Revenge plot part 3

The story spread like smoke under a closed door.

By the third day every professional contact I had ever made seemed to know the photo. Clients cancelled, two freelance contracts dissolved with polite, final emails. A recruiter who had been warm last week suddenly had no openings. Tessa’s little network had done its work thoroughly. My name was now attached to “unstable,” “unprofessional,” and a looping image of me.

I stopped answering the phone.

That night I found myself on a bar stool in a place that smelled of old wood and cheaper whiskey than I usually drank. The lights were low. The music was something slow and forgettable. I ordered the first double without tasting it. The second went down easier, by the third the edges of the room had softened and the weight on my chest felt almost manageable.

No one looked at me twice. The bartender kept the glasses coming and strangers talked around me like I was furniture. I was fine with that, being invisible felt safer than being seen.

I didn’t notice him until he was already beside me.

“What do you think you're doing?.”

Jude’s voice cut through the haze. I turned too fast and the room tilted. He stood there in a dark coat carrying an unreadable expression.

“Go away,” I muttered.

He spoke quietly to the bartender, settled my tab, and then his hand was under my elbow.

“You’re done here.”

I tried to pull free but my feet betrayed me. The floor felt farther away than it should have.

“I didn’t ask for a rescue.”

“You say that when you're in this state.”

I could have fought harder but something in the quiet certainty of him made resistance feel exhausting. He got me into a cab, then into a building I didn’t recognise, then up a flight of stairs. The last clear thing I remembered was the soft click of a door and the scent of cedar and clean laundry before everything went dark.

---

I woke to the sound of typing.

Morning light filtered through half-closed blinds. The sheets under me were unfamiliar and warm. I sat up quickly. The room spun once, then settled. I was in a wide bed in a minimalist bedroom. My shoes were neatly placed by the door. My blouse had been left on, though someone had removed my jacket and folded it over a chair.

Jude sat in an armchair a few feet away, laptop open on his knees, fingers moving across the keys. He glanced up when I moved.

“So you’re finally awake.”

I stared at him, heart suddenly loud in my ears. The full weight of the previous night crashed in, the bar, the drinks, his hand on my elbow, the fact that I was in his home, in his bed.

“You brought me here?” My voice came out rough.

“You could barely stand. Leaving you there wasn’t an option.”

I pushed the covers back, suddenly hyper-aware of my bare legs, the dryness of my mouth, the dull throb behind my eyes. Embarrassment and anger tangled in my throat.

“You could have left me at my own place.”

“I didn’t know where that was, and you weren’t coherent enough to tell me.” He closed the laptop and set it aside. “You should stop drinking first, then we can talk about whatever insult you’re lining up.”

I opened my mouth, ready to deliver exactly that, but the seriousness in his expression stopped me.

He exhaled slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About the photo. I wanted to even the score. I didn’t want it to go this far.”

The apology landed harder than any accusation, I looked away.

He stood. “I have a short meeting downstairs. Twenty minutes, maybe less. There’s water on the nightstand. Shower if you want. I’ll be back.”

He left before I could answer.

I sat in the silence he left behind, staring at the glass of water.

I found the liquor cabinet without really deciding to look for it.