Chapter 16
The bar was loud.Thatwas the point.Bass thumping through the floor, laughter crashing like waves, the clink of glasses and the triumphant shouts of my teammates celebrating a hard-fought win.It was the kind of noise that usually felt like a second skin, a reward for the grind.
Tonight, it was just static.
I sat at the end of a long, sticky table, a half-finished beer sweating in front of me.Shay was to my left, telling an animated story about his breakaway save to Felix on my right.I wasn’t listening.I was tracing the rim of my glass, watching the condensation run in slow, sad tracks.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it.The owner’s box.Her hand on his arm.His head bent toward her.The cold, controlled way he’d said “It’s for optics.”
I’d been an optic.A dirty little secret tucked away in a messy apartment while the polished, public version of his life went on display.I’d believed him.I’d let him put me to bed.I’d worn his shirt.I’d let him anchor me.
I was such a fucking idiot.
“—and then he just stood there, frozen, like a deer in headlights!”Shay bellowed, slapping the table.He glanced at me, his grin fading.“Right, Charlie?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, not having a clue what he was talking about.
Shay and Felix exchanged a look.They’d been doing that all night, a silent conversation over my head.
Shay leaned closer, his voice dropping under the music.“You wanna get out of here?We can go back to your place.Order shitty pizza.Watch a movie where things blow up.”
“I’m fine,” I said, the lie automatic.I wasn’t fine.I was hollowed out.I regretted every soft moment, every vulnerable confession, every time I’d let Henry see how much he mattered.I’d given a billionaire the one thing he couldn’t buy—a piece of my trust—and he’d treated it like a line item in a PR strategy.
“You’re not fine,” Felix said quietly, his usual smirk gone.“You look like you lost a fight.”
“I did,” I said, and took a long pull of my beer, hoping it would wash down the bitterness.
The noise in the bar dipped, just for a second.A strange, sudden lull.I looked up.
Henry Emerson was standing in the entrance to the back room.
He looked like a storm that had wandered into a carnival.His tie was loose, the first two buttons of his shirt undone.His hair, always perfect, was disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it.His eyes scanned the room, wild and dark, and landed on me.
Every conversation at our table died.Guys stopped mid-sentence, glasses frozen halfway to mouths.This wasn’t his world.He didn’t do team bars.He didn’t do sweat and beer and chaos.
He ignored them all.He walked straight toward our table, his expensive shoes clicking on the grimy floor.Shay instinctively shifted, putting more of his body between Henry and me.Felix went very still.
Henry stopped at the edge of our table.He didn’t look at anyone but me.
