Chapter 4

The taxi driver picked up on the hurt from my shaking my voice right away. I tried to sound all tough and cold, like ice, but it came out wobbly and broken, showing everyone how deep my sadness really went. He didn't say a word, but I could tell from the way he gripped the wheel tighter that he was putting pieces together in his head. The most likely guess? A bad breakup, the kind that rips your heart out. "Something bad must have gone down when she got back to her place," he mumbled , keeping his voice as low as possible. He sneaked peeks at me through the rearview mirror and saw my blank stare fixed straight ahead, tears rolling down my cheeks non-stop . It made him hold back any questions, he knew better than to poke at my fresh wounds.

He just kept driving slow and steady through the bright lights of downtown Sydney, weaving around traffic without a plan, making sure to stay far from the neighborhood we'd left behind. No stops, no chit-chat, just the hum of the engine and the city rushing by outside the windows. The silence wrapped around us like a heavy blanket, broken only by the soft sniffles I tried to hide.

Then, as we passed a neon-lit liquor store with its shelves glowing through the glass, I broke the quiet. My voice came out rough, edged with need. "Turn around and go back to that store. I need to grab a few things first."

"Y-Yes, miss," he stammered, quickly swinging the car around in a U-turn, pulling up right in front of the shop. He parked and watched me closely as I pushed open the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, my bare feet cold against the pavement. I moved fast inside, the bell jingling behind me. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the smell of stale beer hit me as I grabbed a basket. I loaded it up quickly, no thinking, just instinct—with four or five heavy bottles of booze: whiskey, vodka, whatever looked strong enough to numb the ache. The clerk barely glanced up as I paid with cash from my wallet, stuffing everything into a crinkly paper bag.

Back in the taxi, bag heavy in my lap, I slammed the door and leaned back. "Drive now. I'll tell you where to go when I know." He nodded, pulling away smoothly, from where he had parked. We cruised past skyscrapers twinkling with office lights, late-night crowds spilling out of bars, the whole city alive while I felt dead inside. Finally, I spotted it—the tall office building where I worked, dark except for a faint glow in the lobby.

"Stop here," I said flatly.

He frowned deep lines into his forehead, glancing at the empty streets around us. "You sure you wanna stay here all night, miss? It's empty, and kinda creepy." He said with a worried expression on his face.

"Yeah," I muttered, already reaching for the door handle. Work had been my whole life for years—my office was the only place that felt safe now, no memories of betrayal waiting to stab me. I hauled the bag of booze out with me, the weight pulling at my arm as my feet hit the ground. Digging into my purse, I pulled out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and shoved them into his hand. He hesitated, eyes flicking to the money, then back to my face, worry creasing his brows.

"What's wrong with me crashing here?" I asked, voice sharper than I meant.

"I'm just scared you might..." He trailed off, biting his lip, not wanting to say the ugly word hanging in the air.

"Kill myself?" I finished for him, blunt and tired. He nodded slowly, reluctant, like he'd crossed a line just thinking about it. In his mind, I probably looked like the classic heartbroken mess ready to end it all, tears, booze bag, wandering the night.

I let out a short, bitter scoff, shaking my head. "Don't worry—I'm not some idiot who'd off myself over a worthless jerk like Ryan." I turned to stare up at the building's glass facade, lights reflecting my puffy face back at me. "My office is on the fifteenth floor. That's where I'll hole up tonight." Swiveling back to him, I forced a thin, wobbly smile through the tears. "Thanks for the ride and the concern. Means something."

He watched me trudge toward the lobby doors, bag swinging, until I disappeared inside. A heavy sigh escaped him as he gripped the wheel. "Poor woman," he muttered

I swiped my access card at the lobby elevator, the beep echoing in the quiet space, and punched the button for the fifteenth floor. The ride up was smooth and silent, doors sliding open to pitch-black hallways—no one around at this late hour, just the faint hum of air conditioning. I flashed my employee card at the main door, hearing the lock click open, and slipped inside. Flicking the switches, I turned on a few overhead lights, casting long shadows down the empty corridors, enough to guide my way without blinding myself.

Sure, I could've checked into a fancy hotel with plush beds and room service, or crashed at one of my other apartments scattered around the city—places I'd bought as investments, quiet spots to unwind. But no, not tonight. This office at Moo’s Company? This was home, the real one, walls soaked in my sweat and triumphs.

It all started here. Ryan's dreams of becoming a businessman were going nowhere, no money coming in to keep us afloat. So I dove into this job headfirst, thinking it'd be normal: punch in at nine, out at five, simple as that. But as our marriage soured—fights piling up, his resentment growing I buried myself in work, staying till midnight. The late CEO, Mr. Antony Waltz spotted my fire. He promoted me fast to junior editor, senior, then chief editor at just twenty four. Around then, I started footing the bills for Mom's pricey meds keeping her cancer at bay, Oliver's uni fees so she could chase her degree debt-free, and Ryan's lazy lifestyle since his "career" barely paid for coffee. And then boom, I became the breadwinner for three adults, grinding non-stop while they coasted.

"Well, I figured giving Ryan a cushy life made up for not being able to give him kids," I thought, a mocking laugh bubbling inside. "How stupid was I? Nothing satisfied him, my money, my hours, my everything. He did jack squat, the bare minimum, while I carried it all.

Padding down the dim hall toward my office for a long, lonely night desk as bed, booze as company something caught my eye. Light spilling from under the CEO's office door. "Huh? That room's been locked tight since Mr. Waltz passed." Frown creasing my brow, suspicion prickled my skin like static. Burglar? There’s a burglar in the office! I yanked a heavy wine bottle from my bag, gripping it like a club, and crept forward on tiptoe, bag clutched as a backup weapon.

Bolder now, I nudged the door wider with my shoulder. Who the hell sneaks into a dead CEO's office at midnight? There he was, a guy in his twenties, sprawled casually on the leather sofa, ringed by two more empty bottles of that same pricey whiskey. Half-drunk haze, he barely twitched as the door creaked.

"W-Who are you? How'd you get in here?" I demanded, voice steady but low, wine bottle raised like a sword, bag of clinking bottles thrust forward as shield. Ready to hurl and bolt if he lunged.

He slowly turned his head my way, and I instantly froze. sharp jaw, full lips, hazel eyes the man was handsome as hell. I instantly forgot about my own pains and was staring at him with a bottle raised in one hand.

Those viper eyes raked me slow, deliberate, my heartbeat thundering louder in my ears.

Then he asked in a deep voice. "Which bastard dared make you cry? Does he have a death wish?