Chapter Five: Joanna

"Ria, wait—" My voice comes out as a pathetic, dry rasp, completely lacking the strength to cut through the sudden spike of adrenaline in the air.

Ria doesn't hear me. She steps directly into the stranger’s space, her small frame vibrating with a terrifying, protective fury. Her midnight-black hair practically crackles as she glares up at him, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.

Her shoulders squared like she’s ready to commit a felony on my behalf. God, I love her.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she demands.

Only then does he take a step back.

The movement creates space between us I’d barely realized he’d invaded. I suck in a steadier breath.

He doesn’t look offended.

Or intimidated.

He simply turns to face Ria, one slow movement at a time, until I fully appreciate just how unfairly tall he is.

Good Lord.

He has at least half a foot on her.

He raises both hands, palms open. A universal gesture of surrender.

"I'm not touching her," he says. His voice has lost that heavy, intoxicating edge of dominance he’d just used to anchor my lungs, melting back into a calm, smooth, and entirely polite register. "Your friend was having a severe panic attack. I was simply giving her a visual boundary to help her breathe."

Ria’s eyes dart from his open hands to his face, scanning his features with absolute skepticism. Then, she snaps her head toward me, her gaze raking over my pale face, the glass of water clutched tightly in my hands, and the faint, residual tremors in my shoulders.

"Jo?" she demands, her voice softening just a fraction, though her defensive posture doesn't break. "Are you okay? Did he do something?"

“No.”

Even that one word feels like work.

I swallow another mouthful of water before finally allowing myself to properly look at the man standing a few feet away.

Dark-rimmed glasses.

Dark hair.

A crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.

He’s seriously handsome.

Not in the flashy, I*******m-model kind of way.

More like someone who walked out of the pages of a magazine for expensive watches and impossible tax brackets. The shirt stretched just enough across his shoulders to hint that there was a very unfair body beneath all that corporate polish.

A modern-day Clark Kent.

*God, Joanna, get a grip,* I scold myself silently, a sudden, inappropriate flush of heat creeping up my neck.

*You literally almost died two minutes ago over your ex, and now you’re drooling over a stranger’s chest?*

I force my eyes down to my water glass, thoroughly ashamed of my own brain.

The man ignores our silent inventory, his gaze shifting past us toward the entrance of the lounge.

They are still there. Kenneth and Paula.

Kenneth is currently handing his coat to the valet, his arm brushing against Paula’s shoulder, a bright, easy smile plastered on his face. The sight is a physical blow, a sudden spike of ice in my veins, but the crushing, suffocating weight in my chest doesn't return.

Why?

Because even after stepping back to give Ria room, his broad shoulders still blocked most of the foyer. An accidental barricade between me and the worst moment of my life.

Ria follows my gaze. The second her eyes land on Kenneth and Paula, I watch the color leave her face, replaced instantly by a wave of pure, unadulterated murderous rage.

"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," she snarls, her teeth grinding so hard I can hear it. She takes a half-step forward, her protective instincts morphing into an aggressive urge to cross the floor and cause a scene.

"Don't," I whisper, reaching out and gripping the sleeve of her jacket. My knuckles are still white. "Ria, please. Don't. I want to leave. Right now."

Ria freezes, her eyes locking onto mine. She sees the desperation in my face, the raw exhaustion of a girl who simply cannot handle a public execution tonight. She bites her lip, her shoulders tight, but she nods. "Okay. Okay, love. We're leaving."

"The back exit is through the hallway to the left of the kitchen," the stranger interjects smoothly.

We both look up at him. His dark eyes are steady, entirely focused on the logistical problem at hand. He doesn't look at me with pity—God, I couldn't have handled pity—he just looks at me with a cold, analytical understanding.

"The front foyer is bottlenecked with the dinner rush," he explains, his deep voice keeping my heart rate clamped down. "If you take the service corridor to the left, it leads directly to the valet alleyway. You won't have to cross the main floor."

Ria bites her lip, momentarily disarmed by his sheer efficiency. “You know that?”

“I come here often.”

She clears her throat, her defensive walls dropping just an inch. “Right. Thanks."

The man simply gives her a curt nod.

The cool night air hits my face the second we step outside.

Ria unlocks the car parked beside the alley.

I climb into the passenger seat, sinking against the headrest.

Neither of us speaks for nearly a full minute.

“You okay?” Ria asks finally.

“No.”

She nods. “I figured. I’m sorry, I had no idea that Mr and Mrs Dickhead would choose tonight of all nights to make an appearance at the exact same bar we’re at.”

She shakes her head in irritation and stares out the window. “Fucking dickheads,” I hear her mutter.

“It’s fine. It’s not your fault,” I say softly, because it really isn’t.

Another silence settles between us. Then a thought strikes me.

A stupid one. Ridiculous, given the circumstances.

“I…”

“What?”

“I never even asked him his name.”

Ria blinks. “The guy in the bar?”

I nod. “He literally saved my life, and I don’t even know who he was.”

Ria snorts and starts the engine. “Well, considering I nearly threatened to murder him, I don’t think introductions were exactly on the agenda.”

We pull out of the alley, the lounge disappearing in the rearview mirror. Kenneth should have been the one occupying my thoughts.

Instead, I keep thinking about the stranger with the dark-rimmed glasses.