CHAPTER THREE 

DOMINIC'S POV

“The VIP section you reserved is currently occupied, and there is no vacant section,” the hostess walking behind me hurriedly explains.

I know I came out of the blue, without my usual reservation. But I didn't prepare for no room at all.

I kept walking, remnants of annoyance starting to resurface. I have never wasted my time on something as much as I did today.

What a foolish man, thinking he can chase clout by inviting every single investor currently in New York.

Although not everyone was present, that doesn't change the fact that I, of all people, was here.

I snap out of my thoughts the moment my eyes make contact with a blue, piercing gaze.

Isn't that the lady from earlier, the one who broke the engagement just now?

Now she is sitting here, drunk?

Interesting.

I waved at the hostess, signaling that I would be fine and needed to be left alone.

I walked closer, her vacant stare finally registering my presence. She glared in annoyance, saying nothing.

She just picked up the half-empty bottle, downing it in one go. She is almost done with a bottle of whiskey; that's quite risky.

Something about her glare and face looked familiar. Like the person today is all about—the person I have been trying to forget and move on from for four years.

Although hers was hazel, not blue like this vixen in my presence.

I walked closer, sitting beside her. She groaned drunkenly as she downed another glass.

“I think you got the wrong table,” her voice was surprisingly clear for someone who looks this drunk.

“I think I am at the right table,” I replied, watching her with amusement.

“Oh, so you are one of those men who are looking for a rich woman to fuck for the night,” she replied, her voice softening as she turned her full body toward me.

I wanted to retort, but my words got stuck as my eyes caught a trail of sweat moving down her neck to between her breasts.

“Don't worry; you are at the right table.” I couldn't say anything, my eyes glued to the mini tattoo in her cleavage.

And her breasts, of course.

I couldn't say anything for a second. Not because of her invitation.

Because of the tattoo.

A small crescent moon inked just below her collarbone.

Selena used to draw moons everywhere. On napkins. On notebooks.

On my damn contracts when she thought I wasn't paying attention.

My jaw tightened.

The woman in front of me wasn't Selena; she wasn't even related to her. I mean, Selena never had a sibling.

Yet every few minutes she did something that made my chest feel uncomfortably tight.

"You're staring." Her voice dragged me back.

I blinked, realizing she was now looking at me with poorly concealed amusement.

"I've been told I have that effect on men," she replied coquettishly.

A snort escaped me before I could stop it. Her eyes widened; apparently, she hadn't expected a reaction.

Neither had I. My lip twitched slightly with amusement.

"You're drunk," I murmured, moving closer; her perfume wrapped around me—something between musk, vanilla, and maybe coconut.

"Very observant," she raised her glass.

"That's usually what happens after finishing half a bottle of whiskey."

I glanced at the bottle.

Half?

It was almost empty. "You should stop drinking."

She stared at me briefly, then she laughed.

A real laugh this time—soft and really feminine.

"And you should mind your business," she said in-between laughter.

My heart eased slightly, leaning back to watch her laugh. Which was surprising to me; I can't believe I have the luxury currently, yet somehow I still found myself watching her.

Watching the stubborn lift of her chin. The sadness hiding behind her sarcasm. The way she kept smiling like she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.

I recognize that anytime—maybe it is because I see myself in her that didn't let me pull away from her.

I kept watching her, rambling on and on about convincing me to spend the night with her.

“With a pretty face like this, you will definitely give pretty children.”

I paused, squinting slightly.

Was she actually drunk?

Most drunk people slurred their words.

She sounded perfectly coherent.

Well… coherent enough.

"That's a terrible reason to sleep with someone," she gasped dramatically.

"It is not."

"It absolutely is."

She pointed at me with her glass.

"See? That's your problem."

"My problem?"

"You're too serious."

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

I found myself staring again. Not at the tattoo this time.

But at her.

At the way her eyes sparkled despite the sadness lurking underneath.

At the way she kept talking, as though silence was something she feared.

I knew that feeling better than most, but I usually don't have a platform to rant.

"You don't even know me," I said.

"Do I need to?" She moved closer again, like she wasn't close enough before.

"Usually."

She hummed, thinking, most likely considering that, then shrugged.

"Fine."

She extended her hand toward me.

"My name is Aria."

I looked down at her hand, then at her face.

Aria.

The name suited her.

"Dominic."

For some reason, hearing my own name from her lips felt strange.

Aria smiled, the kind that transformed her entire face. But not into something sweet or delicate; something dangerous lurked behind that mischievous grin.

Because for the first time in four years, I wasn't thinking about Selena.

I was thinking about the woman sitting beside me.

The realization hit me like a punch to the chest.

Aria shifted closer.

Not much.

Just enough for her shoulder to brush mine. I could feel her breath fanning my face softly; neither of us moved at the proximity.

The noise of the club faded into the background.

Her gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.

Then returned to my eyes.

The air between us suddenly felt too warm, like both our bodies are generating more heat. For one suspended moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, without warning, she leaned forward. I didn't even stop her; I didn't plan to.

I guess it's time to move on from Selena’s death.