Chapter 2 Strangers in the Shadows

The lounge pulsed with low jazz and dim golden lighting, a haven of warmth against the bitterness Ava carried in her chest. She and Lila slid into a high-backed booth at the far end, away from the bar, away from the voices, away from the sharp memory of what today had taken from her.

She sipped her second whiskey, the burn of it dulling the sharp edges of humiliation. Lila chatted about ridiculous office gossip- someone from accounting had apparently broken the espresso machine again- but Ava only offered the occasional nod. Her attention remained half-anchored to the swirl of thoughts that refused to let go. The promotion. The dismissal. The damn applause for Ethan Voss.

She wasn't here for distraction but for sedation.

Then, she felt it.

A shift in the air. A subtle pull, like gravity adjusting.

She looked up-and there he was.

He stood alone at the bar, dark suit tailored like a second skin, his shoulders broad and presence sharp enough to cut glass. He wasn't flashy. There was no grin, no posturing. Just a glass of something amber in his hand and a gaze that moved through the room like he was reading everyone's secrets.

And when his eyes met Ava's, something locked into place.

He didn't look away.

Neither did she, and he said nothing, but the message was clear: which was for Ava to move closer to him. However, Ava hesitated only a beat before sliding out of the booth.

"Ava?" Lila blinked.

"Bathroom," she lied, already walking.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she approached the bar, and her glass was nearly empty. So, he watched her with a calm, assessing curiosity, like he'd seen the storm behind her eyes and wanted to get closer to the thunder.

nd when she reached him, he spoke in a low, smooth, and roughened voice just enough to be dangerous.

"You don't belong here tonight."

Ava raised a brow. "Is that your opening line?"

He smirked. "No. That was just an observation."

"I'm not in the mood to be observed."

"Then why are you staring?"

Touché.

She took the stool beside him, setting down her empty glass. "If you're going to give unsolicited commentary, at least offer me a drink while you do it."

"Oh! my bad, He uttered as he signaled the bartender without looking. "Another whiskey. Neat."

"For both," he added.

Ava tilted her head. "What makes you think I drink whiskey?"

"I don't think," he replied, lifting his glass. "I notice."

She sipped the fresh pour, letting the warmth settle her. "What else do you notice?"

Upon hearing this, he smiled as he continued. "You're angry, but not at someone, but something bigger. Something that has taken too much of your time and given back nothing."

Ava blinked as her stomach twisted, wondering how accurate the expected precision was, and that too, from a stranger.

"And you?" she challenged. "What's your excuse for lurking alone in shadows with bourbon?"

He took a long sip. "Sometimes shadows are quieter than people."

The corners of her mouth twitched. "Philosophical. Or evasive."

"Both," he said, tapping his glass to hers. "Let's call it even."

With that, they fell into the rhythm of a not-the-forced back-and-forth, awkward flirting, as it felt rather easier and real. However, he didn't ask for her name, and neither did she didn't ask for his. It felt like an unspoken agreement of who they were didn't matter, only that moment and reprieve mattered.

One drink turned into two.

Then three.

Then, they drifted to a corner table as she told him about the promotion she didn't get-stripped down, unpolished. He listened, not interrupting, not fixing. Just absorbing.

"Five years," she murmured, glass in hand. "Five years of giving them everything. I used to believe hard work was a currency. Turns out, it's just charity."

He leaned closer. "You don't need to explain yourself to me."

"That's the problem. I've been explaining myself to people like them my entire life. Playing the part, holding it together, being twice as prepared to get half as far. And for what? To be patted on the head while someone else takes the win?"

The words had never come out like this before. Not even to Lila. But they flowed freely now, loosened by whiskey and the safety of anonymity.

She looked at him.

"You know what it feels like, don't you?"

He nodded slowly. "I've lost things I never should have had to fight for. Sometimes the people in the room have already decided before you even open your mouth."

Their eyes locked again, but closer now.

"I'm not usually like this," she admitted.

"I hope not," he said. "It wouldn't feel as real."

