* Five years earlier *
The bar was dim and crowded, filled with the kind of anonymous noise that made it easy to disappear. I sat alone at the end of the counter, nursing a gin and tonic I didn't really want, watching the ice melt into the glass.
Twenty-three years old. Freshly out of a relationship that had lasted two years and left me feeling invisible.
Tonight, my empty apartment felt suffocating, so I'd come here instead. Not to meet anyone. Not to have fun. Just to exist somewhere that wasn't surrounded by memories.
The bartender glanced my way, and I shook my head. One drink was enough. I wasn't trying to drown anything—just delay going home.
Then he appeared.
A man slid onto the stool beside me, signaling the bartender with a practiced gesture. "Whiskey. Neat."
His voice was low, confident. I glanced over instinctively and felt my pulse quicken.
He was older than me, mid-thirties, maybe, with the kind of presence that made the air feel thicker. Dark hair, slightly disheveled like he'd been running his fingers through it, and sharp features that could have been carved from marble.
High cheekbones. A jawline that belonged in magazines, shadowed with just enough stubble to make my fingers itch to touch it. But it was more than just his face. It was the way he held himself—confident without trying, powerful without posturing.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms and hands that looked like they knew how to take control.
He was, without question, the most attractive man I'd ever seen. The kind of man who made sensible women do reckless things.
And he was looking right at me.
"Rough night?" He offered a faint smile.
I laughed softly, surprised by the question. "That obvious?"
"Takes one to know one." He accepted his whiskey from the bartender and took a slow sip, then turned to face me more fully. "I'm Alex."
"Daphne."
"Daphne," he repeated, like he was tasting the syllables. "That's a beautiful name. Greek origin, right? The nymph who turned into a laurel tree."
"Most people don't know that." I felt a flutter of warmth at being noticed. "My mother was a classics professor. She had... specific ideas about naming children."
"She sounds interesting."
"She was." I traced my finger around the rim of my glass. "She passed away a few years ago."
"I'm sorry." His voice softened, and it didn't sound like empty politeness.
We fell into easy conversation after that. He told me he worked in construction, that he was in the city for a project, that he didn't usually do this—sit in bars talking to strangers.
"So why tonight?" I asked, genuinely curious.
He stared into his whiskey for a moment. "Sometimes you get tired of your own company. Tired of the same thoughts circling around and around." He glanced at me. "You ever feel like that?"
"All the time lately." The admission slipped out before I could stop it.
Hours passed without either of us noticing. The crowd thinned, the music grew softer, and still we talked.
I told him about my family, my now former relationship, dreams of becoming a writer, about the novel I'd started a dozen times and never finished.
"I keep waiting for something to change," I admitted. "For some sign that I'm on the right path. But the sign never comes, and I just keep... drifting."
"Maybe you're not supposed to wait for a sign." He leaned closer, and I caught his scent—something warm and woody. "Maybe you're supposed to make the choice and let everything else follow."
"Is that what you do?"
A shadow crossed his face. "Not always. Sometimes I make the wrong choice. Sometimes I let fear decide for me." He met my eyes again, and the intensity there stole my breath. "But not tonight."
The bar announced the last call. The spell should have broken. We should have exchanged polite goodbyes and gone our separate ways.
Instead, he looked at me with something raw and honest in his gaze. "In another life, I'd never let you go."
My heart raced. For the first time in years, maybe ever, someone saw me. Really saw me. Not the version I performed for others, but the real me. Messy and uncertain and longing for something I couldn't name.
"Then don’t." I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
He studied my face, and I watched something flicker in his gaze. Want. Hesitation. Decision.
Slowly, so slowly it felt like time itself had thickened, he leaned toward me.
His movement was deliberate, careful—giving me every opportunity to pull back, to break the spell, to be sensible. His eyes never left mine, asking a question his lips hadn't yet formed.
He stopped just inches away, close enough that I could smell that intoxicating scent of whiskey and something woodsy and male. He waited. Letting me choose.
And God help me, I chose.
I closed the gap between us, pressing my lips to his with a hunger that surprised us both. His lips were warm and firm, and when he responded, deepening the kiss with a low sound in his throat, I felt it everywhere.
His hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my head to get a better angle, and I melted into him. The kiss was everything I hadn't known I was starving for—passionate yet tender, demanding yet giving.
I don’t even remember how we ended up at a hotel nearby, sweeping away everything in its path in a passionate kiss. Alex’s fingers dug into my hips like he was trying to claim me, to mark me as his.
"How do you want it?" His breath was hot against my neck, and I could feel the urgency in his touch as he pulled my dress up, his rough palms sliding up my thighs.
“Hard.” I breathed into his lips, wrapping my arms around his neck. Pulling him closer in an instant, I sank my lips into his with a greedy kiss.
I gasped as his fingers found me wet, teasing me with a rhythm that was so maddening. I moaned, arching into him, my nails digging into his shoulders.
Alex pushed me back onto the bed, his eyes dark with lust as he spread my legs wide. His tongue was relentless, lapping at me like he was starving, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to scream or cry.
I was desperate for him to fill me up, to make me forget everything but the feel of him.
I clawed at his back, my legs wrapping around his waist as he pounded into me, each thrust hitting that sweet spot that had me seeing stars. I whimpered, my voice cracking as he undone me harder, deeper.
After we finished and he collapsed onto me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, I could feel his heartbeat against my skin. And I knew I’d never forget the way he made me feel.
But when I woke, the bed beside me was empty. Cold.
I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest, and looked around the room. Alex’s clothes were gone. His shoes. Every trace of him erased like he'd never been there at all.
No note. No goodbye. Just a phone number scrawled on hotel stationery, left on the nightstand like an afterthought.