Elara ran across the street after leaving Damon's apartment, her thoughts spinning like a hurricane. She had nowhere to go—no safe place, no sanctuary. All she wanted was to escape, to numb the ache in her chest. After wandering blindly through the neon-lit streets, she stumbled into a dimly lit bar, the hum of music and chatter swallowing her in a cocoon of anonymity.
Sliding onto a stool at the bar, she faced the bartender, watching him deftly mix wines and spirits with the precision of a seasoned performer. On any other day, she might have paused, mesmerized by the swirl of colors in the glasses, the ritual of mixing like a delicate dance. Today, it barely registered. Her heart throbbed painfully with betrayal, and the spectacle around her blurred into insignificance.
"Whiskey… or wine… maybe both," she murmured, her voice trembling as she lifted a glass to her lips.
"Funny," she whispered, laughing softly through her tears. "Just one glass and I start feeling dizzy… more…" Her words slurred as she reached for another drink, her voice rough and sluggish.
"Rough day, huh?" the bartender said, topping up her glass with a careful hand. For him, scenes like this were routine: heartbreaked women, weary men. But something about her made him uneasy. Elara was stunning, the kind of beauty that drew unwanted attention. He silently prayed the predators in the bar would leave her alone.
"Miss… are you here with someone? This isn't exactly a safe place for someone like you," he asked cautiously, trying to warn her of potential danger.
Elara barely heard him. Her thoughts tumbled in chaos. "Am I too quick to judge? I didn't even see him do anything… heck, he's not even here," she muttered aloud, clinging to excuses for Damon's betrayal.
The bartender gave her a wary glance. "Miss… you should slow down," he said gently, refilling her glass, but she ignored him. She didn't want help. She wanted oblivion.
The bartender sighed, shaking his head. She was already past her limit—two bottles gone, mind clouded by alcohol. He returned to other customers, pouring drinks, leaving her in the haze she had chosen.
Elara stumbled slightly as she stood from her stool, the bar spinning lazily around her. Her thoughts were fragmented, a chaotic mix of betrayal, heartbreak, and a desperate, aching need to escape the pain Damon had inflicted.
Dome men soon began to notice her vulnerability, some approached, others lingered too close. Their intentions were obvious, but Elara didn't even notice. Her mind replayed Damon's laughter, the women, the wine, the betrayal—it all swirled together into a painful, dizzying fog.
From a VVIP room above the bar, Adrian Blackwell observed her on the live display screen. His piercing blue eyes, cold and calculating in appearance, were softened by something else: worry, and an aching sorrow no one could see. She was his, in a way, though she hated him. He knew he could not approach her directly—she would reject him, maybe even hurt herself.
So he waited. Silently. His guards, hidden in the corners of the bar, kept a careful watch, ensuring no one could take advantage of her in her vulnerable state. Every so often, Adrian's gaze flicked to her trembling hands, the red flush of alcohol on her cheeks, the way she slumped slightly on her stool.
Adrian leave room and went to the bar when he saw her finally passed out on the stool while her head slumped onto the table.
He picked her gently from the stoll, holding her softly in his hand as if she weight nothing. "Damon..." Elara mutterd softly making Adrian's movement halt for a second, then continue as if nothing.
The streets outside were quiet, the city lights reflecting off the wet pavement. Adrian carried her with unerring steadiness to his car parked just outside. One of his men, waiting in the shadows, opened the door. Adrian eased her inside, lowering her carefully onto the leather seat.
He paused for a moment, glancing down at her serene, sleeping face. Her eyelashes rested against her cheeks, the faint rise and fall of her chest soft and rhythmic. A ghost of a smile brushed his lips, invisible to anyone else—a secret acknowledgment of the depth of his care, hidden behind the mask of cold detachment.
The door clicked shut, and the car drove off into the city. The car glided through the neon-lit streets, the engine humming softly. Adrian sat beside her in the passenger seat, holding Elara carefully in his arms. She was slumped against him, limp and vulnerable, murmuring Damon's name faintly in her sleep.
His face remained unreadable, as always. No one could guess the storm of care and worry hidden behind that cold mask. Every subtle adjustment of her posture, every gentle tilt of her head, every hand brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, spoke of the devotion he would never voice aloud.
The driver, one of Adrian's most trusted men, navigated the streets with careful precision. Adrian didn't need to focus on the road—his sole attention was on her fragile form, noting the shallow rise and fall of her chest and the slight tremble of her fingers. She was exposed, vulnerable, and he carried her as if she weighed nothing at all.
When the mansion came into view, its sprawling silhouette bathed in soft exterior lighting, Adrian's jaw tightened imperceptibly. The security was tight, shadows moving in all corners, unseen but ready. The car stopped in the circular driveway, and his guards immediately moved to flank them.
Without a word, Adrian lifted her from the seat with effortless precision, cradling her against him as he walked through the grand entrance. The marble floors gleamed under the soft chandelier light, the high ceilings accentuating the vast, luxurious space.
Once inside the mansion, Adrian carried Elara to the spacious, softly lit bedroom. The grandeur of the room—high ceilings, polished floors, and muted lighting—contrasted sharply with the fragile figure in his arms.
He gently laid her on the bed, studying her face for any sign of distress. Her eyelashes rested delicately against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, murmuring Damon's name in her sleep. He clenched his jaw ever so slightly, a flicker of emotion passing unseen.
With careful, deliberate movements, he began tending to her. Slowly, silently, he removed the damp, alcohol-scented clothes, mindful of her vulnerability, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Every touch was controlled, careful, protective, never crossing a line, always keeping her dignity intact.
Next, he fetched a soft nightgown—white silk, gentle against her skin. He dressed her with the same precision, making sure she was comfortable and warm. Then, he tucked her into the sheets, adjusting the blankets so she lay snug and safe.
Adrian stepped back slightly, his piercing blue eyes scanning her form one last time. No words escaped his lips—he never needed them. The quiet room, the way he had cared for her every movement, the steady vigilance in his posture, spoke louder than any declaration of love ever could.
Finally, he pulled a chair close to the bed and sat, silently watching over her. The faint rise and fall of her chest, the softness of her breathing, were all he needed to know she was safe. Outside, the city glittered, oblivious to the woman under his protection. Inside, Adrian's heart, though hidden beneath layers of cold, remained entirely hers.
He wouldn't leave her. Not tonight. Not ever.