CHAPTER 3:

ELARA'S POV:

Several days had passed since my first encounter with Rhett Alaric, yet somehow, he still refused to leave my mind.

He had been living rent-free in my thoughts and dreams for years, long before I ever met him in person. And even though our first meeting had been painfully embarrassing, I still couldn’t stop myself from admiring him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. Something in the quiet confidence behind his eyes, that stayed with me.

I knew there was no chance of anything ever happening between us. I wasn’t delusional enough to believe otherwise. Still, Rhett had already become the standard by which I measured every man who tried to pursue me.

Maybe that was why no matter how many times someone showed interest, I always ended up comparing them to him.

And no one ever came close.

A loud yawn pulled me out of my thoughts.

“I’m getting sleepy,” Theo muttered.

I turned toward him. “Nothing new there. You’re always sleepy.”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes at him.

Theo chuckled softly, his chinky eyes almost disappearing when he smiled.

“What am I supposed to do?” he said with a sigh. “It’s so boring. We do the same thing every single day.”

I raised a brow. “Is that what happens when you’re a genius? The moment you get used to doing something, you get bored?”

He only shrugged in response before pushing himself away from the counter.

I watched him walk off and shook my head again.

He really was bored.

— — —

RHETT'S POV:

After two hours trapped in a mind-numbing meeting, I finally returned to my office with my secretary walking behind me.

I loosened my necktie and dropped into my chair, allowing the exhaustion to settle into my body while keeping my expression as composed as ever.

“Sir, would you like me to buy you a coffee, or should I make one here?” my secretary asked.

“Buy one from the nearby coffee shop. The usual.”

Without looking up, I handed him my credit card.

“Noted, sir.”

Then he left quietly.

I turned my attention toward the pile of documents waiting on my desk, but as I scanned the first page, my mind wandered somewhere else.

To the woman from the café. The one who had looked at me as though she had known me for years.

There had been fear in her eyes.

Embarrassment.

Awe.

And something else.

Something strangely familiar.

It was unusual.

I rarely cared enough about strangers to think of them after an encounter ended. People came and went. Most were forgettable.

But for some reason, she wasn’t.

Who was that woman?

A knock on the door cut through my thoughts.

“Come in,” I said.

My secretary entered carrying a cup of coffee.

“Here’s your coffee, sir. One-fourth tablespoon of sugar.”

I gave a curt nod and immediately returned to work.

Time passed quickly after that.

Hours blurred into one another as I buried myself in documents, reports, and signatures.

When I finally glanced at the watch around my wrist, it was already seven in the evening.

“Sir,” my secretary began hesitantly, “may I leave now?”

I lifted my gaze toward him.

“You can go.”

Relief immediately softened his expression. “Thank you, sir.”

He left the office, and silence settled around me once more.

I stood from my chair and walked toward the glass wall overlooking the city.

Lights stretched endlessly below.

Beautiful.

Alive.

Distant.

Just like me.

Then my phone rang.

The moment I saw the name on the screen, my jaw hardened.

Ricardo Alaric.

My father.

I didn’t want to answer.

But I did. Only because ignoring him would probably make him call again.

“Why did you call?” I said coldly. “Do you think I enjoy hearing your voice?”

The words left my mouth like poison.

Low.

Controlled.

Every syllable sharpened by years of resentment.

“You’re still the same, Rhett,” my father snapped from the other end. “The same disrespectful son of a bitch.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Are you talking about yourself?”

Silence followed.

Before Ricardo could answer, I ended the call.

For several seconds, I simply stared at the phone in my hand. Then the anger rushed through me all at once. My fist slammed into the wall.

Pain shot across my knuckles, sharp and immediate, but I barely reacted. Pain was easier to endure than emptiness. A thin line of blood appeared across my skin. I stared at it without emotion.

All I could feel was hatred.

Hatred for my father.

For the man who had destroyed everything.

For the man who had replaced my mother before the memory of her grave had even begun to fade.

My mother had been the only person who ever made me feel truly loved.

And when she died, it felt as though she had taken every trace of warmth in my life with her.

I exhaled harshly and straightened my clothes, as though fixing my suit could somehow restore the control I had just lost.

I needed air.

Or alcohol.

Maybe both.

I grabbed my car keys and left the building.

My footsteps echoed through the empty hallway until I reached the parking area.

Outside, the night greeted me with the distant hum of engines and the cold scent of rain.

I climbed into my black Maserati, started the engine, and drove.

City lights streaked past the windows like blurred memories I had spent years trying to outrun.

A few minutes later, I arrived at an exclusive bar. It was one of the few places where my name didn’t require an introduction.

The bouncer recognized me immediately and stepped aside.

Inside, dim lights reflected against polished marble. The air carried the heavy scent of whiskey, expensive perfume, and cigarette smoke.

I took a seat at the bar.

“Good evening, sir,” the bartender greeted politely. “What can I get you tonight?”

“The usual.”

He nodded.

A few moments later, a glass filled with dark amber liquor appeared in front of me.

I lifted it and took a long drink.

The alcohol burned its way down my throat.

Bitter.

Harsh.

Familiar.

Almost comforting.

“Another shot,” I muttered.

The bartender refilled the glass without question.

I stared at the golden liquid trembling beneath the low light.

Tonight, I wanted to forget. Even if only for a few hours.

Forget the father who had never known how to care.

Forget the house that had once felt like home before it became a battlefield.

Forget the nightmares that still followed me into sleep.

If only my mother were still alive.

Maybe things would have been different.

Maybe I would have been different.

I raised the glass again and closed my eyes as the alcohol burned down my throat.

The pain remained, but this familiar feeling had always been easier to understand.

At least pain was real.