~ Past Curfew ~

[Lara's POV]

"Did you just..." I stare at Edward, my heart still pounding from what just happened. "Did you just talk back to Amiir Blackwood?"

Edward's calmly wiping coffee stains off my dress with paper towels, completely unbothered by the fact that he just committed what most people in this building would consider career suicide.

 Did he just defend me? The words come out as a whisper because no one has ever done that. Not since my parents died. Not once in this entire nightmare.

 "Edward, you don't understand what you've done—"

 "I understand perfectly." He tosses the stained towels in the trash and looks at me with those warm brown eyes that seem incapable of fear. "What I don't understand is how a gorgeous, intelligent woman like yourself ended up married to a man like that. It doesn't make any sense."

 "Nothing in my life makes sense anymore."

The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret the vulnerability. But Edward just smiles—not with pity, but with something that looks almost like admiration.

 "Well, I want you to know something, Lara." He pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. "I won't sit back and watch someone disrespect you. I don't care if that person is your boss, your husband, or the bloody Queen of England."

Despite everything, I feel a small laugh escape. "I didn't know we were friends."

 "We became friends the first day I tasted your coffee." He's already at the machine, making a fresh cup. "You make it exactly the way my grandmother used to. Two sugars, splash of cream, cinnamon on top. Most people think cinnamon in coffee is weird, but Nana always said it was the secret ingredient to a good day."

I watch him make coffee, and something warm unfold in my chest. It's such a small thing, someone noticing how I make coffee, someone comparing me to their grandmother in a way that's clearly affectionate. 

"Here." He sets the cup in front of me. "Drink. Rest your legs. I'm sure Mr. Blackwood can wait a few extra minutes if he really wants his coffee that badly."

 "Edward, you really don't know what you're getting yourself into."

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "I know enough. Probably more than you know yourself."

My head snaps up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

But he's already changing the subject, that easy smile back on his face. "Are you open for drinks after work tonight? Nothing fancy, just a pub down the street. To help you get your mind off all this stress."

"I can't—"

"It's Friday," he interrupts gently. "And I'm willing to bet Amiir will be too busy with whatever billionaire business he does to notice you're gone for a few hours."

The fact that even strangers can see the pathetic dynamic of my marriage makes something inside me curl. 

A drink wouldn't hurt, I think. I haven't touched alcohol since Amiir banned me from the bar in the penthouse after that incident in his bedroom—the night I tried to attack him and failed so spectacularly that he has it all on video.

"Just one drink," Edward adds, his voice softer now. "You look like you could use a friend, Lara. And I promise, I'm a pretty good one."

Everything about this man screams danger. But God, I'm so tired of being alone. So tired of walking through my days like a ghost in my own life.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "One drink."

Edward's face lights up with genuine pleasure, and I realize with a jolt that it's been months since anyone looked happy to spend time with me.

 "Great. There's this place called The Brass Lion, about three blocks from here. Meet me there at five?"

"Five," I repeat, already second-guessing myself.

But what could possibly go wrong in a public bar?

---------------

The Brass Lion is exactly the kind of place I would have loved before my life fell apart—dim lighting, exposed brick walls, the low hum of conversation mixing with old jazz playing from speakers I can't see. It's warm and lived-in and completely unlike the cold, modern spaces Amiir prefers.

Edward's already there when I arrive, sitting at a corner booth with two beers on the table. He waves when he sees me, and something in my chest loosens slightly.

 "You came," he says, standing as I approach. "I wasn't sure you would."

 "Neither was I."

He laughs and gestures for me to sit. "Honest. I like that about you."

The hours slip by as we talk about everything and nothing. His childhood in California, and the ridiculousness of British weather. I tell him about my love for tech and my plans to create something revolutionary in the tech world.

He listens. Actually listens, like my words matter, like I matter.

Somewhere between the third round of drinks and his story about accidentally setting his college dorm on fire trying to make pasta, I forget that I'm not actually a normal woman having drinks with a friend.

I forget that I'm Amiir Blackwood's wife.

 "And then the fire alarm went off and—" Edward stops mid-sentence. "Lara, you don't look okay."

I turn to look at the clock on the wall and my blood runs cold. 8:47 PM.

 "Oh God." The words come out strangled. I fumble for my phone in my purse, my hands shaking. Seventeen missed calls from Amiir. Thirty-two text messages, each one escalating from irritation to anger.

The last one, sent ten minutes ago: [*You have until 9:PM to walk through that door. Every minute after, you'll regret.*]

"Lara?" Edward's voice sounds distant, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go." I'm already standing, grabbing my coat with clumsy fingers. "I have to go right now."

"What do you mean you have to go? The conversation barely just started."

"I have a curfew, Edward." The words taste bitter and humiliating in my mouth.

He stares at me, confusion giving way to something darker. "A curfew? You're a grown woman."

"I know what I am." I can hear the tremor in my voice, feel panic rising in my throat like bile. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

"Lara, wait—" Edward stands, reaching for my arm, but I'm already moving toward the door.

"Thank you for tonight. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I practically run out of The Brass Lion into the cold London night, my heart hammering against my ribs.

---------

The elevator ride to the penthouse feels like it takes hours even though it's only seconds. The doors open directly into our home, and I step out into the dimly lit space.

Amiir is standing by the windows, a glass of scotch in his hand, his back to me.

The clock on the wall reads 9:03 PM.

I'm three minutes late.

 "I'm sorry," I whisper into the silence. "The car service wasn't available and I—"

"Three minutes and forty-seven seconds." His voice is eerily calm, which is somehow worse than if he were shouting. "That's how late you are, Lara."

He turns to face me, and the look in his eyes makes my blood freeze.

"Now," he says softly, setting down his glass with care. "Let's talk about where you've been. And who you've been with."