glass was cool against my palm, solid, real.
I slid off the stool, heels clicking once against the floor before I kicked them off and carried the bottle toward the small dance floor tucked near the back of the club.
The band had shifted gears. The tempo slowed. The saxophone dipped into something lower, heavier—music that curled around the ribs and squeezed.
Smoke hung thicker here, lights dimmer, bodies blurred into silhouettes swaying together.
I didn’t care that I was alone.
I didn’t care that people stared, their eyes lingering too long, curiosity flickering as they tried to place me.
I closed my eyes.
I let the music pour into me, seep into the cracks, and I began to move.
Slow at first. A sway of hips. A roll of shoulders.
Then looser. Wilder. As if motion itself could purge me—shake loose the grief, the rage, the yearning lodged beneath my sternum.