And not too long, they began dancing, though it wasn't supposed to happen, as they were seated earlier before the music shifted as a soft jazz gave way to a slow, sensual beat- and without hesitation, he extended a hand and she took it.

On the floor, his hand pressed against the small of her back, the other holding hers loosely, like she was something fragile and flammable all at once. His breath skimmed her ear as they moved.

"You're beautiful when you're angry."

"I'm always angry," she whispered.

"Then I must've missed you every other night," he continued as their connection transitioned from chemistry to hunger or maybe the other way around. And then they kissed.

It started like an accident- too close, too fast. But then neither of them stopped, then her hands tangled in his collar while his mouth devoured the protest she didn't voice.

She needed something tonight, a release and a reminder to forget her worries, so she let him lead her outside, hand in hand with her heart thundering.

The hotel was two blocks away, and they didn't talk on the walk there as words had already served their purpose. Getting into the elevator while watching it close, Ava stared at their reflection in the mirrored walls, and this made her cheeks flush and his focus restrained.

Entering the penthouse, she discovered it was a minimalist one as it was filled with marble, glass, and cold. But his hands made it warm. And without holding back, they undressed one another like they were shedding more than clothes...like every layer removed stripped away expectation, grief, pressure. Her dress slid down her frame, pooling silently on the marble floor. His jacket hit the ground next, then his shirt, revealing sculpted muscle and a body carved with quiet strength, and even with that, their eyes never broke contact.

Ava's breath came faster as his fingers brushed her cheek, trailing down her neck, reverent but aching with restraint. And when his hands found her waist, the last trace of hesitation vanished as they moved together like magnets drawn too long apart- inevitable and unstoppable.

His lips traced a path from her jaw to her collarbone, each kiss searing away the tension in her muscles. Ava arched into him, clutching his shoulders as though he were the only real thing in her unraveling world. Her mind blanked; there was no tomorrow, no office politics, no disappointment, the warmth of his skin, the rush of touch, the heady rush of surrender.

She wasn't the composed, calculated Ava Monroe in this moment, but raw, unguarded, and consumed by need she hadn't realized had built so powerfully inside her.

Then, he carried her to the bed effortlessly, laying her down like something precious, and when he came down over her, their mouths met again, slower now as the hunger was still there, but beneath it, something gentler like a shared silence that didn't need translation.

Time blurred out as the press of bodies and the ache of connection remained.

He made her feel every brush of his hand, every whispered breath, was a language her soul seemed to remember. It wasn't just lust, but something more honest between two people bleeding truth through touch.

Their rhythm rose and fell like a tide, crashing through pleasure and tenderness, pulling her under, lifting her higher.

And when it was over, they stayed close with their limbs tangled, skin flushed, and hearts loud.

Ava had thought it would feel like guilt, but rather it felt like a release; she didn't speak. Neither did he.

In the quiet aftermath, she lay there staring at the ceiling, her fingers grazing his chest, the scent of him now entangled with her own. Then slowly, sleep claimed them, the kind that follows emotional exhaustion and unspoken truths.

Soon, dawn crept in too soon as Ava stirred beneath cool sheets, the room cloaked in gray light while he was still asleep beside her, with one arm flung across the bed, chest rising while falling with measured peace.

She studied his face, and somehow, he looked different in sleep. Less dangerous and more human. Seeing this, she didn't want to wake him, nor want to ask his name or tell him hers, as all of this wasn't real. It was a nightstand, carved out of pain and fire, and it's best it stayed that way.

Quietly, she slipped from the bed, and her clothes lay scattered on a sleek leather chair. With that, she dressed in silence, glancing once more at the man she didn't know.

What unnerved her wasn't what she didn't know, but rather how deeply she felt something she couldn't name.

With a final look, Ava opened the door and disappeared down the hallway, leaving behind the only man who had ever truly seen her, even if he didn't know her name.

Then she walked out into the chilled Manhattan morning, her heels echoing on the pavement as the sun crept over glass towers while her heart was still racing and her hands were still trembling.

And for the first time in years, she didn't know who she was walking away from or why it felt like losing something she never really had.