The elevator doors slid shut, sealing Lina in a box of polished brass and soft, golden light. She leaned heavily against the wall, the world tilting on a gentle, persistent slant. Focus, you idiot, she commanded herself, but her body wasn't listening. She pushed away from the wall, trying to remember how to stand upright. She caught a glimpse of a girl in a rumpled burgundy dress, hair coming loose from its braids, eyes wide and glassy. Right across from her.
"Oh!" she gasped, putting a hand to her chest.
She bowed deeply, almost toppling over. "'Scuse me, ma… ma'am, so sorry! Didn't… didn't see you there." She squinted. The girl in the mirror looked flushed and disheveled, her burgundy velvet dress rumpled. "Which floor you going to?" she whispered conspiratorially.
She waited, head cocked, as if listening to a reply only the wine in her veins could translate. Then Lina threw her head back and laughed, a loud, unsteady sound that echoed in the small space. "That's so funny!" she told the reflection, slapping her own knee. She swayed and caught sight of her profile in the side panel, another version of her seemingly laughing along. "You get it too, right?" she asked, pointing a wavering finger. "Yeah. Me too."
For the descent, she carried on a full, rambling, nonsensical dialogue with her mirrored selves. They were excellent company. They agreed to everything she agreed to. Nodded when she nodded. She was, in her utterly sloshed mind, clearly having the most profound and understood conversation of the entire goddamn night.
The ding was a shock to her system. Her new friends vanished as the doors opened on a cavernous, empty lobby. The cool marble stretched out. For a second, she just stood there, the boozy fog in her brain swirling. Then it hit her—a single, urgent thought cutting through the haze.
Work.
The road.
She needed to get to the road. Then she could get to work. She was going to be late.
This thought, simple and absolute, propelled her on unsteady legs across the vast, silent lobby. The only anchor was the glowing exit sign. She pushed through the heavy doors and stumbled onto the sidewalk of the quiet, cobbled street. The night air did nothing to sober her; it just made the spinning more expansive. The wide road, lined with sidewalks, was empty of traffic at this late hour—no passing cars, no sound of engines. It was simply a quiet road in the night, holding its breath between the high walls of the exclusive estate.
But her mind, soaked in wine and drama, processed the scene differently. A cacophony. A logjam. A symphony of pure, unadulterated gridlock.
"A fuckin'… mess," she muttered to the night air, her voice thick with righteous authority.
She squinted down the empty street. In her wine-addled perception, the peaceful lane transformed into a gridlocked nightmare. "Look at this… this… traffic. Soo… long. Too… long. This is… bad."
She planted herself in the center of the empty lanes, holding up a palm like a traffic cop. "Okay, listen up!" she shouted to no one in particular. She began directing the phantom parade with vigorous, precise gestures. "You! Red car! You're… you're going the wrong way! And you! Truck! Slow… slow the hell down!" She pointed sharply to her right. "Change lanes! Merge… come on, merge! Don't be shy!"
She was magnificent, orchestrating the flow of empty space, her brow furrowed in concentration. A single set of headlights appeared in the distance, a delivery truck making a late-night drop-off. It was moving at an impatient speed.
To Lina, it was the lead vehicle in a chaotic, insolent parade that only she could command.
With the serene, misplaced authority of the profoundly intoxicated, she stepped off the pristine curb and onto the cobblestones. She held up a commanding hand. "You! You have to wait your turn!" she called out, her words slurring together.
The truck driver, a man who had been thinking about his overtime pay and had just looked down for his fallen phone, was utterly unprepared for the apparition that materialized in his path. One second, the road was clear. The next, a woman in a dress was standing directly in front of his grill, hand raised like a traffic cop, glaring at him as if he were the nuisance.
The driver's heart shot into his throat. What the fucking hell— His brain short-circuited. Brake? Swerve? His foot hovered in a paralyzing panic. A cold, sick dread washed over him. He was going to hit her. The image of the headline, the prison sentence—it all flashed before his eyes in the second it took for his truck to lurch and skid forward, its momentum carrying it straight toward her frozen form.
Lina didn't flinch. This one was just being stubborn. The headlights were just bright spotlights for her performance. She was about to gesture for the phantom cars behind him to proceed when an iron grip closed around her bicep and yanked her backward with such violent force her feet literally left the ground. She was hauled backward in a dizzying arc, the whoosh of the truck's passing gusting against her legs, stirring the hem of her dress. Her back hit something solid—a chest, a wall—on the safety of the sidewalk. The driver, white-faced and shaking, didn't stop to check. He just accelerated away with a gasp of relief.
The hand that had saved her didn't let go. It spun her around.
"What the absolute fuck is your problem?" The voice was a lash of frozen fire.
Lina blinked, the angry, handsome statue swimming in her vision, his face a sculpture of pure, unadulterated rage. The elegant planes of his cheeks were taut, his eyes burning with a dark fury that seemed to suck the warmth from the night air. His fingers were vise-locks on her arm.
"Are you genuinely tired of living?" he snarled, his voice low and deadly. "Is there a single working brain cell in your head, or did you waste them all? Do you have a death wish stamped on your stupid forehead?"
