Sophia's POV
The bar smelled like cheap beer and broken dreams.
Perfect.
I pushed through the door, my white engagement gown attracting stares from the handful of people scattered around. A woman in the corner raised her eyebrows. Two men at the pool table stopped mid-game to watch me stumble toward the bar.
I didn't care. Let them stare. At least they weren't posting it online.
Whiskey, I told the bartender. Straight. The strongest you have.
He glanced at my dress, then at my tear-stained face. Rough night?
You have no idea. I pulled out my credit card—one of the few things Marcus's family couldn't take from me. Yet.
The bartender poured three fingers of amber liquid into a glass and slid it across. First one's on the house. You look like you need it.
I did. God, I did.
The whiskey burned going down, but it was good burn. Real burn. Not the fake smiles and fake love that had burned me from the inside out for the past year.
A year. Marcus had been sleeping with Vanessa for a whole year while telling me he loved me. While planning our wedding. While I'd stupidly believed I was building a future.
Another, I said, pushing the glass forward.
The bartender refilled it without comment.
My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out and immediately regretted it.
Forty-three missed calls from Maya. Twenty-seven texts. And the notifications just kept coming—mentions, tags, shares of the video where Marcus destroyed my life in front of two hundred people.
Someone had made it into a meme. My face, frozen in shock, with the caption: When you realize you're the side chick at your own engagement party.
I downed the second whiskey and ordered a third
Easy there, the bartender warned. That stuff'll knock you on your
I know what I'm doing. I didn't, but I also didn't care.
The third drink went down smoother. Or maybe I was just getting numb.
My phone lit up with a call from a number I didn't recognize. I answered without thinking.
Sophia Chen? A woman's voice, professional and cold.
Yes?
This is Rebecca Sutton from Chen Industries HR. I'm calling to inform you that your employment has been terminated effective immediately. Your security access has been revoked and your company email deleted. You'll receive your final paycheck minus
I hung up.
They'd fired me. My own father's company had fired me.
The fourth whiskey appeared in front of me like magic. I stared at it, watching the amber liquid catch the dim bar light.
You planning to drink yourself to death, or just close enough?
The voice came from my left, smooth, dark, masculine. I turned.
The stranger from outside sat two seats down, nursing what looked like very expensive scotch in a very cheap bar. He was even more devastating up close. Sharp jaw. Darker than midnight hair. And eyes—gray eyes that seemed to see straight through all my walls.
Depends, I said. Is death an option? Because it's looking pretty good right now.
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Fair enough.
We sat in silence for a moment. I drank. He drank. The bartender wisely left us alone.
Let me guess, the stranger said finally. Man trouble?
I laughed, sharp and bitter. Man trouble. That's one way to put it. I took another sip. My fiancé announced at our engagement party that he's in love with my stepsister. Turns out they've been sleeping together for a year. Also, our entire relationship was fake—arranged by our fathers for business. Oh, and I just got fired from my own father's company via phone call.
I expected pity. Or awkward silence. Or the usual 'I'm sorry' that people gave when they didn't know what else to say.
Instead, he raised his glass. To terrible nights and worse decisions.
Something about the way he said it—like he understood, like he'd been there too—made me raise my glass and clink it against his.
Worst night of my life, I admitted.
Good. That makes two of us.
We drank together.
So what's your excuse? I asked. Why's a guy in a suit that costs more than my rent drinking alone in a dive bar?
His gray eyes went cold. Because sometimes expensive scotch in cheap bars is exactly what you need to forget the things you can't change.
Cryptic. But I got it. Some pain was too big for fancy restaurants and polite conversation.
No names? I suggested. No life stories? Just two strangers having the worst night ever?
He considered this, then nodded. No names.
Perfect.
We ordered another round. Then another. Somewhere around drink five, I started feeling pleasantly detached from my body. The humiliation felt distant. The betrayal fuzzy.
You know what the worst part is? I said, words slurring slightly. I was so good. I followed every rule. Did everything right. Perfect daughter, perfect fiancée, perfect employee. And it didn't matter. They threw me away anyway.
Then stop being perfect, he said simply. Perfect is boring. Perfect is controllable. Be unpredictable instead.
Unpredictable, I repeated, testing the word. I'd never been unpredictable in my life.
His eyes met mine, and heat sparked between us—sudden and electric.
When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to? he asked. Not because it was right or proper or expected. Just because it felt good?
Never. The answer was never.
I'd spent twenty-seven years being the good daughter. The responsible one. The perfect girl who made everyone proud.
And where had it gotten me? Humiliated, jobless, and drinking whiskey in a wedding dress.
Tonight, I heard myself say. Tonight I do what I want.
The stranger's smile was slow and dangerous. And what do you want?
I should want to go home. Should want to call Maya and cry and process this like a mature adult.
But I was so tired of should.
I looked at this beautiful, broken stranger who understood darkness, who didn't pity me, who looked at me like I was interesting instead of pathetic.
I want to forget, I said honestly. Just for tonight. I want to forget everything and feel something other than broken.
He stood and held out his hand. Then let's get out of here.
Every rational part of my brain screamed warnings. I didn't know this man. Didn't know his name. Going home with a stranger was reckless and stupid and dangerous.
But reckless felt good. Stupid felt like freedom. And dangerous felt like exactly what I needed.
I placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine, strong and sure, and electricity shot up my arm.
We left the bar together, stepping into the cold November night. His hand stayed in mine as we walked. I should ask where we were going. Should establish boundaries. Should—
No regrets, he said, as if reading my mind. Whatever happens tonight, no regrets tomorrow.
No regrets, I agreed.
He hailed a cab with one gesture. We slid into the backseat, and he gave an address I didn't recognize.
As the cab pulled away, I caught my reflection in the window—mascara-stained, wedding dress wrinkled, hair a mess.
I looked like a disaster.
For the first time all night, I smiled.
The stranger's thumb traced circles on my palm, sending heat through my entire body. When I met his eyes, the hunger there nearly stopped my heart.
Last chance to change your mind, he said quietly.
I leaned closer, close enough to smell expensive cologne and whiskey. I don't want to change my mind.
His free hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheek. Good. Because I haven't wanted something this badly in a very long time.
Then he kissed me.
And the whole world burned.