Adam Smith (POV)
Today, I came here for a meeting.
Yes—a meeting.
Not the kind you'd expect to happen inside a dimly lit club with music vibrating through the walls and glasses clinking endlessly, but business doesn't always wear a suit and tie. My partner insisted. He said deals are easier when the atmosphere is loose, when people are relaxed enough to be honest. I didn't argue. I rarely do when it comes to him.
So here we were, sitting at the bar, drinks in hand, numbers and future plans floating between us like background noise. The deal was finalized faster than expected, and just when I thought the night was settling into something predictable, his phone rang. One glance at the screen and I knew—urgent.
"I'll make it up to you," he said, already standing. "Don't leave yet. Enjoy."
And just like that, I was alone.
I ordered one last shot. Just one. I'm not the type to overdrink. I prefer control—over my mind, my surroundings, myself. As I lifted the glass, my eyes wandered, unintentionally at first, until they stopped.
A lonely figure sat in the corner.
She was drinking. A lot. I didn't need to count the empty glasses on her table to know that. But it wasn't the alcohol that drew attention—it was her posture. There was something about the way she sat, shoulders slightly slumped yet spine straight, as if she was holding herself together through sheer will. It was a contradiction. Fragile, yet strong.
People noticed her. I noticed them noticing her.
And then there was me.
I don't usually look twice. Women usually try to catch my attention, not the other way around. I'm used to it—the glances, the calculated smiles, the intentional brushes past my arm. But this was different. She wasn't trying to be seen. She was trying to disappear.
Before I realized it, I was standing behind her.
I don't know how long I stood there, trying to figure out what to say. Or if I should say anything at all. Maybe I was waiting for a sign. Maybe I was just curious.
Then she turned.
And the world shifted.
Her eyes were green—deep, vivid, and painfully honest. Not the kind of green you admire casually. The kind that pulls you in, demands your attention, and refuses to let go. There was remorse in them. Pain. Something broken that hadn't healed yet. I was awestruck, not by her beauty alone, but by the story her eyes told without saying a word.
We stared at each other.
Too long.
Long enough to make the moment heavy.
It felt like she was trying to read me, searching my eyes the same way I was lost in hers. Something about that mutual curiosity unsettled me—in a good way. I broke the eye contact first. I had to.
I cleared my throat. "Do you… need any help?"
She didn't respond.
Not because she didn't hear me, but because she wasn't really there. Her body was present, but her mind was somewhere far away—somewhere darker. She murmured something under her breath, almost like she forgot I was standing there.
"It's a sin to be this handsome," she said quietly.
I blinked.
It wasn't the compliment that caught me off guard. It was the way she said it—soft, unguarded, almost innocent. It melted something inside me. I smiled before I could stop myself. She was cute. Effortlessly so. And when she smiled back—brief, hesitant—it felt like something rare, something people search their entire lives for.
Then she reached for another drink.
I didn't like that.
Not because I wanted control over her choices, but because it felt like she was drowning herself on purpose. And worse—she was ignoring me. That bothered me more than I expected.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" I asked, nodding toward the stool beside her.
No answer.
She lifted the glass again.
That's when she suddenly turned toward me, eyes sharp this time, walls slamming back into place. "Do you want me to be humiliated in front of everyone again?" she asked.
The words hit me like a punch.
My heart dropped.
Who did this to her?
Who made her expect cruelty from a stranger offering company?
"I would never," I said immediately. My voice was firm, sincere. "Never."
She studied my face, searching for something—lies, mockery, amusement. Whatever she was looking for, I hoped she wouldn't find it. Her gaze softened slightly.
"Can I trust you?" she asked.
That question wasn't casual. It carried weight. Pain. History.
I didn't answer right away. Trust isn't something you demand—it's something you earn. But in that moment, I knew one thing clearly: I would never be the reason her eyes darkened again.
"Yes," I said quietly. "You can."
She exhaled, like she had been holding her breath for hours. Then she finally looked away, resting her elbows on the table. "I don't even know why I'm here," she whispered. "I don't usually drink."
"Bad day?" I asked gently.
She laughed—bitter, broken. "You could say that."
We sat there in silence for a while. Not the awkward kind. The kind where words aren't necessary yet. I ordered water and slid it toward her. She looked at it, then at me, surprised.
"Just… balance," I said.
She nodded and took a sip.
For the first time since I noticed her, she looked calmer.
And that's when I realized something unsettling.
I wanted to stay.
I wanted to listen. To protect. To understand.
I didn't know her name. I didn't know her story. But somehow, standing there with a girl who trusted no one, I felt trusted.
And that meant everything.