Fine Men Don't Frown

“Oh, you’re such a fine man,” she sang, voice thick with alcohol and admiration, her gaze lifting to his with a sloppy kind of awe.

Darien’s brows drew together, a faint grimace tugging at his lips. Fine man? The words landed oddly. No one had ever said that to him—not to his face. People described him as powerful, brilliant, ruthless. Never fine.

Before he could process the absurdity of it, she did something else—something that froze him in place. Her hand reached up and brushed his face.

Every muscle in his body went taut. The warmth of her touch was light, almost trembling, but it burned through his composure like fire through ice.

“Oh no, no, no,” Zee murmured, her tone soft and pleading. “Don’t do that. Don’t frown.” Her fingertips moved over his brows, smoothing the lines away as though she had every right to. “Fine men don’t frown,” she whispered, smiling to herself as if proud of her handiwork.

Darien stood motionless, staring down at her. Her eyes were glossy and unfocused, her breath warm against his chin. What in God’s name… is she doing?

“There you go, beautiful,” she murmured again, her lips curving into a bright, drowsy smile—just before her face crumpled into a series of hiccups.

Darien blinked, confusion flickering beneath his calm. The hiccups came faster, sharper, her lashes fluttering like she was struggling to stay awake. He was about to speak when—

She threw up.

Right in his face.

The world seemed to stop. Darien went perfectly still, eyes wide, expression unreadable. Around them, gasps filled the grand hall. He could feel the heavy silence closing in, every eye in the room fixed on him—the nation’s most feared man, standing frozen with a drunken stranger’s vomit on his suit.

He should be furious. He should have called security. But for reasons he couldn’t explain, his anger never came. Instead, there was only… quiet. His heartbeat was steady, his mind oddly blank. He didn’t even drop her. He just stood there, holding her, his face calm and empty of emotion.

“Oh my gosh!”

“Holy shit!”

The crowd’s whispers rippled around him, snapping him out of his daze. He looked down at the girl—frail, unconscious, absurdly at peace—and then to the stunned faces around them.

Two women suddenly pushed through the crowd, running toward him.

Mia and Irene.

Darien’s shoulders stiffened. For a moment, he thought they were paparazzi. But the panic on their faces told a different story.

“So, so sorry,” Mia blurted, reaching for Zee’s wrist, trying to pull her away. Darien didn’t let go immediately. His hand still held her, not possessively—just firmly, as though he needed to be sure she was real.

He glanced up at the women, his voice low. “Is she yours?”

“Yes—yes, she’s our friend,” Irene stammered, her eyes darting between his unreadable face and the drunken girl in his arms.

“It’s her first time drinking,” Mia added quickly. “She doesn’t usually—um—react like this.”

Darien studied Zee’s face. The flush on her cheeks, the softness of her features. Clearly intoxicated. Clearly harmless. This is what had the whole room staring.

He exhaled quietly, a faint smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth before he handed her over. Without another word, he turned and began walking toward the stairs.

“He isn’t going to do anything to her?” someone whispered from the crowd.

Darien paused halfway up, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingered for a moment on the girl now being carried out by her friends. Something in his chest twisted—an unfamiliar, unwelcome tug.

He looked away.

Minutes later, in his office on the fortieth floor, Darien sat behind his desk, his reflection dark against the city lights. His body was rigid, but his mind replayed the scene over and over—the warmth of her hand, her ridiculous words, the way she’d touched his face without fear.

He reached for the phone, dialing a familiar number. Within minutes, a man in a black tuxedo entered.

“Find out if that little drama downstairs was a setup for the paparazzi,” Darien said, his voice cold and controlled. “Or if it was just… coincidence.”

He didn’t turn to face the man. He didn’t need to. His reflection in the glass was already enough—calm, polished, and utterly unreadable.