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Chapter 2: Whiskey and Checklists
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2025-10-28 05:48:43(Elara's POV)
I slammed the penthouse door behind me, my chest burning and breath coming fast. The cold night air hit my wet face like a slap. My mascara was ruined, black streaks running down my cheeks, and my hands shook as I gripped my purse. The divorce papers still burned inside it, James’s voice echoing in my head: pack your shit and leave. Two days, that was all I had. I couldn’t think about packing; I just wanted to forget, to drown everything. A neon sign buzzed ahead: Truman’s Bar, a bar not far from here. I’d walked past it many times but never gone inside. Tonight felt right, no fancy people, no one who would recognize me or what I had become. I pushed the heavy door open, and a thick wave of stale beer and fried onions slammed into me. The place was dim and half-empty, a few guys hunched over pool tables, an old jukebox playing sad country music. I slid onto a sticky stool, my skirt riding up but I didn’t care. My throat felt raw. “Bartender,” I croaked, “whiskey. Double. Neat.” He didn’t ask questions, just poured the whiskey. The glass clinked on the bar, I grabbed it, the amber liquid sloshing as I threw it back. Fire burned from my throat to my chest. It was warm, and good. I wanted more. “Another.” One shot turned into three, then five. The edges of the room blurred, but the pain stayed sharp: James’s smirk, Mel’s laugh, the moment he kicked my hand away. I slammed down the empty glass. “Keep ’em coming.” The door swung open. Heads turned, but not mine. I was staring at the bottles behind the bar, lost in my haze. But I felt him before I saw him. The air grew heavier; a clean scent floated over, sandalwood and something fresh, like new money. He sat on the stool next to me, taking up space like he belonged. I blinked slowly and saw him: tall, broad shoulders filling a black shirt, sleeves rolled up showing dark hair on his forearms. A jaw sharp enough to cut glass, deep brown eyes scanning the bar like he owned the place. He didn’t look at me at first; he just ordered a scotch, “On the rocks.” The bartender poured without a word. I drank my sixth shot, the burn weak now, my head spinning. Then his eyes locked on mine. “You should stop drinking,” he said. I blinked, then laughed loud and bitter as heads turned. I hit the bar. “Stop? Who the fuck are you? My daddy?” His lips twitched, not quite a smile. He raised his hand like a boss. The bartender froze, pouring my next drink. “No more for her.” “Hey!” I snapped. I grabbed my glass and chugged the last drops, empty. I slammed it down again. “Pour me another now!” The bartender shook his head, his eyes flicking nervously to the man. “Sorry, miss. Boss’s orders. No more whiskey.” My mouth dropped open, heat flushing my face with anger and booze mixed tightly. “What do you want from me? Why bother me? Leave me alone!” He did not flinch, he was sipping his scotch like I was a boring problem already solved. I tried to yell, but words tangled. Then the rage spilled anyway. I couldn’t hold it in. “What exactly do you want sir?.......You want to know why I’m here huh? My husband, well soon to be ex fucked my stepsister in our damn bed, gave me divorce papers. After I gave him everything. I held him up when he had nothing, typed his plans till my fingers bled, paid all his bills. And my inheritance….billions of dollars, Dad’s company, I signed it over because I loved him, I built his empire. And now he’s kicking me out by the weekend, laughing with her, taking every penny from me.” My hands flew in fire. “I’m done. ….done being their fool. No more stupid, naive Elara who thinks love fixes everything.” I yelled again, “Pour me another whiskey now!” He shook his head. “No. Boss said—” “Fuck your boss!” I smashed my fist on the bar, which shook beneath me. A few heads glanced, yet no one moved. I stared at the man next to me. “Who the hell are you?” He set his glass down slowly and steady. “Silas Truman……..The Silas Truman, Business tycoon.” My jaw dropped. The name hit cold. Silas Truman…..the Silas Truman. Tech mogul, real estate shark, the man who buys companies like snacks. My head spun harder. “Oh, you’re Silas Truman?” He nodded once. “You need to stop drinking, your pupils are blown wide. Keep drinking, and you’ll blackout…….i feel you really need to go to the hospital, your body is telling you, but you don't seem to care.” I snorted bitterly, while my vision was fuzzy. I leaned closer, voice soft. “Why tell me that? You don’t even know me.” He leaned back calm, his eyes holding mine like a target. “I don’t care about your pain. I’m a man of numbers, data and fact. Emotions don’t matter to me, but your body screams danger right now.” I rubbed my throbbing temples; the bar tipped under me. Silas Truman beside me in a bar. Then he dropped the bomb. “As I said I'm a man of numbers not emotions, but I might just have the best solution for you, after listening to your story……….. I'm willing to offer you a marriage contract.” I froze, blinking slowly, heart pounding. “What?” “Yes!!......we have a rule in our family. Once you're about to be thirty five, you either marry or lose your share of inheritance in the family business.” My laugh started soft then burst, bitter and rough. “You think this is a movie? Where a handsome billionaire swoops in to save save a broken girl, and the broken girl says yes, happy ending? Ha.” I slammed the bar again. “I’m done being controlled. I hate men. You take what you want, the money, love, bodies—then toss us like garbage. James did it, and you're trying to do it……you've come to the wrong person” He didn’t blink, he just stared. I fired back. “Why me? There are billions of women…….You’re Silas fucking Truman, rich as God. Models dying to be on your arm, so why me?” He pulled a slim notebook and pen out, wrote neat notes, tore a page, and handed it to me. “Because you check every box: height, looks, smarts, fire. I know what I want.” I grabbed the paper and stared like it was a joke. “Checklist? What checklist? Haven’t you heard? My Life is shattered, and yet you say “i’m the perfect wife material?” He nodded steadily. “Plus you’ll be desperate soon, and my billions can fix that……… Three-year contract, and once you're done I'll give twenty five percent of my inheritance, which is about hundred million dollars.” I laughed again, folding the paper into my purse. “Desperate? Don’t worry. I got this.” He stood and threw a thick wad of cash on the bar, towering over me. His cologne wrapped tight like a command. Pulled a black card with gold numbers. “My private line. Call when you change your mind…….and I know you will.” He left, the door shutting behind like silence falling. The bartender slid me a glass of water. “On the house.” I drank it fast, my head pounding. The paper crinkled hard in my hand. Silas Truman. Marriage contract. Tempting, yes. Men? No. Never again. Still, as I stumbled outside, legs weak, heart raw, his number burned in my mind.
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