Breaking Point

City lights melted into a rainbow of rain and neon as Asher stumbled through the streets, his bony jacket no protection against the cold drizzle that soaked him to the bone.

He had no idea where he was going.

He only knew he had to get out — out of Damien, out of the lies, out of the pain his heart seemed to contort with every breath.

Asher stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and kept walking, head hung low, wiping away the tears that insisted on falling.

He revolted himself for it — for being so weak, for loving someone so much whom clearly did not love him just as much in return.

Around him, the world passed on — laughing couples ducking under umbrellas, taxis honking furiously, the far-off smell of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor — oblivious to the way Asher's world was falling apart quietly.

He stopped when his legs would no longer carry him.

Panting, he looked up and stood before a tiny, cozy-appearing pub tucked between skyscraper-sized office buildings.

Warm yellow light spilled from its windows. Laughter, clinking glasses, living inside.

Asher pushed the door open automatically and went in.

---

The bar was dimly lit, with faded leather booths and a jukebox playing muted jazz in the corner.

It smelled of old whiskey and wood polish.

Asher slid into an empty booth at the back and ordered the strongest drink he could think of.

He didn't even like whiskey.

But tonight, he had to feel something — anything — other than the hollowness in his chest.

The first swallow burned going down.

By the third, he barely even noticed the taste.

Asher rested his head back against the booth and let the hum of people and music wash over him.

For a fleeting instant, he let himself pretend to be nothing more than just another faceless person in the city — not a boy locked in gilded cages, not a pawn in a game he didn't play.

Not a fool who had fallen for the one man he could never possess.

---

He was halfway through his second drink when someone slipped into the booth across from him.

Asher blinked bleary.

The man was tall, wide-shouldered, with a cocky grin and wild dark hair that flopped into his eyes.

He was familiar in a way that made Asher's heart stumble — dangerous, desirable.

"Bad night?" the stranger asked, voice low and rough-hewn.

Asher laughed harshly.

"You have no idea," he growled.

The man smiled lazily and held out his hand.

"Name's Kade."

Asher hesitated — but what did it matter?

He shook Kade's hand.

"Asher."

Kade's handshake was firm, warm.

"I can tell you a joke," Kade offered. "Or we can drink until you can't remember what's pissing you off."

Asher gave him a smile for the night — a real, hurting smile.

"Drinking sounds good."

Kade smiled and ordered another round.

And next thing he knew, Asher let himself slip into oblivion.

---

Somewhere in the vicinity of the third drink, Asher was actually talking — really talking — for the first time in months.

He did not name names, did not reveal every secret.

But he talked to Kade about the cold marriage, the isolation, the feeling of being trapped in a life that was not his own.

Kade listened with no judgment, nodding now and then, his dark eyes sharp and strangely kind.

"You're not broken, you know," Kade said gently at one point, leaning across the table.

"You're just fighting to survive."

Asher blinked at him, throat constricting.

No one had ever said that to him before.

Not his family.

Not Damien.

Definitely not Damien.

Before he could change his mind, Asher leaned across the table and kissed him.

It was sloppy and drunk, more a collision of mouths than anything romantic — but Kade caught him gently, cradling Asher's face in his hands like he was something fragile, precious.

They broke apart after a few seconds, both gasping.

"I shouldn't have—" Asher started to babble, mortified with himself.

Kade just smiled faintly.

"You're hurting," he said. "You don't owe me an apology."

Asher stared at him, confused.

Kade slid a piece of paper across the table — a phone number scrawled in illegible scribble.

"If you ever need to talk," Kade said, rising. "Or if you ever want out."

Asher stared at the number, stunned.

Kade winked and disappeared into the shadows.

Leaving Asher to deal alone with the crushing weight of everything he was so desperate to escape.

---

---

Meanwhile, on the other side of town.

Damien leaned against the railing of his penthouse, glass of scotch in his hand, staring out over the strobing city lights.

He hadn't moved since Asher had stormed out.

Hadn't called. Hadn't chased after him.

Because he was a coward.

Because he knew — at the very core of him — that Asher was worth better than the broken, shattered remains of a man Damien had left himself.

The wind cut sharply, snapping his tie against his chest.

He invited the sting.

He deserved worse.

His phone vibrated on the table behind him.

Damien didn't notice at first.

But it continued to buzz, relentless.

Eventually, he stormed back inside and picked it up.

One message.

From Veronica.

You're out of time. If you don't play your role, I will."

Damien's blood went cold.

He cursed and flung the glass across the room.

It burst on the wall, amber liquid oozing down like blood.

---

It was hours before Asher staggered back to the penthouse, cold and wet and numb.

The room was dark, still.

Damien was gone.

Good, Asher thought with bitterness.

He didn't want to see him.

Not tonight.

Never again, maybe.

Asher made his way into the bedroom — and stopped.

The door had been open.

Within, he saw his opened suitcase on the bed.

His suitcase.

Part-way packed, careless — like someone had started out but gave up halfway.

On top of it, next to the lamp, lay one piece of paper.

Asher's heart lurched horribly.

He approached and grasped it.

It was a document.

A contract to annul marriage.

Signed.

By Damien.

On a piece of adhesive notes glued on it.

"You’re free, Asher. Live your life. Be happy."

For a moment, Asher just stared at it.

Then, without meaning to, he crumpled the paper in his fists and sank to the floor, sobbing so hard he could barely breathe.

Because it was everything he had said he wanted.

And it still hurt like hell.

---

Two weeks later.

Asher sat on a park bench, watching the world go by.

He had moved out of the penthouse.

Rented a small apartment in the city.

Started rebuilding a life that felt like it was his again.

He even texted Kade once — they got coffee, talked about nothing and everything.

Kade was a joy to be around.

Easy.

Straightforward.

Safe.

And yet, every night, as Asher fell asleep, it wasn't Kade's face he pictured.

It was Damien's.

The way he looked half-asleep and beautiful in morning light.

The way he kissed Asher like he was starving.

The manner in which he shattered Asher's heart without even attempting to.

Asher shut his eyes and leaned his head back, allowing the sun to warm his face.

He was free.

He should be content.

He wasn't.

He was sadder than ever.

---

---

Across the city.

Damien stood before a mirror, straightening the cuffs of his shirt.

Next to him, Veronica reclined on a chaise, spinning a champagne flute between her fingers.

"You did the right thing," she said kindly.

"He would have been a liability."

Damien said nothing.

For if he did, he'd scream.

Veronica batted her eyelashes and stood, smoothing her dress.

"Besides," she cooed. "Now you can focus on what matters. Our little deal."

Damien's fists were clenched.

He wasn't doing this for Veronica.

He was doing this to save Asher.

Because if the truth were ever to be revealed — about who Damien really was, about the enemies he had accumulated — Asher would be the first to be punished.

Damien would rather die than let that happen.

So he let Asher go.

For his own good.

Even if it was killing Damien a little bit every day.

---

But fate wasn't done with them yet.

Because even as Damien burrowed deeper into the violent life he thought he'd escaped.

Even as Asher tried to mend and move on.

Their paths were already set to collide once again.

And this time, it wouldn't be so simple as love or hate.

This time, lives were on the line.

And not everyone would survive.