Chapter 4

The bar was nothing as I had expected.

I had pictured blaring chaos. Strobing lights. Bass-heavy music. Drunken strangers encroaching. The kind of place where people drown themselves in bad decisions.

Instead, I stepped into something quieter.

I gasped at the place, low amber lights spilling over polished wood and leather booths; a pianist played softly in one corner, the notes coming out smooth and unhurried. The staff moved with efficiency, and conversations stayed low and private with the odd laugh here and there.

Pausing in the entrance, I wondered if this was really the place for someone like me. I became aware of how out of place I looked.  My jeans, my black top, my loose hair. I had not dressed for attention. I had dressed to get through the night.

It would do.

I stepped fully inside, crossed the room to the bar, and slid onto a stool.

“Vodka, please,” I said when the bartender approached. “Neat.”

The glass appeared in front of me a moment later. I reached for it, wrapped my fingers around the cold, solid surface, and took a slow sip to steady myself.

It burned.

Good.

For the first time all day, some of the tension in my shoulders loosened.

I was halfway through the drink when I felt it.

Attention.

Not the usual kind. Not crude or obvious.

Something quieter.

Heavier.

Intentional.

My skin prickled.

I did not turn immediately. Instead, I took another sip, letting the sensation of being watched settle over me. Only then did I finally glance sideways.

And met his eyes.

He sat two stools away.

He sat two stools away—tall, broad-shouldered, composed in a dark, effortlessly expensive suit. No tie. White shirt open at the collar. One hand loosely around a glass of amber liquid.

He was handsome, yes.

But that was not what held me.

It was the way he looked at me.

Calm. Direct. Assessing.

Not smiling. Not flirting. Not leering.

Just watching, as though he had noticed something about me worth understanding.

I looked away first, more from instinct than discomfort. I set my empty glass on the counter and signalled for another drink.

“You look like you’re deciding whether you should be in a place like this.” His tone was smooth and touched with amusement but not mockery.

I turned my body toward him, meeting his gaze without hesitation.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Not that I was particularly bothered, the drink was making my mind numb, and that was my intention. I did not need to think about my cheating ex and so-called best friend, if only for a few hours.

“Only if you pay attention.”

I gave a short laugh. “So you pay attention.”

“I do.”

There was no arrogance in it. Just a fact.

“Why?” I asked.

He lifted his glass slightly. “Professional habit.”

“That sounds vague.”

“It’s meant to.”

That earned the faintest smile from me.

I studied him more openly: sharp jaw, controlled posture, strong hands. Everything about him felt precise, nothing careless.

“What’s your name?” I asked, confidence suddenly oozing from me.

“Adrian,” he held out a hand to shake.

I nodded once. “Pleased to meet you, Adrian. My name is Luna.” I took his hand and shook it before snatching my hand away.

His eyes held mine a second longer, as if he were storing the information away. “Nice name.”

“Are you always this observant, Adrian?”

“Hmm, well, yes, actually, when it matters.”

“And does it matter tonight?”

His gaze dropped briefly to my untouched second drink before returning to my face.

“I think it might. A good-looking woman like you, here. Alone in this place.”

A strange pulse of heat curled low in my stomach.

I took another sip to steady myself. “That sounds like a line.”

“No,” he said calmly. “If it were a line, it would be better rehearsed.”

That made me laugh—a real laugh this time, unexpected and soft.

The sound seemed to interest him.

“So, tell me. What are you doing here alone tonight, Luna?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of me.

I smiled as I took another sip of my drink. “Drinking, of course. What else?”

His expression shifted. “Effective strategy,” he said with a nod.

“Oh, and do you approve?”

“I don’t usually concern myself with other people’s coping mechanisms.”

“Yet you asked.”

“And you answered.”

There was a beat of silence between us, but it did not feel awkward. It felt charged.

Every glance felt deliberate. Every pause stretched. Every inch of distance between us seemed suddenly meaningful.

When I stood to go to the restroom, I could feel his eyes follow me—not in a possessive way, but in a thoughtful one. Something about that sent a shiver of excitement down my spine. I liked it.

When I came back, my drink had been replaced with a fresh one.

“I didn’t order this,” I said, pointing at it.

“I did.”

I arched an eyebrow. “I don’t usually accept drinks from strangers,” I smirked, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I’m not a stranger,” he said. “Not now that I already told you my name.”

I laughed again. “That’s a very bold assumption.”

“It’s an accurate one.”

I took the drink anyway.

Maybe I should not have.

Maybe I did not care.

The night stretched on around us. The crowd thinned. The music softened. Still, neither of us moved. Conversation came easily, but never carelessly. He asked questions without prying. I answered without giving too much away.

He felt dangerous in the quietest possible way.

Like a man who never needed to raise his voice to take control of a room.

Eventually, he checked his watch and stood.

“I should leave.” He frowned, as if he realised that he needed to be somewhere else, somewhere much more important.

I could not deny the disappointment that flared inside of me.

That caught me off guard.

“Oh… leaving already?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

He reached into his jacket and placed a sleek black card on the bar, sliding it toward me.

“No pressure,” he added. “If you want to continue this, call me. If not, tonight stays here.”

I picked up the card he slid to me; as I did, my fingers brushed his for an instant.

A spark.

“And what if I don’t want tonight to end so soon?”