The hotel bar was dim and quiet, tucked away from the wedding celebration like an afterthought. I claimed a stool at the far end, as far from the entrance as possible, and waited for the bartender to notice me.
"What can I get you?" He was young, professional, the kind of person trained not to ask questions.
"Whisky. Neat."
He raised an eyebrow, I probably didn't look like a whisky drinker, but said nothing. The glass appeared in front of me moments later, amber liquid catching the low light.
I didn't drink whisky. Never had. The smell alone used to make me wrinkle my nose. But tonight I didn't care about preferences or habits or any of the careful rules I'd built my life around. Tonight I wanted to burn.
The first sip seared down my throat, and I welcomed it. The second was easier. By the time I finished the glass, the edges of my pain had started to blur.
"Another," I said, pushing the empty glass forward.
The bartender complied. I drank. Ordered a third. He gave me a look that bordered on concern but kept his thoughts to himself. Smart man.
My phone buzzed against the bar top. Then again. And again.
I glanced at the screen. Sophie's name, accompanied by a cascade of increasingly frantic messages:
Where are you??? What happened is INSANE
Belle, you’re scaring me
I swear if you do something stupid over this asshole James I will never forgive you
Would you like me to murder him for you? I’ve been told I look great in orange
My fingers felt clumsy as I typed back: I'm not going to hurt myself. Just need some time alone.
I set the phone face-down and kept drinking.
The alcohol hit my empty stomach like a freight train. The room began to tilt, the edges of my vision softening into something almost pleasant. The pain was still there, but it felt distant now. Manageable.
I should leave before I embarrass myself further, before someone from the wedding wanders in and finds the CEO's assistant drowning her sorrows alone at the bar.
I stood. My legs betrayed me immediately.
The floor rushed up to meet me, and I braced for impact—but it never came.
Strong hands caught me, gripping my arms firmly, holding me upright when my body refused to cooperate. I looked up, expecting the bartender, expecting a stranger.
Charles Pemberton's face swam into focus.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the vulnerability of the moment.
But something stirred in my chest at the way he held me—something warm and unfamiliar, something I hadn't felt since the early days with James. I noticed, perhaps for the first time, how handsome Charles was.
Silver hair that caught the dim light, strong jaw, blue eyes full of quiet concern. Distinguished in a way that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with presence.
The kind of man who improved with time, who grew more striking as the years added character to his features.
He held me longer than necessary before steadying me on my feet. His hand lingered at my elbow, reluctant to leave, as if he wasn't quite sure I could stand on my own.
"Belle." His voice was low, careful. "What happened back there? You disappeared, and when I couldn't find you, I thought…" He stopped himself.
The concern in his voice broke something loose inside me. The alcohol had already loosened my control, and now the words came spilling out before I could stop them.
"I was with someone," I said, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "We were together for six years, and I found a ring in his drawer two weeks ago, and I thought… I thought he was going to propose to me."
Charles's expression shifted, concern deepening. "But it wasn’t for you?"
"Exactly." I laughed, and it came out broken. "He was planning to marry another woman while he was still with me. All those late nights, all that distance—he wasn't working. And I was too stupid to see it."
"You weren't stupid. You trusted someone who didn't deserve it. That's not the same thing."
"Isn't it?" I swayed slightly, and his grip on my elbow tightened. "Six years, Charles. Six years I gave him. I cleaned his apartment. I cooked his meals. I built my entire life around him around our future that was never real."
"Belle…"
"Do you know how long it's been since I felt wanted?" The words poured out, unstoppable now. "A month. Maybe longer. He stopped touching me. Stopped looking at me like I mattered. And the sex…"
I laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and ugly.
"What sex? Either there wasn't any, or I just lay there afterward wondering what I did wrong. Wondering why I wasn't enough. He didn't even take my hand, let alone orgasms!"
Charles listened without interrupting, those steady blue eyes never leaving my face. He didn't offer platitudes or empty comfort. He just listened, solid and present, an anchor in the storm of my humiliation.
Something reckless seized me then. The alcohol, the pain, the desperate need to feel something other than worthless.
"When's the last time you made a woman cum?" I asked, the words slurring together. "Do you even remember?"
The question hung in the air between us, obscene and impossible to take back.
Then it hit me—what I'd just said. Who I'd said it to.
"Oh God."
I covered my mouth with my hand, horror cutting through the drunken haze.
"I'm so sorry. I can't believe I… Please forget everything. I'm having the worst day of my life and I've had too much to drink and I don't know what I'm saying anymore—"
I tried to stand properly, to put distance between us, to salvage whatever shred of dignity I had left. My legs failed again. I pitched forward, the floor tilting dangerously.
Strong hands caught me. Again. Charles's arms wrapped around me, steadying me against his chest. I looked up into his face and felt that stirring again—warmth, safety, something I couldn't name.
"I think you've had enough," he said quietly. There was no judgment in his voice. No anger. Just that same steady concern, patient and unwavering.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." He shifted his grip, one arm supporting my waist as he guided me away from the bar. "Let's get you somewhere you can rest."
He helped me toward the elevator, and I leaned against him without thinking—into his warmth, his solidity, the quiet strength that had always defined him.
My head found his shoulder, and I didn't have the will to pull away.
"Thank you," I murmured as the elevator doors opened. "For finding me."
"I'll always find you, Belle."
I wasn't sure if I imagined those words or if he actually said them. But as we stepped into the elevator together, I was silently, desperately grateful that it was Charles who'd found me at that bar.
And not anyone else.