He was shaking, though whether from anger or the fading adrenaline of the near-miss, even he couldn't tell. The sight of her, so still and stupidly defiant in the path of certain destruction, had ignited a panic in him so sharp it felt like a physical blow. It would have been such a pointless, messy, stupid waste. A waste of a perfectly useful piece in his game.
"If you want to die so badly," he hissed, leaning in so close she could see the flecks of storm-grey in his irises, "at least have the basic dignity to do it quietly. Do it somewhere I don't have to witness it. Jump off a fucking building. Drink drain cleaner. Don't stand in the goddamn road like a brainless mannequin."
He was gearing up for another scathing remark, something about the cost of dry-cleaning truck grills, when her face crumpled.
Her bottom lip quivered. Her eyes, already glassy, filled with instant, swimming tears that spilled over in two perfect tracks. A small, wounded sound escaped her—not of fear, but of profound, personal offense.
Daniel's fury hit a wall. What. The. Hell?
Now she cried? Was she scared now? Where was this fear when she faced down two tons of moving metal? The hypocrisy was so breathtaking it left him speechless for a second. The sheer, illogical audacity of it fueled a fresh, more irritated anger. Hypocritical, dramatic little—
"Stop that," he commanded, his voice rough.
"You… you're so mean," she sobbed, the accusation thick with wine and genuine hurt. "I was helping! I was fixing the… the traffic! And you're yelling!" She cried in earnest then, loud, messy, theatrical sobs that shook her shoulders. She wasn't crying over the truck. She was crying because the scary, powerful man was being a bully.
Daniel stared. A flicker of sheer, unadulterated bewilderment breached his icy composure. The illogical hypocrisy of it made the knot of irritation in his chest pull taut. Why did her every reaction have to be so utterly, infuriatingly wrong.
"Lina!"
Another voice. Carter's voice. Daniel's head snapped up. Carter was striding out of the Luxe Bistro, his expression concerned. He took in the scene in a flash: Lina pinned against the wall by a large, angry man, crying hysterically.
Carter's protective instincts flared. He quickened his pace. "Sir, I apologize, she's not—" he began, reaching them and smoothly inserting himself between Daniel and Lina. He gently but firmly pried Daniel's grip from Lina's arm and pulled her into the shelter of his side. "She's had too much to drink, she doesn't know what she's—"
His words died in his throat as he finally got a clear look at the "angry man."
Daniel Viggo.
Carter's mind blanked for a second. "Mr. Viggo. I… I didn't realize it was you." The apology stuck in his craw, but professionalism won. "My deepest apologies. She's not herself."
Daniel wasn't looking at him. His icy gaze was fixed on how Lina, still sniffling, instinctively leaned into Carter's touch, turning her face away from him. One second she was crying in Daniel's space, the next she was seeking comfort in Carter's. A fresh, icy spark of annoyance. It felt like a personal slight.
He'd pulled her from the path of death. Carter had shown up after the fact. And she was clinging to him.
A cold, mocking smirk touched Daniel's lips. He finally dragged his eyes to Carter. "It seems you have an exceptionally… close relationship with your employees. Or perhaps just this one employee." The implication was as sharp as a blade.
Carter's smile was tight, not fully understanding the venom behind the words. "She's a valued member of my team. I was just checking on her."
Before Daniel could retort, a soft, feminine voice cut through the tension. "Daniel? Is everything alright?"
A woman—Riley—had appeared at the restaurant entrance, her expression one of delicate concern. She glided over and slipped her hand possessively through the crook of Daniel's arm, her body leaning into his.
The picture was suddenly, glaringly clear to Carter. The rumors were wrong. Daniel Viggo didn't hate women. The man had this angelic creature on his arm. Which meant the shocking, degrading coffee incident—the one Carter had witnessed—wasn't about some general hatred. It was targeted. At Lina. Or perhaps at him, through Lina.
Right there, he vowed silently. He would shield her from this man. He might not have Viggo's empire, but he would use every resource he had. He was going to protect Angelina Johnson from Daniel Viggo, no matter what it cost.
A wet poke at his chin pulled him from his thoughts. Lina had tilted her head back, her tear-streaked face now lit with a loopy, adoring grin. "You're so cute," she breathed, her finger now tracing the line of his jaw. "You're my bossy… bossy," she announced, as if discovering gravity. "My Carty Bossy. Hansome bossy baby." She dissolved into giggles, then leaned heavily against him, her words dissolving into a stream of absolute gibberish, half-heard melodies and nonsense syllables. "Gotta get to work… the thingamajigs need the… the whoozits…"
Carter sighed, the weight of his vow and the absurdity of the moment settling on him. There was no way he'd understand a drunken Lina's words.
"Come on, Lina," he said softly, steering her toward where his car was valeted. "Let's get you out of here."
"Okay, Bunny," she agreed cheerfully, ready for the next confusing adventure her inebriated world offered.
He led her away from the bright lights of The Luxe Bistro, the image of Daniel's cold, retreating back etched in his mind.