Chapter 4

~ ALINA ~

The music inside the bar is loud. Lights flicker, red and amber, casting long shadows and making the furniture and those sitting by the stool opposite the bartender look long.

I don’t belong here.

Nobody looks at me. Not even a second glance. Which is weird because I’m wearing gloves and I smell like medicine despite the perfume Cici had sprayed on my body but maybe in here, that’s the dress code.

I make it to the counter, half-leaning, half-clinging to it, afraid the floor might disappear.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks without looking.

I panic.

What do people order when they want to forget?

“Uh…” I scan the bottles like I’m reading a menu in a foreign language. “Something strong. And… sad.”

He raises an eyebrow but nods, pulling out a glass and pouring something amber and white into it. I don’t ask what it is. I lift it to my lips like a dare and take a sip.

It burns.

Perfect.

I reach for my gloves, sliding them off and stuffing them into my pocket. No more filters. No more sterilized air. If this kills me, at least it’ll be honest.

Then, I climb onto a stool, sparing a half drunk whiskey by my side a glance.

I’m halfway through the drink, knowing this might kill me when he walks in.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Sharp jaw. Long black hair that's packed in a bun.

This is the first time I'll see a handsome man apart from Asher after being locked up in that place.

And of course he’s really handsome. The universe is cruel like that.

He takes the stool beside me and grabs the half drunk whiskey. He'd been sitting here before me then.

I try not to look.

I fail.

I down the rest of my drink and wave for another even though I know taking alcohol will mess with my meds and the spasm in my lungs is enough warning signs already. The bartender pours again, and I reach for it before my eyes widen.

Right.

I don’t have money.

Of course I don’t. Why would I? I fled my life like a sad Victorian ghost and forgot the part where people pay for things.

I freeze, eyes on the drink like I can mentally pay for it with shame. The bartender’s already looking annoyed, and I open my mouth to stutter out something about coming back later or washing dishes—

“I’ve got it.” The man beside me says smoothly.

I blink. “Sorry?”

He nods at the bartender. “Add her tab to mine.”

The bartender shrugs, walks away, and I turn to face him.

“That’s… thank you.” I pause. “You shouldn’t have.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You looked like you needed it.”

Well. That’s embarrassing. But I'm choosing to see the good here. So I take another gulp, knowing that I'm going to take as many as possible until I can no longer stand, until the ache in my chest fades into nothing, until I die and meet myself in hell because I should have probably aborted that pregnancy when I heard it's a high risk one, I should have forced him to mark me and stay by his side.

I gulp it down again, tears burning my eyes.

“Do I really look that tragic?” I ask the man.

He looks at me properly now. Eyes dark. Whiskey halfway to his defined lips.

“You look like someone trying really hard not to fall apart.”

I let out a breath that might be a laugh. “Wow. That obvious, huh?”

He smiles, and it’s not pity. That’s somehow worse. It’s gentle. But hard.

I hate gentle. Asher was. Look where it landed me.

I take another sip of my drink, liquid courage flowing in my veins and I motion toward a booth. “You want to sit? I owe you a story at least.”

I don't owe him any story. But I'm afraid that if I don't tell anyone, I might fall apart completely.

He hesitates, then follows.

We settle in, and I slide into the warm leather seat. I'm starting to feel the alcohol vividly now.

I glance at him, this too-handsome man who bought my drink and sat down anyway.

“Let's start with the basics shall we?”

He smirks. “Ronan.”

“Nice. I’m Sadness. But you can call me Alina.”

The silence stretches and I don't let the awkwardness settle in before blurting,

“You are here for the Luna festival too, right?”

He shrugs, his eyes fixed behind me. “What else would I be doing here if not that?”

I snort. “Crushing the hearts of broken women?”

That gets his attention. He blinks at me and lets out a breathy laugh.

“No,” he says. “But I can see how I might give off that vibe.”

“You do.” I sip again. “That bone structure is dangerous.”

He arches a brow. “You should talk.”

“I should not.” I press the cold glass against my cheek. “I’ve been talking too much since I got out.”

“Out?” he echoes.

Crap.

“Of a bad place,” I say, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “You know. The usual. Lies, betrayal, a few broken promises, and just a touch of heartbreak-induced psychosis.”

He hums. “Sounds... fresh.”

“It is.” I lift my drink in a toast. “To fresh wounds.”

He clinks his glass against mine.

We drink.

And then it happens. I lean in just a little, his earthy cologne filling my nostrils, my body obeying that wild, drunk little voice in my head whispering, Do it. Do it. Kiss a stranger and forget. If Asher could do it, you should too. It'd been long since he last touched you.

“You ever been someone’s second choice, Ronan?” I ask.

He blinks, caught off guard. “I don’t think so.”

I hum. “Lucky. I was the first. Then I wasn’t even a choice anymore. Just a mistake with a heartbeat.”

His brows draw together. “Alina…”

I shake my head. “Don’t.”

He looks at me, quiet. And maybe he sees it—the edge I’m teetering on. Not just drunk. Desperate.

And then, the thought strikes. Wild, reckless, and stupid.

So I blurt, “Wanna have sex?”

He chokes on his drink.

I wave a hand lazily. “Just asking. I mean, look at you. You’re hot. I’m miserable. And pale. Classic recipe.”

He wipes his mouth, staring at me like I’m an unstable equation. “That’s… honest.”

“I am.” I sip. “Too honest. It’s the trauma.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just watches me.

“What if I said yes?” he asks.

“Then I’d probably cry halfway through and ask you to hold me like a Victorian widow.”

His lips twitch. “And if I say no?”

“I’ll respect you more. But also eat a bag of fries in shame. Win-win.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he says, “I have a room upstairs.”

I blink.

He stands. Offers me his hand.

And I... stare.

Because I don’t know what hurts more—going with him or staying right here.

But if Asher could do it, I can too right?

So I do what any heartbroken woman with nothing left will do–I say yes to a stranger's hand and hope he can't feel it shaking.