“What’s so funny?” she asked, that challenge sparking again in her eyes.
“Didn’t expect you to have bite.” I took my own shot, slow and deliberate, letting the burn remind me this wasn’t a dream.
“Don’t mistake this for bravery.” Her voice was sharp, cocky. “It’s just whiskey.”
I liked that. A little heat. A little edge.
“So tell me, princess—why the hell are you with a guy like him?”
The shift in her was immediate—like I’d punched the breath out of her. Her spine went rigid. Her expression iced over.
“Why do you care?”
I stepped in, slow but deliberate. Closing the distance like a predator.
“Because I know his type.” My voice turned to steel. “And I fucking hate guys like him.”
That made her blink. She wasn’t expecting honesty.
Wasn’t expecting me.
“Why?” she asked, the disbelief creeping into her tone.
“Because they don’t see past their bullshit.” I said it slow, sharp. Like every word mattered. “They see a prop. Something to stand next to in a photo op. Smile, princess. Don’t speak. Don’t think. Don’t bleed.”
For a beat, she froze.
That was the crack in the mask I’d been waiting for.
“I’m not some trophy,” she bit out. But her voice faltered just enough for me to hear the lie underneath.
I tilted my head, voice dark and cutting. “No? Then what the hell are you doing here?”
The question landed like a blade between us.
She didn’t answer. Not right away.
But her silence? That was loud as hell.
Because we both knew—she didn’t come here by accident.
And I wasn’t letting her leave untouched.
She took a breath like she was bracing for a hit, then looked me straight in the eye. “What’s your deal? Why do people hate you?”
I snorted, arms crossing as I leaned back against the bar. “Because I don’t kiss ass. And I don’t pretend to be something I’m not just to make weak people feel comfortable.”
I let the silence stretch. Let her feel how unapologetic that truth was.
She tilted her head, watching me like she was looking through me.
“That’s not really an answer.”
My lip curled. Of course it wasn’t. That was the point.
But the look in her eyes? It wasn’t disgust. Or fear.
It was curiosity. Dangerous, stupid curiosity.
