Chapter 5: One Night Off

Ethan pov

"Sign the final page, Ethan, and the deal is officially closed," Mason Grant said, dropping a thick stack of papers onto my glass desk. He pushed a heavy silver pen into my hand.

I picked up the pen and wrote my name at the bottom of the white sheet. The black ink dried instantly. I set the pen down and leaned back in my leather chair, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows of Kingsley Tower. Outside, the city of Riverton stretched across the dark landscape, its streetlights glowing like tiny yellow dots.

"That is a billion-dollar acquisition," Mason said, clapping a hand onto his notebook. He let out a loud laugh and shook his head. "We just bought out our biggest competitor in the logistics sector. You should be smiling, Ethan. We won."

"I am tired, Mason," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. My muscles felt stiff and hard from sitting in the same spot for twelve hours straight.

"You look more than tired," Mason said, his smile disappearing as he studied my face. He leaned against the edge of the desk. "You look completely drained. When was the last time you left this office before midnight?"

"I do not remember," I said, closing the thick folder on my desk. "There is always another meeting. There is always another company to look at."

"The company is doing great," Mason insisted, his voice dropping to a lower, gentler tone. "But you are not a machine. You have not taken a single night off in three months. Go home, Ethan. Or better yet, go somewhere else. Just get out of this building."

"I have things to review for tomorrow morning," I said, reaching for another stack of financial reports on the side table.

Mason reached out and slapped his hand over the papers before I could grab them. "No. The reports can wait until tomorrow. Put the papers down, pull on your coat, and leave. That is an order from your chief operating officer."

I looked at Mason for a long moment. His jaw was set, and his gray eyes were steady. He was not going to let me work, and I did not have the energy to argue with him.

"Fine," I muttered, standing up from my chair. My tall, six-foot-three frame felt heavy as I stretched my arms.

I walked over to the small closet near the door, pulled my black wool coat off the hanger, and slid it over my shoulders. I grabbed my leather wallet and my keys from the desk.

"Good night, Mason," I said, walking toward the private elevator.

"Good night, Ethan," Mason called out behind me. "Do something normal for once."

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft whoosh. The car dropped quickly and quietly down fifty floors, leaving the executive level behind. When the doors opened into the underground parking garage, the air felt cold and damp. I walked over to my black sedan, unlocked it, and climbed inside.

The steering wheel felt cold against my palms. I turned the key, and the engine let out a low, powerful hum. I drove out of the garage and turned onto the main street of the Kingsbridge District.

The traffic was light, but the glare of the red brake lights in front of me made my head ache. I drove without thinking, steering the car through the grid of streets. As the tall glass buildings gave way to smaller shops, I began to realize how empty my life actually felt.

It had been years since I wanted anything outside of work. I could not remember the last time I went to a movie, or sat down for a meal with someone just to talk. My house in Brookstone Heights was large, quiet, and completely empty. Every room was perfectly clean, but it felt like a museum, not a home.

I remembered growing up in a house that was full of noise, but it was the wrong kind of noise. I remembered the loud, sharp sound of my father's voice echoing down the hallway, and the way my mother would shrink back into the kitchen corner, trying to make herself small. She had spent ten years trying to escape his anger before she finally gathered the courage to pack a single bag and leave.

I had promised myself back then that I would never be like him. I would never try to control anyone. But in trying to avoid his path, I had built a different kind of wall. I had buried myself in work until there was nothing else left of me.

I turned the steering wheel to the right, pulling the car onto a narrow side street. Up ahead, a blue neon light flickered against the wet brick walls of an old building.

The sign said The Blue Note Lounge.

I had been here once, a long time ago. It was an upscale jazz club, but it was far enough away from the business district that none of my board members or executives ever came here. No one in this lounge would recognize my face. No one would call me Mr. Kingsley or ask me about the market.

I parked the car along the curb, turned off the engine, and stepped out into the cool evening air. The sound of a slow saxophone melody drifted through the heavy wooden front doors.

I pushed the doors open and walked inside. The lounge was dim and warm, filled with the smell of old wood and roasted coffee. Small round tables were scattered across the floor, and a few couples sat in the dark corners, speaking in low whispers. I walked straight past them toward the long wooden bar at the back of the room.

"What can I get for you?" the bartender asked, wiping the counter with a clean white towel.

"Just a soda water with lime, please," I said, sliding onto a tall leather stool at the far end of the counter.

The bartender nodded, filled a short glass with ice, poured the clear water over it, and dropped a green wedge of lime on top. He set it down in front of me.

"Thanks," I muttered, pressing two dollars onto the counter.

I picked up the glass and took a slow sip. The ice cracked loudly in the quiet space. I looked around the room, watching the shadows move against the walls as the band played on the small stage.

The night felt exactly like every other night. I half-expected to finish my drink, drive back to my empty house, and stare at the ceiling until the alarm went off at five in the morning. Nothing changed. Nothing ever felt new.

Suddenly, the heavy front doors of the lounge opened, letting in a quick gust of cold wind. I did not turn my head, but I heard the sound of footsteps entering the room.

A moment later, two men and a woman walked toward the bar, sitting down just three stools away from me. One of the men was talking quickly, his hands waving in the air as he gestured toward the stage.

"I told you the music here was fantastic," the man said, his voice loud and cheerful. "You need to relax your shoulders, Olivia. You look like you are standing in a courtroom."

"I am trying, Luca," a soft woman's voice answered.

I turned my head slightly, my eyes tracking the movement in the dim light. The woman was sitting on the stool, wearing a striking emerald-green dress that fit her soft, plus-size figure perfectly. Her long chestnut-brown hair was brushed straight, falling over her shoulders and reflecting the blue light from the stage. She held her handbag tightly against her lap, her eyes looking down at the wooden counter.

"The green dress looks perfect on you," the second man said, his voice low and steady. "Listen to Luca for once. You look great."

The woman looked up then, and for a second, the light hit her face fully. She had soft facial features and wide hazel eyes, but there was a strange stiffness in her posture, like she was waiting for someone to yell at her.

The bartender walked over to them, smiling as he set down three small menus. "What can I get started for you three tonight?"

The first man, Luca, leaned forward. "We need something bright and celebratory. It is a brand new start."

The woman looked at the bartender, then down at the menu, and then she let out a short, sudden laugh. It was not a polite, quiet chuckle. It was a real, unguarded sound that seemed to ring through the quiet corner of the bar, completely natural and unpolished.

"I think I just want a regular ginger ale," she said, her smile widening until her eyes crinkled at the corners. "Nothing fancy, please."

The sound of her laugh hit me like a physical touch. In my world, every laugh was calculated. People smiled to win a contract, or they laughed to make me happy in the boardroom. But her voice was completely real. I sat frozen on my stool, my glass halfway to my mouth, completely unable to look away from her face.