Chapter Thirty-three: Where the Night Took Me
Anna's POV –
I told myself I was just going for one drink.
That was the lie I dressed up in red lipstick and a too-short dress, the one I wore as armor against the thoughts I couldn't silence.
Two months of silence.
Two months of Eli acting like I didn't exist.
Two months of watching him smile at another woman like I never mattered.
I needed to forget. Or at least pretend I could.
The bar pulsed with energy—neon lights and smoke, bass thumping like a second heartbeat. I perched on a stool near the far end, avoiding the eyes of the too-eager guys and sipping something strong, bitter, and burning.
I should've gone home.
But instead, I stayed. Long enough to catch the scent of his cologne before I even turned.
"Not really your scene," Kelvin said, voice low, smooth, amused.
I stiffened. "What are you doing here?"
"Meeting someone," he said, eyes scanning the crowd. "But now I'm not so sure I want to."
The implication was subtle. My chest tightened.
"I'm not here for company," I muttered, raising my glass.
"I didn't say you were," he said, stepping closer. "But you dressed like you wanted someone to notice."
His words were heat against my skin. I shot him a glare. "Maybe I wanted someone else to notice."
"You mean the guy who couldn't stop looking down your dress for the last ten minutes?" Kelvin said casually, eyes flicking over my shoulder. "He's married."
I turned, scowling. The guy was gone now. But Kelvin had sat beside me, ordered a drink like we were just acquaintances catching up.
"I should go," I said, reaching for my bag.
He caught my wrist—lightly, gently. "Or you could stop pretending you're not exactly where you want to be."
I stared at him, pulse racing.
It wasn't fair—the way he said it. The way he looked at me, like he saw everything I tried to bury.
"I hate you," I whispered, throat tight.
He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of my ear. "No, you don't."
I let him lead me out of the bar.
Didn't ask where we were going.
Didn't tell myself to stop.
The ride in his car was silent, charged with tension so thick I could barely breathe. I watched the city blur by in streaks of light, watched the sharp lines of his jaw, the clench of his hands on the wheel.
His penthouse was dim when we entered, the lights casting golden shadows across dark wood and glass. I'd been here before—once, years ago—but it felt like stepping into the forbidden.
He dropped his keys. Turned.
And I broke.
My hands found his collar, his mouth, his breath. He kissed me like he was drowning. Like this was the last time.
And maybe it was.
We didn't make it to the bedroom.
The hallway wall, the floor, his hands pushing up my dress, my nails dragging over his chest. He cursed softly against my throat, lifting me like I weighed nothing, carrying me the rest of the way with our clothes a trail behind us.
His mouth worshipped every inch of me like he'd been waiting for this moment since I walked out five years ago.
And maybe I had too.
When I came undone beneath him, it wasn't just pleasure—it was release. Of everything I'd been holding in. Of every word I hadn't said. Every moment I'd pretended he didn't matter.
We didn't speak after.
He lay beside me, one arm tucked beneath his head, chest rising and falling as he stared at the ceiling. I wanted to ask what this meant. If it was real. If it changed anything.
But I couldn't.
Because if I did, I was afraid I'd ruin it.
So instead, I lay in the quiet, pretending my heart wasn't still breaking for the man lying next to me.
And knowing I'd have to face the morning.
Eventually.