I wiped the tears on my cheeks and put my tablet away. It's time to move on, move on from Yuan. The news of his engagement still rang in my head like a distant echo I couldn't silence.
The tablet slid into the drawer of the coffee table with a soft thud. I leaned back against the gray sectional sofa, sinking into its familiar comfort. The cushions, once fluffed and pristine, now felt a little worn—like me. The late afternoon light streamed through the sheer linen curtains, casting long, golden patterns across the beige rug. Outside, the world moved on without me.
I turned my gaze to the potted fiddle leaf fig in the corner. Yuan had picked it out on our second anniversary—he said the leaves looked like little hearts. Now, they just looked like leaves. I stood up and walked to the window, letting the city's distant sounds remind me I wasn't alone. Not really.
The soft ring of my cellphone interrupted the haze of my long thoughts. I blinked, surprised by the sound in the stillness of my apartment. The screen lit up: Unknown Caller.
I hesitated for a moment. My thumb hovered above the green icon before I sighed and picked up, pressing the phone to my ear. My eyes closed lazily, exhaustion tugging at the edges of my mind.
"Jai."
My eyes flew open, heart thudding as I recognized the voice. But it wasn't Yuan.
It was Lute—my boss.
He sounded strained, hoarse, like someone who hadn't slept in days. My throat tightened in confusion, maybe even fear. I hadn't spoken to him since the company restructuring last week. What could he possibly want from me?
"Sir?" I said, the word barely escaping my lips, my voice nearly invisible, swallowed by the heaviness in my chest.
There was a rough breath on the other end, then his voice again—quieter this time, like he was struggling to keep it together.
"Come to 12th Street… Williamsburg. Bedford Avenue. I need your help."
"It's 11:00 PM… it's past my working hours," I said, trying to keep my voice firm. But he sounded desperate—and that scared me more than I cared to admit.
"Plea…se," he murmured, barely above a whisper.
There was something unsettling in his voice. Like it wasn't just exhaustion—but something heavier, raw. I hesitated, glancing at the time again. 11:03 PM. I was forty minutes away.
"I can't. I'm sorry… I'm forty minutes away," I said, hoping that would be the end of it. That he'd understand.
But then his tone shifted, instantly—like a switch had flipped. The softness vanished, replaced by the Lute I knew from work. Cold. Calculated. Commanding.
"We had a truce," he said sharply, "and you seem to be forgetting that, Miss."
His words cut through the quiet like a blade. I froze. That damned truce. The agreement we made weeks ago after everything fell apart at the office. I had promised. He had promised.
And now he was cashing in on it.
"I want you here," he said, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument.
I sighed, rubbing my temple, already grabbing my jacket with the other hand. "Fine," I muttered. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
There was a pause, then a low, knowing laugh from his end. It sent a shiver down my spine.
"Rocky's Lounge," he said simply.
I didn't respond. Just rolled my eyes and ended the call.
Of all places… Rocky's Lounge. I hated the loud music, dim lights, the smell of cheap whiskey and regret. What could Lute possibly want from me there—and at this hour?
Pulling my hair into a quick bun, I glanced at myself in the mirror. Tired eyes. Faint smudges under them. No time to fix it. No energy to care.
***
I parked my car in the nearest garage and stepped out into the chill of the night. The streets were quieter now, but the unease lingered in the air like smoke. The flickering streetlights cast a shaky path ahead, guiding me toward Rocky's Lounge like blinking warnings I was too stubborn to heed.
The further I walked, the louder the city became—not in sound, but in presence. I saw them all—junkies huddled in corners, homeless men mumbling to themselves, potheads passing slow drags between cracked fingers, and aging hippies clinging to faded dreams. Their eyes followed me like shadows.
"Missy, come over here," a jaggedly dressed man called out, his breath fogging in the cold. His grin was missing too many teeth to be anything but dangerous.
I ignored him. My focus was elsewhere—searching the dark corners, the bar's hazy windows, the sidewalk's edges—for a sign. For Lute.
"What are you doing walking alone at night?" another voice barked from behind. I didn't turn around. I didn't need to. The streets had always been full of questions I refused to answer.
I reached the bar's entrance and pushed open the door.
A rush of noise, light, and smoke hit me all at once. My senses recoiled. The music was loud—some rock track from the early 2000s—and the smell… God, the smell. Whiskey, weed, body odor, desperation. A cocktail of reckless youth and sweaty adulthood.
My eyes adjusted quickly, scanning the room with practiced precision. Low-hung lights, stained booths, neon beer signs buzzing over the bar. And people. Lots of them. Slouched at counters, leaning against sticky tables, dancing like they had nothing left to lose.
But I wasn't here for them.
I was looking for one man. Blonde hair. Sleek tuxedo. That signature stillness that made him stand out even in a room full of chaos.
Lute.
Where the hell was he?
My stomach churned in distaste. What the hell was I doing here?
This was a bad idea.
I glanced around the room again, feeling out of place in the chaos, the music thudding like a warning in my chest. Every breath I took tasted like smoke and regret. I could already feel the headache forming behind my eyes.
"Jeez, he's wasted," a large Hispanic man muttered nearby, nudging something—or someone—on the ground with the toe of his boot. "Poor kid. I wonder what he's dealing with."
"Luigi, mind your own damn business," another guy snapped, though his own slurred words betrayed his condition.
I moved closer, heart thudding.
There, sprawled on the sticky floor beneath the flickering neon light, was a man—curled up like a child, muttering incoherently.
"I need to go home," he whimpered, his voice small and broken, almost drowned out by the music.
I froze.
That voice.
It was him.
Lute.
My boss.
