"What are you doing here, Adam?" Tristan's voice was low, heavy with concern as he opened the door and saw the man standing before him.
Adam looked nothing like the powerful, polished CEO the world saw on magazine covers. He looked like a man unraveling. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, clinging slightly from the cold night air, and the faint scent of whiskey clung to him. His tie was gone. His hair was disheveled. His eyes—usually so piercing and unreadable were rimmed with red, hollowed by something far heavier than exhaustion.
Tristan stepped aside without a word.
Adam walked past him slowly, like each step was something he had to earn. He collapsed onto the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands threaded tightly together as if holding himself upright was the last thing he could control.
"You smell like a distillery," Tristan muttered, shutting the door and following him in. "Where were you?"
"LUXE," Adam said hoarsely. "Corner booth. Alone."
