Bella had called Lina four times. Four. And each ring that went to voicemail made the knot in her stomach pull tighter.
She couldn't leave. Her client, some Broadway actress with a deadline and a tantrum every hour, needed the dress done before sunrise. She couldn't leave. But she couldn't stop worrying—her best friend was out there, drunk and alone, and her calls were going straight to the void.
Fuck.
So she did the only thing she could.
She opened their group chat and tapped Lucas's name.
Lina's not answering. I'm stuck at work. Can you check on her?
His reply came within seconds.
Where is she?
Relief flooded her chest, sharp and immediate. She sent him the address and dropped her phone. Lucas was reliable. Lucas had always been reliable, even back in high school when he was that quiet, nerdy kid who blushed whenever Lina walked past. It was all she could do now. Trust him. Trust that Lina hadn't done something catastrophically stupid.
---
Lucas pulled up to Pinnacle fifteen minutes later, his engine still ticking as he killed the ignition. The bar's neon sign buzzed in the dark, casting everything in a bloody, pulsing red. He pushed through the door and the noise hit him—thudding bass, overlapping laughter, the clatter of glasses.
He scanned the room twice before heading to the bartender, a wiry man with tattooed sleeves and the tired eyes of someone who'd seen every flavor of bad decision. Lucas pulled up his phone, angling the screen toward him. "This girl. She was here tonight. Do you know where she is?"
The bartender glanced at the photo, then jerked his chin toward the back corner. "Sat there. Ordered a vodka soda. Paid for two drinks." He paused, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better days. "Haven't seen her in maybe an hour, though."
Lucas's gut tightened. "Did she leave?"
"I don't think so."
Lucas moved through the crowd, his heart picking up speed. He rounded the corner and saw it—the booth where the bartender pointed. Two people tangled on the couch, limbs intertwined, clearly not Lina. But on the floor, half-hidden under the table, was a purse.
He crouched, grabbed it, and flipped it open. Inside: wallet, keys, lip balm. And a phone. Screen dark, four missed calls from Bella.
She was still here. Somewhere.
He scanned the room. Dance floor was packed, bodies pressed together under strobing lights. He pushed through, apologizing to every woman he accidentally bumped into, turning each one around only to find a stranger's face.
"Sorry, sorry, thought you were someone else—"
No Lina.
His chest was starting to tighten when a woman tapped his arm. She was pretty, dark hair swept over one shoulder, and she was looking at him with curious eyes. "You looking for someone?"
He showed her the photo. Her face softened. "Oh, her. I saw her go toward the bathroom maybe twenty minutes ago. I was coming out and she was going in."
He didn't wait for the rest. He was already moving, his long legs eating up the distance, rounding the corner toward the restrooms. And stopped dead.
A figure was curled on the floor outside the ladies' room, her back against the wall, her head tilted at an angle that would absolutely murder her neck in the morning.
He was already moving before his brain caught up. "Lina."
She didn't stir. Her breathing was deep and even, completely fucking dead to the world. Her dress had ridden up slightly, her hair was escaping its ponytail in messy waves, and she was sleeping on a bar floor like it was a five-star hotel.
Lucas let out a long, slow breath. Jesus, Lina.
He crouched, shrugging off his jacket. He draped it over her shoulders, then slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She barely even shifted as he lifted her, just nuzzled instinctively into his chest.
"Come on," he murmured, shifting her weight. "Let's get you out of here."
He carried her out of the bar and carefully lowered her into the backseat of his car. She curled up immediately, using his jacket as a blanket. He stood there for a second, hand on the door frame, just watching her breathe.
Then he got in the driver's seat and pulled away from the curb.
---
Across the street, headlights off, a black sedan idled in shadow.
Liam lowered his phone. He'd gotten a clear shot—Lucas Miller, CEO of Flicker Films Production, carrying Lina Johnson out of a bar like she weighed nothing. The image was sharp, well-lit, unmistakable. He stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the send button.
He didn't understand why Daniel Viggo, a man who owned half the city and answered to no one, gave a single fuck about a drunk junior perfumer from a second-rate fragrance house.
He sent the photo. Then he typed.
Lucas Miller took her home.
His phone buzzed.
Follow him.
Liam sighed, a deep, bone-tired sound. He started the engine and pulled into traffic, keeping a careful distance behind the sleek black car ahead. Fifteen years. Fifteen years with Daniel Viggo, and he'd done things that would land a normal man in federal prison. But this? Babysitting a drunk girl while his boss lost his goddamn mind over her? This was new.
First Riley, a while ago. Daniel had told him to pick her up from a bar, keep her safe, bring her home. Then tonight, the same order for Lina—except Mr. Lucas had gotten to her first. And now Liam was playing private investigator, tailing a film production chairman through the city at midnight because Daniel Viggo couldn't stand not knowing where she was.
Why the hell was she so important?
Daniel had only ever been like this once before—when he was twenty. There had been a girl. Liam didn't know her name, didn't know what happened. But after his mother's death, he never saw Mr. Viggo like that again. The man became ice after that. Nothing. No one. Just work and silence and that cold, endless control.
Until now.
Who is this woman? Liam wondered, his headlights trailing Lucas through the dark streets. And why does she matter so much?
He had no answer. He just kept driving.
---
Lucas glanced in the rearview mirror at the sleeping woman in his backseat. Déjà vu hit him like a wave.
