The Offer

The next morning felt dull and gray, like the city had forgotten to turn the lights back on. 

Customers drifted through the bar in sluggish waves—Wall Street guys in rumpled suits grabbing espresso shots, tourists fighting hangovers with Bloody Marys, regulars who treated the stools like their second living room. 

My head was a fog, thoughts looping on repeat. And him, the stranger, hogging every corner of my brain. His hands gripping my waist like he owned it. Hot breath ghosting my neck. The way those eyes claimed me without a single word.

“Table 4—two old fashioneds and that ridiculous espresso martini thing,” Othello called from the other end of the counter, already shaking something like it owed him money.

I blinked hard. I’d been staring at the same knot in the wood for God knows how long. “Shit—yeah. On it.”

He slid over while I fumbled the jigger. Leaned in close, voice low and teasing. “Yo, Ash. You alive in there, or did last night actually kill you?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just… head’s killing me.” The lie came out weak.

Othello gave me the look—half big-brother worry, half don’t bullshit me. “Mhm. You’ve been polishing the same three inches of counter since open. It’s starting to look personally offended.”

I let out a short laugh despite the knot in my chest. “Shut up, man.”

He grinned, but his eyes stayed sharp. “For real though. You’ve been off since you walked in. Spill before I start guessing—and you know my guesses are wild.”

“Nothing,” I muttered, turning back to the bottles. “Just tired.”

He let it slide, for the moment, but I could feel him clocking me the whole shift.

The day crawled. Every clink of ice, every spilled pour, every forced smile felt like it was stretching the hours into days. But night? Night was the countdown I’d been running in my head since I woke up. 

I kept stealing glances at the windows, watching the sun drop behind the tall buildings, waiting for the city to ignite. The second the lights dimmed, the DJ kicked in, and the crowd thickened, my stomach flipped like I was on the edge of something.

I couldn’t stop checking the entrance.

Every time the heavy glass door swung open, my pulse spiked—then crashed when it wasn’t him. 

I kept telling myself it was just the watch. The money he owed. That’s all. Not the way my skin still hummed where he’d touched me. Not the way my brain kept replaying that dark, possessive stare like a glitchy reel.

Othello caught me wiping the same section of bar for the third time in ten minutes. He leaned one hip against the wood, arms crossed, smirking. “Bruh. You waiting for a celebrity drop-in or what? You’re practically vibrating.”

“Shut up,” I hissed, heat crawling up my neck. “I’m just… staying on top of things.”

“On top of things? You look like you’re about to bolt for the door every time someone walks in.” He dropped his voice, teasing but soft. “Table 8 keeps staring. They think you’re either famous or about to have a panic attack. Fifty-fifty odds.”

I flicked a glance over. Sure enough, group of girls in designer everything, heads together, shooting me little smirks over their cocktails. Perfect.

“Awesome,” I muttered, ducking behind the bar again. I started reorganizing the garnishes I’d already organized twice. Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to stop myself from staring at the entrance like a kid waiting for Santa.

And then—

“Hello.”

That voice—low, velvet-smooth, unmistakable—cut through the bass and chatter like a blade.

My entire body locked. Rag dangling from numb fingers. It was him. Dark hair, same cool, unreadable face, standing right at my section like the bar had been built for him. My heart slammed so hard I was sure the whole room could hear it.

I swallowed. Forced my voice steady. “What?”

He tilted his head, studying me with faint amusement. “That’s your greeting now?”

I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“You go around taking people’s things.”

My jaw clenched tight. “You calling me a thief?”

“What do you call someone who keeps what isn’t theirs?”

Anger flared hot and fast, mixing with the nervous buzz already riding under my skin. “If you didn’t fuck random guys and leave six-figure watches lying around like they’re nothing, maybe you wouldn’t have this problem.”

Silence. Then his gaze dragged down my body—slow, deliberate, shameless—from chest to thighs and back up. “My priorities seem to be working perfectly.”

“Freak,” I snapped, quieter than I meant.

That wicked half-smirk curved his lips—the same one from the candlelight. My skin burned like he’d actually touched me again.

I reached under the counter, pulled out the Rolex, and dropped it between us with a soft clink. “Here. I’m not keeping your shit.” I met his eyes, chin up despite the tremor in my hands. “Now pay me what you owe.”

He didn’t reach for the watch. Just watched me, amused. “It was a test.”

I stared. “A test.”

“You passed.” He leaned one elbow on the bar, casual as if we were chatting about the weather. “Most would’ve sold it before breakfast. You didn’t. You brought it back.”

My annoyance boiled over, spiking through the anxiety. “So you left a Rolex in a hotel suite just to see if I’d steal it? That’s actually deranged.”

“Effective,” he corrected. “I’m Kai Voss. CEO of Voss Enterprises. And I need a personal assistant.”

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re offering me a job.”

“Two hundred thousand base. Bonuses. Housing allowance. Private travel. Full benefits. Discreet. You report only to me.”

The number hit like a shockwave. My breath caught.

“You’d have to quit here,” he continued. “No more bar. No more side clients. No more nights like last night—with anyone else.”

My throat tightened. This place wasn’t just a paycheck, it was routine, safety, the closest thing I had to steady ground. Othello was literally watching us now from the other end, eyebrows practically in his hairline. “I can’t just walk away.”

“You can,” Kai said, calm and absolute. “And you will—if you say yes.”

We went back and forth. He laid out the rules, some razor-sharp (no other income, total confidentiality), some vague enough to make my gut twist (available the second I call). The absence of autonomy was stifling, like he was buying me. But the money… Mom’s medical bills stacking like a guillotine. My little brother’s tuition three months late. My own rent barely hanging on. I was drowning, and he was offering a lifeline wrapped in control.

“I’ll think about it,” I said finally, voice barely steady.

He studied me for a long beat, then slid a matte black card across the counter. Gold lettering. Just his name and a private number.

“Take your time,” he said. “But not too much.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait—the pay from last night?”

He paused at the door, glanced back over his shoulder. “Consider the watch your advance.”

Then he disappeared into the crowd.

I stared at the card. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

Othello materialized beside me like he’d teleported. “Ash. What the actual fuck was that?”

I couldn’t speak yet. Just kept staring at the gold lettering.

He nudged my shoulder, softer now. “Talk to me, man. You look like you just got proposed to, fired, and handed a winning lottery ticket all at once.”

I let out a shaky breath. “He… offered me a job.”

Othello’s brows shot up. “A job that’s got you trembling like that? Spill. Now.”

I didn’t. Not yet.

But deep down—past the nerves, past the what-the-hell panic—there was no real debate left.

I already knew I was saying yes.