I open my mouth to give him a sarcastic, witty comeback. Something sharp that proves I’m completely fine and not at all one bad inconvenience away from a mental breakdown. But the words die in my throat.
My chest physically aches. I spent four years building that firm. I picked out the tile for the lobby. I stayed up until 3:00 AM drafting proposals while Simon slept soundly in our bed. He didn’t just break my heart; he erased me.
“I want him to hurt,” I whisper. It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in days. The vulnerability tastes like ash, and I hate it immediately. I clear my throat, sitting up straighter and forcing a smirk. “But since I don’t have the budget for a hitman, I’m brainstorming. Currently, I’m torn between slashing his tires or anonymously sending a box of live termites to his new townhouse.”
The stranger reaches into his pocket and pulls out a heavy, silver lighter. He doesn’t light a cigarette—he just rolls the cool metal between his long fingers, the rhythmicclack-clacksound strangely hypnotic.
“Termites take too long,” he says, his voice deadpan. “Tires can be replaced in an hour. You’re thinking like an angry ex-girlfriend. You need to think like a hostile takeover.”
I let out a breath, resting my chin on my hand. “Okay, Mr. Problem Solver. What’s your professional advice? How do I ruin a man who already has everything?”
He stops spinning the lighter. He turns his body fully toward me, the sheer size of him making the space between our stools feel dangerously small. I catch the scent of cedar, expensive soap, and something cold.
“You don’t attack his assets,” he says quietly. “You attack his reputation. What does this parasite value most?”
“Other than himself?” I scoff. “His image. He’s obsessed with looking like the smartest guy in the room. He’s throwing a massive engagement party next month just to show off to his family. The Vances are basically local royalty, and Simon is desperate to prove he’s the golden boy.”
The stranger’s hand goes completely still on the bar.
It’s a microscopic shift, but I notice it. The relaxed, bored posture vanishes. His shoulders tense under the expensive wool of his suit.
“Simon,” he repeats. The name sounds different in his mouth. Heavier. Like a curse. “Simon Vance.”
“Yeah.” I wave my hand dismissively, missing the sudden drop in temperature in the man’s eyes. “You probably know the family if you run in circles that require suits like that. Old money. Big real estate developers. Massive egos.”
“I’m familiar with the name,” he says. His voice is quieter now. Lethal.
“Well, Simon is the worst of them,” I mutter, finishing my martini. “He’s planning this ridiculous, over-the-top wedding. He wants everything perfect. If I had the resources, I’d crash theengagement party and ruin his life right in front of his snobby, untouchable family. I’d make him look like an absolute fool.”
I sigh, the alcohol finally making my limbs feel heavy. I stare at the empty olive pit at the bottom of my glass.
“But I don’t have the resources,” I admit, the fight draining out of me. “I have seventy-four dollars in my checking account and a hangover that’s going to hit me like a freight train tomorrow. So, no hostile takeover for me. Just... me, trying to figure out how to start over at twenty-five.”
I grab my purse from the stool next to me, exhausted. The joke is over. The banter isn’t fun anymore, because the reality of my ruined life is waiting for me in my car.
“Anyway,” I say, forcing a polite smile at the stranger. “Thanks for the criminal consultation. I’ll keep the termite idea in the drafts.”
I stand up. The room tilts slightly, but I lock my knees, refusing to look pathetic in front of a man who clearly has his life entirely put together.
I reach into my wallet to pull out my last twenty-dollar bill to leave for the bartender, but a large, warm hand covers mine.
I freeze.
His skin is rougher than I expected. The heat of his palm radiates right through the thin fabric of my blazer. I look down at his hand, then slowly up to his face.
He’s looking at me with an expression I can’t decipher. It’s not pity. It’s not amusement. It looks like... calculation. Like he’s staring at a chessboard and just saw the winning move.
“Keep your money, Audrey,” he says softly.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs. I drop my hand, taking a half-step back. My heart gives a hard, erratic thump against my ribs.
“How do you know my name?” I ask, the alcohol haze vanishing instantly, replaced by a spike of cold adrenaline. “I didn’t tell you my name.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He calmly signals the bartender, drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, and picks up his silver lighter, sliding it back into the pocket of his trousers.
He stands up.
He’s much taller than I realized. I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He steps into my space, not enough to touch me, but enough to make my body hyper-aware that I am entirely trapped between him and the bar.
