NEVEN'S UNCLE

Behind him, Olivia’s smug, possessive cry rang out, “Neven! Let her go, she's nothing! You’re mine now!” Her voice was sharp, vicious, and victorious. “Let her run, Neven! She was never woman enough for you. She’ll never fuck you the way I do. You’re mine now, all mine!”

But he didn’t stop and by the time he reached the street, I had already flagged down a cab and slid into the back seat. I yanked the door shut and ordered the driver to go before Neven could catch up, my chest heaving as the car pulled away.

“Anywhere with liquor,” I muttered.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, caught the storm in my eyes, and wisely kept quiet. He drove in silence until the cab rolled beneath the glowing canopy of The Regent Hotel, one of those places where the lobby smelled faintly of polish and money, the kind of place that never turned away someone with cash. I paid the cab off before I exited the car and went in.

Inside, the marble floor gleamed too bright beneath the chandeliers, making me feel even more exposed. I dug a card from my purse and slid it across the counter.

“One night,” I told the receptionist, my voice steady even if my hands weren’t.

“Seventeenth floor,” she replied with a professional smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. A keycard slid across the counter toward me. I grabbed it without a word and left, deciding I’d figure out what to do with it later but right now, I need the bar.

So instead of heading to the elevators, I turned left, following the low hum of voices and the clink of glass until I stepped into the hotel lounge.

The lighting was warm and dim, shadows spilling across polished wood and velvet chairs. Soft jazz curled through the air, weaving with muted conversations. At the far end, the bar gleamed, crystal glasses catching the glow of golden lamps.

I crossed the room, my heels striking against marble before catching on the brass rail as I slid onto a stool. My fingers gripped the counter like it was the only thing keeping me steady.

“Whiskey. Neat,” I said flatly.

The bartender didn’t ask questions and went to get my order. A glass appeared in front of me, amber liquid catching the dim light. I grabbed it immediately and downed it in one swallow, the burn searing my throat, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough to drown the image of them tangled in sheets, skin to skin, his hands on her body, her voice gasping his name.

The memory tore through me, and my heart clenched as the tears came hot and unstoppable, shattering everything I’d tried to hold together.

I slammed the empty glass onto the counter and shoved it forward. “Another,” I demanded, my voice trembling.

The bartender offered my orders to me and I drank in one gulp before I signaled for another and another, anything to dull the ache clawing through my chest.

By the fourth glass, the sharp edges of my pain began to blur, replaced by a numb heat that made the noise around me feel distant, almost unreal. I didn’t care who stared at me. I didn’t care how I looked. Tonight, I wasn’t the betrayed girlfriend or the broken friend. Tonight, I was just a woman drinking herself into oblivion and forgetfulness.

I was halfway through another glass when I noticed someone slide onto a stool two seats down. A tall, broad-shouldered man, familiar in a way that made my stomach twist, though I was too heartbroken and drunk to give a damn.

“Macallan, 18-year. Neat.” The deep, velvety voice carried easily over the low hum of the bar, and for some reason, the sound tugged at my attention. I glanced sideways, and my breath caught.

For a long moment, I just stared at him. The dim light kissed the sharp lines of his jaw, accentuating the faint shadow of stubble and the way his tailored suit clung to him in all the right places of his muscular body. His dark hair, streaked with a hint of gray, was perfectly swept back, though a few rebellious strands threatened to fall forward. He was older, more rugged, and more dangerous but, undeniably, devastatingly handsome and he is Caesar Dominic Calder, Neven’s uncle.

I recognized him instantly, how could I not? Neven had spoken of him often, always with that uneasy mix of awe and begrudging respect.

I could still hear his words echoing in my head from the night I’d teased him, asking half-jokingly, “What about your uncle Caesar? Is he anything like you?” His answer had been sharp, almost defensive: “My uncle Caesar? Don’t even think about it, Jane. That man’s untouchable. Nobody crosses him, not in business, not in family and I do not want you anywhere around him too.”

And now remembering those words and warnings only lit the fire in my chest. Neven thought his uncle was untouchable? Maybe it was time to prove him wrong.