Chapter 8: Drowning

Lucien Pov

I've been staring at the drink, wondering if the answers lie beneath the liquid in it. Answers to the heated emotions racing through my body. Anger. Hatred. And mostly, self-resentment.

Layla smirks: “That dead-in-the-eyes look? Yeah… heartbreak. Or prison escape. Which is it?”

A slow, almost forced voice whispers seductively beside me.

I tilt my head to see a brunette, her eyes crawls all over me in a way that just makes me wanna throw up. Too much makeup.

One of the reasons I hate clubs.

You come to clear your head, only to run into more problems—dressed in flimsy skirts and undersized tops.

“Not interested.” I lift the glass. Let the noise drown her out. The hot liquid burns my throat as I gulp down the content.

Anything to make me forget my misery.

She smirks: “That dead-in-the-eyes look? Yeah… heartbreak. Or prison escape. Which is it?”

She slides onto the empty barstool. Her perfume hits hard—too sharp, too overwhelming . I turn my head and let out a breath.

Camilla never wore anything this strong. She liked subtle scents—the kind that didn’t announce her presence but lingered long after she left. I’d gotten used to that. Maybe too used to it.

"Bartender, give me the same as this handsome disaster."

I ignore her, drowning back into my thoughts.

She’ll eventually get bored and leave. They always do.

But she doesn’t.

"Damn, this shit is strong," she winces, coughing a little.

"Definitely bad debt?"

I almost chuckle.

Bad debt.

If only money were the thing breaking me.

She keeps talking.

"Come on." She nudge. "I'm pretty bad at guessing. You’re too handsome to suffer from heartbreak."

I signal the barman to refill my glass, and he does.

Anything to get my mind off this suffocating feeling.

Michael coming in today…

It felt like experiencing Camilla's death all over again.

And again.

"I'm Layla," She leans in, smiling like it’s a secret.

"I don't normally tell guys at the club my name, but you’re hot, so I’ll make an exception."

Picking up the glass, I swallow the liquor.

Anything to make me feel something.

Pain would be nice. But I just feel numb.

She’s still talking.

"You don't have to tell me what happened," she continues, "but I'm a good listener. It might help."

I let the glass fall to the bar with a dull clink.

The bartender doesn’t speak. Just pours. Slides another shot to me.

Exactly what I want.

I take the drink and drown half of it in one go.

It burns hotter than the last—sharp, angry, perfect.

Layla scoots her stool closer.

Too close.

"So, what's your name, handsome?" she says, crossing her legs like she’s staying a while.

I don't answer.

Just swirl the glass.

Watch the liquid move. Circle. Circle. Circle.

The music is low. Conversations soft.

People are laughing.

I couldn’t relate to any of it.

"You must be Zach," she guesses, then chuckles.

"Or Frederick. You got that brooding thing going on. It’s damn hot."

I take another gulp.

Her seduction won't work.

I’m not interested.

She leans in again. Her perfume is thick. Overpowering.

I turn my face away just to breathe.

"You know, talking helps," she says.

"I once dated this guy. Loved him so fucking much. But he was just extorting my savings for his project."

She pauses.

"Found out, and the shameless thing didn’t even deny it."

I slam the glass down.

"Another shot."

The bartender raises a brow.

"You sure, man? That’s a lot."

I nod.

"Give me more."

He does. Slides it to me.

"I'm not giving you another."

I don’t argue.

Layla taps her nails against her glass. Still talking.

"You know what you need?" she says.

"A rebound. A wild night. Something to shake you out of this insane misery a handsome man like you shouldn't be in."

I drink.

Her fingers creep onto my thigh.

Slow. Testing.

I'm too dazed to push her away.

Or maybe I just don’t care.

She keeps rambling. Her fingers now rubbing the top of my thigh.

Still, I don’t push her away.

Too numb.

Then—a flash.

Bright and sudden from the far end of the club.

I squint.

A girl in a red dress lowers her phone.

A selfie.

I blink.

Go back to my drink.

It’s the only thing here with any meaning.

Not even me—Lucien Drake—is close to it.

Once a CEO.

Now just some guy drinking to forget. To feel. To suffer.

Layla’s fingers are still on my thighs.

"I can make you feel good, you know?" she whispers.

"You’ve got those sad eyes… the kind that makes girls wanna fix you."

I chuckle.

"I wish I could be fixed."

I pick up the glass and swallow the last of it.

My throat feels dry.

My chest burns.

But I welcome it.

*

*

*

"Get your hands off," I mumble, my words slurred, eyes heavy, the ceiling spinning above me. My arms twitch weakly, trying to push her away as fingers tug at my shirt, lifting it inch by inch.

The room’s humidity clings to my skin, the cold air hitting my chest, tightening my nipples. My breath catches. I blink, vision blurry.

"I’ll make you feel good, handsome," Layla whispers against my ear, her breath close. The scent of her perfume clogs my throat.

Somehow, she got me in here. Said it was the restroom. I barely remember walking. Now I’m flat on my back in some VIP room, shirt half-off, stomach exposed, too drunk to move, too tired to react.

She straddles the edge of the bed, peeling the fabric off me like I asked her to.

"You look super delicious," she purrs, nails dragging across my skin.

My fingers twitch. My body doesn’t move.

Only one girl could offer the distraction my mind needed.

One that my mind craved.

Sofia Carson.

And I'm sure Camilla would hate me for that.

"Your girlfriend is really stupid for dumping your ass. Let me help you forget her."

"Get out."

My voice comes out weaker than I anticipated.

I don't want to forget Camilla. I want her to remain on my mind forever.

"You want this." Her fingers trail lower, grabbing my belt.

"You’re just morally conflicted."

Her fingers dig in past my boxers.

My body registers the contact—but my mind’s too far gone.

Drenched in alcohol, thoughts crawling in.

The mattress feels like it’s pulling me under.

Her perfume clings to me.

Sickening.

Her lips graze my neck.

I flinch.

Or think I do.

"Get off me."

She doesn't listen.

"Young woman."

A voice slices through the room. Deep. Familiar.

She stiffens against my neck.

"What the hell?" she snaps, turning toward the door. "This is private—"

"Out," the voice repeats—laced with command.

A pause. Then a huff.

Her weight lifts. The click of heels. She grabs her bag.

"You’re all assholes," she mutters, storming out—all with overwhelming perfume.

The door clicks shut behind her.

I try to sit up.

The room spins.

My head hits the pillow again.

"Damn."

Pain slices through my skull.

A figure approaches.

Michael.

“Jesus, Lucien. You trying to wake up with a lawsuit?”" he says.

I blink up at him.

"Stop poking your nose in my business."

"Well, something like, Thanks Michael, you saved me from having a child with a slut and getting blackmailed for child support. You're welcome."

I run my fingers through my hair.

Too drunk to care.

"Put that on. You’re leaving."

"Let me sleep."

"I would be happy to—but I don’t want you ruining the company’s reputation."

"You’re the CEO."

"Still your company, Lucien. Still your mess. I’m just the one with a mop."