Wrong Number

WRONG NUMBER

“Shit!” Arielle Lawson cursed under her breath as her bag slipped off the bar counter, spilling its entire contents across the floor for the uninterested crowd of Midnight Halo Lounge, Manhattan to see.

She stared at the mess absentmindedly through her increasingly blurry vision, wondering how she was supposed to gather whatever remained of her dignity. A part of her knew that if she stood up too quickly, she’d land face-first on the cold, filthy tiled floor. Her legs were already betraying her, softened by whisky and regret.

Before she could attempt standing, the familiar bartender, Mick, stepped forward and crouched to help her scoop her belongings back into her bag.

“Are you about to leave, ma’am?” he asked politely as he handed it to her, but Arielle caught the disguised relief in his eyes.

After all, she was the woman who had walked in wearing corporate attire, ordered whisky shots, and spent the last four and a half hours mumbling and sobbing.

Was she embarrassed? Of course. She wanted to sprint out of the club and never return.

This—this right here—was why she always despised alcohol. She could never understand the joy people claimed to find in those terrible-tasting liquids that turned them into sloppy caricatures of themselves, only to reward them with migraines and shame the next morning.

She had spent 26 years avoiding even a gulp of the vile poison… until six months ago. Now it was the tool she used to smother her thoughts, fears, and emotions, enveloping her in a cocoon that protected her from having to think about what had happened.

“Ma’am? Ma’am!” Mick’s voice sliced through her spiraling thoughts.

She stared blankly at him for a few seconds before mumbling, “Mmm?” Her head swayed gently as she tried to gather the remnants of her fogged brain. If she hoped to make it back to her apartment alive, she needed to at least be able to walk in a straight line.

What had she been thinking? Coming alone to a nightclub in the middle of Manhattan at this hour?

Chloe and Daniella would finish her when she got home.

They had been worried about her drinking ever since her insane breakup. Arielle had tried—truly—to get herself together for the sake of her job. She had even stayed sober for two months. But today had been… disastrous.

First was the early morning call from her mother asking, yet again, when her “supposed wedding” would finally hold. A topic Arielle had been running from. Her mother kept pressing, insisting she and Daniel should have finalized a new date by now. She’d already informed nearly everyone they knew about the upcoming wedding.

That alone nearly triggered Arielle into a panic attack at 6 a.m.

Then, during lunch break, Instagram—armed with its usual cruelty—that damned, no-good app—did its bit in taunting her with pictures of Daniel and Miss Right on their fifth trip together.

Yes, she had been counting.

What broke her wasn’t even the trip. It was the location.

Greece.

Their planned honeymoon destination.

But instead of crying at work, she had powered through her tasks, held herself together, and slipped into Midnight Halo immediately after closing hours.

“I asked if you’re ready to leave. I could help you book an Uber,” Mick repeated, eyeing her as though she might crumble off the stool.

Arielle took her bag and gave him a lazy smile. “Thank you. Don’t worry, I’ll call someone to pick me up.”

Relieved, he returned to his post.

She stared at the blank screen of her phone for ten minutes. She knew she should call her roommates—who were probably panicking by now. But she also knew she wouldn’t.

Her drunk self had one instinct. One terrible, humiliating instinct.

She was going to call Daniel.

After four years of dating and three years of engagement, she still hoped—pathetically—that maybe he’d pick up. Maybe he’d listen. Maybe if he heard how unsafe she felt… how terrified she was of telling her mother the truth… how broken she felt since he left just two weeks before their white wedding—even after they had legally registered the marriage.

Just maybe, he’d hear her out.

It was her self-sabotaging, alcohol-induced ritual. The venomous habit that bit her every time she tried to bury it. Chloe once called it a masochistic addiction. Embarrassing. Painful. Demeaning. And she always woke up the next day questioning her self-worth.

“Fuck,” she whispered harshly, attracting a nearby couple as she scrolled frantically for his number. Had she renamed it out of anger and forgotten?

Then it clicked.

This was definitely Daniella’s work. That girl had threatened to delete his number during one of Arielle’s drunken episodes back at their apartment.

A frustrated sob escaped her lips.