This was the second time this week she'd passed out in his car. The second time he'd taken her home.
He wondered if this meant something. If maybe, just maybe, he had a chance now.
It was surreal. He'd spent years imagining moments like this—not her passed out in his car, obviously, but her, close, within reach. Back in high school, he'd been invisible. Worse than invisible—visible and awkward, the kid with glasses too thick and clothes too big, hiding in the back of every classroom. He'd watched her from across the cafeteria, across the library, across the whole damn universe that separated them. He'd left chocolates in her locker, in her bag, once even slipped one between the pages of her chemistry textbook. Sometimes she'd eat them. Some were stolen by someone else before she ever saw them.
She never knew it was him.
He'd started his company a year after graduation. Using her Instagram photos as wallpaper on his phone, as screensaver on his laptop, as motivation to wake up at 4 a.m. To build something from nothing, to become someone worth noticing. And every time he wanted to quit, he would remember her smile, her laugh, the way she tilted her head whenever she was thinking—he had catalogued every detail, stored them away like currency for a future he wasn't sure would ever come.
Just keep going. Maybe one day she'll see you.
And now she had.
She was in his backseat.
Does this mean he really had a chance?
He smiled, something quiet and triumphant, as the city lights streaked past the windows.
Mrs. Dorcas had his room ready by the time he got home. She took one look at the woman in his arms, raised an eyebrow, and said nothing. Just nodded toward Lucas's room and disappeared down the hall.
Lucas carried Lina inside and laid her down as carefully as if she were made of glass, easing her head onto the pillow. She stirred, her brow furrowing, and muttered something that sounded like "…not a stone…" before rolling onto her side and going still again.
Lucas sat on the edge of the bed, watching her breathe.
Same face. Same curve of her jaw. But older now. Her face had lost its teenage softness, replaced by sharper angles, a more defined elegance. But it was still her. More beautiful than he remembered, and he remembered everything.
His hand moved before he thought about it. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin was warm.
He leaned in.
His lips were inches from her forehead when she shifted, rolling away from him with a soft, sleepy groan. He froze, then let out a quiet, breathless laugh at himself.
"What the hell am I doing," he whispered.
He stood, adjusted the blanket over her, and forced himself to walk out the door.
"Goodnight, Lina," he whispered, pulling the door closed behind him.
---
At the Viggo mansion, the family was gathered like it was a goddamn funeral.
Daniel sat beside Riley on the settee, her hand resting lightly on his arm. He wasn't sure when she'd put it there. He wasn't sure why everyone was here—his grandmother, his father, even a few faces that didn't belong to family at all.
Grandma Viggo's voice cut through the silence.
"Daniel. Riley." She paused, letting the weight settle. "You're getting engaged. Tomorrow."
Riley nodded, smiling. She had known. Of course she had known.
Daniel's jaw tightened. "Grandma. This is too fast. I don't—"
"It's settled," his father cut in. Flat. Absolute. No room for argument.
Daniel opened his mouth to argue—
His phone buzzed.
He looked down. A message from Liam. A photo.
The chairman of Flicker Films Production took her to his house.
He stared at it for a moment. His thumb traced the edge of the screen.
"Okay," he said.
His father blinked, surprised by the sudden acquiescence. Riley's smile brightened.
But Daniel was already standing, moving toward the door, the phone clutched in his hand like a weapon.
He didn't say goodbye. He didn't look back.
The drive to his penthouse was a blur.
He parked. He slammed the door. He slammed the front door. He slammed every door, the sound of his own violence echoing through the empty rooms like thunder.
Inside, he stood in the dark and let the silence settle over him. Then he moved.
The first thing his hand found was a crystal decanter on the sideboard. It hit the wall and shattered, amber liquid running down the white paint like veins. A chair went next. A lamp flew across the room and shattered against the marble fireplace. Everything within reach became shrapnel, became ruin. His hands were shaking. His chest was a furnace. He didn't know exactly what he was angry about.
Not the engagement—he'd always known it would happen, but not this soon. Not his father—that was old news, a wound that had scarred over years ago. Not even Riley, who was a perfectly acceptable wife. No, this was something else. Something that clawed at his ribs and wouldn't let him breathe.
He punched the marble counter. Pain shot through his knuckles—sharp, clean, good. He punched it again. And kept punching until his hand bled.
What were they doing right now?
The thought arrived like a blade between his ribs.
He closed his eyes. Immediately, his mind supplied images. Lucas's hands on her. Lucas's mouth on her skin. Her body curled against his, her lips parted, the same way they'd parted when she kissed him in that hallway.
Him. Not Lucas. Not Carter.
Him.
He opened his eyes.
The restlessness was unbearable. He paced, he broke things, he stood at the window and watched the city hum below him. Sleep was impossible. Every time he tried, the images came back, sharper and more vivid, until he couldn't tell if he was remembering or imagining or both.
At 2 a.m., he gave up.
He went to the shooting range in the basement of his building—his private one, soundproofed and stocked with enough ammunition to start a small war. He loaded a Glock, raised it, and fired until his ears rang and his shoulder ached and the paper target was nothing but a shredded, blackened ghost—and the image of her face finally, mercifully, blurred.
At 6:30, he sent Liam a single message before tossing his phone aside.
Then, in the gray light of dawn, surrounded by the smell of gunpowder and his own exhaustion, Daniel Viggo finally slept.