One Night Stand

Vincent’s POV

I don’t even think I heard the name. The moment Mr. Donald’s lips moved, I was already gone, both mentally and physically.

My legs moved before I told them to, carrying me away from the celebration, away from the applause, away from everything I thought I’d earned.

Each step felt heavier than the last, like I was dragging the weight of every late night, every overlooked idea, every quiet moment I told myself, your time will come.

But it didn’t.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at the screen.

Pascal.

Of course.

“This is not the time, Pascal,” I muttered, letting the call ring out as I pushed the office doors open and stepped into the cold air outside. I switched off my phone and let silence fill the space that used to hold hope.

“I need my time alone.”

The afternoon sun fell across my face as I walked into the garage, slid into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door. For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the steering wheel, wondering if I was being dramatic. Wondering if maybe I should’ve stayed. Congratulated the person who got what I was supposed to get. Clapped with a smile. Laughed like it didn’t sting.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t sit there and pretend anymore.

So I drove.

Nowhere in particular. Just away.

Buildings blurred past me like background noise. Thoughts swirled around like a storm with no center. Had I not done enough? Had I missed something? Or was I simply never really seen to begin with?

After about twenty minutes of aimless driving, I pulled up in front of a bar tucked into the side of a quiet street. The sign was half-lit, flickering in the soft afternoon light. It didn’t scream welcome. But it didn’t scream go away either.

I wasn’t even sure why I chose that bar. Maybe it was the dim lighting. Maybe it was the fact that it looked like the kind of place where no one asked questions. Maybe, deep down, I just needed somewhere to fall apart in peace.

I walked in without hesitation.

The air was cool and smelled faintly of citrus and old wood. A few scattered patrons murmured at tables, heads bent low. The bartender, a man with tired eyes and a long beard, gave me a slow nod as I passed him.

I found a booth tucked into the farthest corner and sank into the worn leather like it was an old friend. My tie was loose. My blazer already off, tossed beside me like it had betrayed me too. My shirt, once crisp and white, looked crumpled and defeated, just like me.

“Whiskey. Neat,” I told the bartender when he came over.

He nodded and left.

The first glass burned. It dragged its fire down my throat and settled like a stone in my stomach. The second dulled the sting in my chest. The third blurred the edges of the world just enough to feel distant. Tolerable.

I wasn’t counting the fourth or fifth anymore when the door creaked open, and I noticed someone walking in.

He didn’t just walk in. He arrived.

He moved with a kind of quiet confidence, the kind that made people step aside without realizing why. His presence demanded attention without asking for it. Calm. Poised. Complete.

Every feature on his face was maddeningly symmetrical, like he’d been carved out of stone and then softened just enough to be human. Thick black curls. Olive-toned skin. A jawline so sharp it made me question if I’d imagined it.

He wasn’t dressed for the bar. Button-up shirt tucked neatly, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a silver watch glinting every time he turned. Like he belonged somewhere else. Somewhere higher.

His gaze swept across the room and paused the moment it landed on me.

I looked away.

Too late.

I heard his footsteps approaching. Steady. Measured. Certain.

He stopped beside my booth.

“Mind if I sit?”

His voice was deep, rich. The kind of voice that could talk you off a ledge, or into something you never planned on doing.

I was already too far gone to say no.

He didn’t wait for an answer anyway. Just slid into the booth across from me like he belonged there. Like we’d done this before.

“Bad day?” he asked.

I huffed. “That obvious?”

He shrugged. “You look like a man who’s trying to drink the disappointment away. I know the look.”

I chuckled bitterly and swirled what was left in my glass. “Try Ten years of hard work. Still invisible.”

His brow arched, just slightly. “Work?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, eyes heavy. “I’ve been at Ascend Global for almost a decade. I’ve eaten every late night, every impossible deadline, every passive-aggressive comment from bosses who don’t know what I do but rely on my results. Today was supposed to be… different.”

He didn’t break eye contact. There was something in his gaze, curiosity, yes, but something else. Like understanding. Recognition.

“Promotion?” he asked.

I scoffed. “Head of Strategy. I was next in line. Everyone knew it. I trained the damn team. Hell, I wrote the department’s last pitch deck. But guess what? They skipped right over me.”

I wasn’t even sure why I was telling him this. He was a stranger. Handsome. Composed. Mysterious. And yet, something about his presence felt grounding, like I could fall apart and he wouldn’t flinch.

I leaned forward slightly, my voice dropping. “You know what Mr. Donald said last week? ‘You’re doing great work, Vincent. You’re being seen.’”

I laughed, but it didn’t sound right. It was hollow, and Ugly.

“Seen,” I repeated. “But clearly not enough to be chosen.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened. Really listened. Like my words weren’t noise. Like they mattered.

I kept going.

“I didn’t even hear the name. The moment he said ‘Head of Strategy,’ my ears shut down. My legs got up. I walked out. Like a coward. Couldn’t even pretend to be happy for whoever it was.”

He tapped his fingers lightly against the table. “You’re not a coward. You’re just human. Sometimes disappointment feels like a punch to the chest. It knocks the air out of you.”

I looked at him, brow furrowed. “What are you, a therapist?”

He smiled faintly. “No. Just a man who’s been where you are.”

I blinked. “You’ve been… passed over too?”

He nodded. “Twice. Once in Paris. Once in New York. Worked on billion-dollar accounts. Gave everything. Got nothing. Not even a ‘thank you.’”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s rough.”

“It’s real,” he replied simply. “But the trick is not letting it rewrite your value. Their blindness is not your truth.”

His words settled over me like a warm blanket, heavy but comforting.

I stared at him for a long moment. “What’s your name?”

He hesitated, then said, “Ethan.”

I repeated it softly. “Ethan. That’s… fitting.”

He raised a brow. “Fitting?”

“Yeah.” I smirked. “You’ve got this quiet savior vibe. Like the kind of guy who just shows up in moments like this. Says exactly what needs to be said. Then vanishes.”

Ethan chuckled. “I assure you, I’m very real.”

We sat in silence for a while. But it wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of silence that wraps around you, makes you feel seen without being scrutinized.

My gaze drifted to him, those soft pink lips, the way they parted ever so slightly as he exhaled. There was something magnetic about it. Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe it was the way he made the world slow down. I leaned forward before I could stop myself, driven by something I didn’t fully understand, and kissed him.