Only—this wasn't the man I knew. Not the sharply dressed executive in tailored suits and biting sarcasm. No cool confidence, no commanding presence. This man was a stranger.
He was wearing cargo pants and a hoodie. A hoodie. His hair was a mess, and his face was flushed, eyes red, glassy. He was drunk. Really drunk.
"Jai?" he murmured, struggling to sit up, reaching toward me like a drowning man grabbing for the surface. "Is that you?" His hand trembled in the air, searching.
"Come… you take me home," he slurred, voice cracking like he was on the verge of tears. "Please…"
I just stood there for a moment, frozen. Confused. Uncomfortable.
Why me?
Why did he call me of all people?
We weren't friends.
I barely knew him.
And yet… here he was. Broken. Reaching for me like I was the only person in the world who could help him.
I clenched my jaw, conflicted. I wanted to walk away. But something in his face—his voice—made it impossible.
"Please…" he whimpered again, his voice cracking, and then he started crying—full-on, no-holding-back sobs, like a child lost in a crowd.
I sighed, soft but sharp with resignation.
This wasn't how I planned to spend my night.
Still, I bent down and hooked an arm under his shoulder, helping him to his feet. He was heavy—heavier than he looked. It felt like trying to lift dead weight, like dragging a thousand men all at once. But somehow, I managed.
We staggered out of the bar, two mismatched figures lurching into the night. The cold air hit my skin, and the scent of alcohol on his breath was even stronger now. He leaned on me shamelessly, whining, drooling, barely able to form words.
"Thank you," he mumbled, then leaned in and pressed a sloppy kiss against my cheek.
What the hell—
My hand reacted before my mind did.
Slap.
The sound echoed sharply in the empty street. His head snapped to the side, and he stared at me in wide-eyed shock, one hand cradling his stubbled cheek.
"Ouch…" he groaned.
A slow smile tugged at the corners of my lips.
Good.
He deserved that.
After all the cold treatment, the stress, the impossible expectations—this was poetic. He'd finally fallen from that polished pedestal of his, and I had a front-row seat.
"Where am I taking you?" I asked, breathless, as I all but shoved him into the front seat of my car.
He slumped into the seat like a rag doll, blinking slowly.
"Home," he said, a soft, dreamy smile on his lips. "I trust you."
My hands froze on the seatbelt. I turned to look at him.
"I trust you more than anyone," he said again, and I almost laughed.
Drunk people say a lot of stupid things.
I smiled—just a little, just for a second. Then I slammed the door shut.
"Shut up," I muttered, a little louder than I meant to.
And for once, he listened.
***
I pulled into the parking lot, the tires crunching softly against the gravel. I cut the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the man slumped in the passenger seat, barely conscious. My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
I didn't even know where he lived.
No address. No clue.
And so, there was only one place I could take him.
My home.
I groaned inwardly. Of all people to babysit on a Friday night, it had to be him.
I stepped out, slammed my door, and walked around to the passenger side. He hadn't moved an inch. I flung his door open.
"Get out," I said sharply. "Or do you need me to carry you in like I'm your mama?"
He blinked up at me, dazed, head lolling back against the seat. "Yes," he gulped, eyes wide and stupidly innocent.
I flinched as the wave hit me.
His breath. Dear God.
It reeked of rotten onions and garlic—like he'd swallowed a dumpster outside an Italian restaurant.
I scrunched my nose in disgust. "Ugh. Fine."
I grabbed his arm, pulling him upright. He stumbled, nearly taking me down with him, but I steadied him. Somehow, with enough effort and a whole lot of muttered curses, we staggered toward the building.
He leaned on me the whole way, practically drooling on my shoulder. My patience was wearing thinner than the soles of my shoes.
This is why I don't make truces, I thought bitterly.
This is why I don't make exceptions.
But I had.
Because I needed that stupid job.
Because I thought holding my tongue, agreeing to his dumb little deal, would make my life easier.
It didn't.
Not when he was stinking up my car. Not when I was dragging his drunk, oversized ego into my home like some pathetic lost puppy.
And worst of all… not when part of me still couldn't understand why he chose me.
A few minutes later, we were both inside my apartment.
Lute was sprawled across my couch now, his hoodie bunched up beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. His eyes were shut, breathing steady—but I couldn't tell if he was asleep or just playing dead to avoid more embarrassment.
I stood there awkwardly for a moment, arms crossed, unsure if I should cover him with a blanket or just leave him to rot.
"God, let me not get arrested for this," I muttered, half-joking, half-serious. The man lying unconscious in my living room wasn't just some random drunk. He was Lute Luther—billionaire CEO of Luther-Croft Enterprises. If anyone saw this, I'd probably be accused of kidnapping or something equally dramatic.
I turned to leave, already exhausted, but the soft sound of his snore made me pause.
My eyes drifted back to him.
His lashes were surprisingly long—delicate, even. His brows, thick but well-shaped, relaxed from their usual stern furrow. His lips parted slightly, forming a soft 'O' as he snored gently—peacefully.
Like some angel he most definitely wasn't.
Who would've thought Lute—the cold, demanding, impossibly polished man I dealt with at work—could ever look this… calm? Safe? Even human?
I hated to admit it, but I loved this version of him.
No sarcasm. No power plays. Just a tired young man asleep on my couch, trusting me more than he should.
I turned again to leave—emotion tight in my chest, though I wasn't sure why.
Then his voice broke the silence.
"Good night, Jai," he murmured, soft, sleepy.
My heart fluttered—just for a second. Just a second.
I shook my head, brushing the feeling away with a quiet scoff. "Shut up and sleep," I whispered, but the corners of my lips curved despite myself.
Then I walked away.