The soft chime above the door announced her entrance.
Ava stepped into the bar, the warmth and dim lighting washing over her like a blanket, though nothing could soothe the cold ache in her chest. She took a glance around, surprised to find it almost empty.
Just soft jazz humming from overhead speakers, golden light reflecting off shelves of expensive liquor, and the polished floor glistening beneath her shoes.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Thank God,” she murmured under her breath. “At least the universe knows I need to be alone tonight.”
She didn’t notice the man sitting at the far edge of the bar, cloaked in shadows like part of the furniture. His posture was still, a glass of something dark and expensive in his hand, and his gaze fixed squarely on her from the moment she stepped inside.
But Ava, lost in her misery, walked straight ahead, choosing a stool at the center of the bar.
The bartender, a tall man with slicked-back hair and a crisp black vest, offered her a polite nod as she slid onto the leather seat.
“Can I get you something, miss?” he asked gently.
Ava paused, biting her bottom lip as her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the bar. “Something strong,” she said. “Red. Doesn’t matter what.”
The bartender studied her for a second longer than necessary, but didn’t push. He turned, selected a dark bottle from the top shelf, uncorked it, and poured the rich wine into a crystal glass filled with ice cubes.
He set it down in front of her with a quiet clink.
“Enjoy,” he said before stepping away.
Ava picked up the glass with both hands, her fingers trembling slightly. She brought it to her lips and drank not a sip, but a gulp that burned its way down her throat and settled like fire in her chest.
The man in the shadows, Damien Valen, watched her with calculating eyes.
He took a slow sip of his drink, a half-filled tumbler of bourbon, his sharp jaw tightening slightly with each move she made.
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t see him.
She was too busy unraveling.
The second glass went down faster than the first. Her hand moved to pour more.
Her head bowed, and her shoulders sagged as if the weight of her world had finally dropped down on her all at once.
Then the tears came.
Quiet at first. A single trail down her cheek.
She didn’t sob. Didn’t make a sound. But the pain on her face, the hollowed eyes, the clenched jaw, the way her lips trembled told a story that didn’t need words.
She wiped her cheek roughly, annoyed that the tears were betraying her, that her sorrow dared to show itself in public.
But she kept drinking.
And Damien kept watching.
Not with pity.
With interest.
Because of something about the way she looked, the rawness in her pain, the fight in her posture, even as she crumbled, pulled at something he couldn’t quite explain.
This wasn’t the kind of woman he was used to seeing. And certainly not the type who belonged in his world.
Yet, here she was.
And he couldn’t look away.
Ava reached for the bottle again, her movements slightly slower now, her vision swimming just a little more than before. She poured herself a third glass, sloshing some of the wine over the rim.
She didn’t care.
Another drink.
Another attempt to numb the pain.
But just as she lifted the glass to her lips, a hand reached from the side and plucked it from her grasp.
She blinked in disbelief.
“What the fuck?” Her voice was sharp, slurred just slightly. She turned, ready to curse out whoever dared touch her drink.
And there he was.
Tall. Imposing. Dressed in a tailored black suit that clung to broad shoulders and an unforgiving physique. His dark hair was neatly styled, but there was something about his presence still, calculated, utterly unreadable that made him feel dangerous.
His expression was unreadable. Not cold exactly, but neutral. Controlled. The kind of face that didn’t offer emotion unless it was intentional.
Ava narrowed her eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You’ve had enough,” he said simply, his voice deep and smooth, like aged whiskey.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” She stood up from her stool abruptly, stumbling just a little. “Give it back.”
He didn’t move. Just held the glass away from her reach and studied her like she was a puzzle he was starting to piece together.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
“No shit, Sherlock.” She crossed her arms, fire flashing in her teary eyes. “That was the point.”
His brows lifted slightly, amused by her boldness, but his expression didn’t change. “You’re going to wake up tomorrow with regret and a hangover. I’m just saving you one of those.”
“I didn’t ask you to save me!” Her voice cracked, and her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m going through.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I’ve seen enough people drink to forget. It doesn’t work.”
She glared at him, tears starting to pool again. “Then maybe I don’t want to forget. Maybe I just want the pain to be loud enough to drown everything else.”
There it was. Raw. Honest. Ugly.
He said nothing, just stood there, glass still in hand, looking at her like she was something intriguing he hadn’t expected to find tonight.
Ava laughed bitterly, brushing a hand across her cheek. “You’re just another arrogant man trying to control what doesn’t concern him. So, congratulations, you’ve made it on my list of people I can’t stand.”
“Good,” Damien said coolly. “That usually means I’ve made an impression.”
Ava stared at him, stunned into silence.
Who the hell was this man?
He turned slightly and placed her glass on the counter beside them. “I’m not here to fight with you. But maybe you should stop fighting yourself.”
Her mouth opened, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but nothing came out. Because for the first time that night, she didn’t know what to say.
She sank back onto the bar stool slowly, and he didn’t walk away.
Instead, he gestured to the bartender. “Water For her.”
The bartender nodded without a word.
Ava looked at Damien again, tired and too broken to argue anymore. “Why do you care?”
His dark eyes locked with hers. “I don’t.”
And somehow… that stung more than if he’d said he did.
Ava barely touched the water.
She just sat there, staring at the melting ice in her untouched wine glass, eyes glazed over, mind elsewhere, maybe in the past, maybe just trying to escape the pain that clung to her like a second skin.
Damien stayed near.
Not hovering. Just watching. Measuring.
She tried to stand again, maybe to leave, maybe to run. But the moment her legs straightened beneath her, her knees buckled slightly, and she swayed.
Damien was at her side in a second.
Ava slapped a hand against his chest, weakly pushing. “Don’t touch me,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper now.
“You’re not making it home in this condition,” he said. “And I’m not letting you pass out in a bar.”
“I don’t need your help…”
He didn’t answer. Just took her arm carefully, firm but not forceful, and draped it over his.
She tried to resist, but her body had other plans.
The last thing she remembered clearly was the scent of his clean, dark, expensive cologne and the steady rhythm of his breath as he led her outside into the cool night air.
Everything blurred after that.
The car ride.
The hotel lobby.
The elevator ding.
She stumbled against him, and he caught her with the reflexes of someone who didn’t make mistakes.