Chapter 177: Drinking game

NOAH

I sat down, the leather chair sighing under me. This was a real job. Not just a project, not just a whim. I was actually expected to do things.

I opened my laptop and began diving into the reports, the sheer volume of work acting as a distraction from the lingering “home” feelings I was trying to suppress.

About an hour into a particularly dense financial summary, my phone buzzed.

Cassian: Are you settling in alright?

I stared at the screen. Five words. That was it. But my brain came to a screeching halt. He was in a high-level meeting with the Ministry of Finance, and he had taken five seconds to check on me.

The warmth I’d been suppressing flooded back, hot and embarrassing.

I typed.

“Yes! Thank you for asking ;⁠)”

No. Too eager. Way too eager. Did I just sound like a manic puppy? Delete.

“Fine, thanks.”

Cold. Cold like a frozen turkey. Might upset him. Might be insulting. Delete.

“Yes, I’m settling in, the workload is as brutal as expected but I’m managing.”

Oh god, complaint central. Also, way too long. Does he even care about my workload? Delete.

“Yeah, thanks.”

I hovered over send, my thumb shaking like a leaf in a storm. Maybe add, “Will you be back before I clock out?” No. Too obvious. Too needy. Delete. Add again. Delete again.

My brain screeched. (I am waiting for him.) (But he doesn’t need to know that. Nobody needs to know that.)

My stomach knotted. My thumb twitched. I considered leaving it blank. Just ignore him.

Just act like a functional adult.

Ha.

Functional. I laughed nervously at my own joke.

Finally, like a soldier accepting a death sentence, I typed:

“Managing. Your to-do list is trying to kill me.”

I hit send before I could overthink it. Five minutes passed. Then fifteen. Delivered, then Read.

No response.

An hour later, still nothing. I found myself checking the phone every seven minutes.

He’s not going to respond, Noah. He’s busy. He’s always busy. Was the to-do list comment too casual? Did I cross a line?

The spiral was pathetic. I forced my head down, burying myself in the presentation review. He’s not your boyfriend, I reminded myself. You’re his assistant. And also his… whatever. But not his boyfriend.

By the time 6:00 PM rolled around, I was exhausted. I saved my last document and looked toward Cassian’s office.

It was dark.

He hadn’t come back from the Ministry. A small, stupid part of me felt deflated, even though I’d told myself a dozen times not to expect him.

I gathered my things and headed to the lobby, planning to go home, order takeout, and let a telenovela numb my brain.

“NOAH!”

I froze like I was on gunpoint.

Mason again.

This time he was surrounded by a group of six or seven coworkers, all of them in high-spirits.

“Karaoke!” Mason shouted, grabbing my arm. “Come on! The whole team is going! It’s Friday!”

“I’m tired, Mason. I have things to—”

“You need to have fun! It’s been ages and you just got back from a long trip.” Mason leaned in, lowering his voice. “Also… maybe meet someone? Get over Lila? Have a life?” He gave me a meaningful wiggle of his eyebrows.

I sighed. I looked at the group. Cassian wasn’t coming. I had no plans other than moping in my apartment.

Just go, I told myself. It’s one night.

“Fine,” I said.

The walk to the bar was surprisingly pleasant. People who had barely known my name a month ago were suddenly very interested in my life.

They were smiling, asking about the executive floor, and—more importantly—asking “what Cassian Wolfe is like up close.”

Ah, I thought, the realization hitting me. I’m useful now. I’m the guy who stands next to the monster.

I didn’t take it personally. I gave them nothing, being vague and smiling as I let them wonder.

The karaoke bar was a sensory assault… neon lights, sticky floors, and a private booth that was already vibrating with bad singing. I found a corner seat, trying to make myself as small as possible.

A round of beers appeared on the table. One was set in front of me, the condensation glistening on the glass. The smell of the hops hit me… sharp, bitter, and cold.

Suddenly, I wasn’t in a bar. I was in Alex Hendrix’s suite. I could smell the expensive gin, the chemical burn of the drug, and the terrifying blurring of my vision as the floor rushed up to meet me.

“I’m okay, thanks,” I said, pushing the glass away with a steady hand.

“You sure? It’s Friday!” someone yelled over the music.

“Yeah. I’m good.” I ordered a juice and watched the others.

My mind flickered to Cassian… the taste of whiskey on his lips when he kissed me. That was the only alcohol I wanted anywhere near me.

“Your turn!” The songbook was thrust into my hands.

“Pass,” I said immediately.

“NOAH—”

“I said pass, Mason.” My voice was firm, and the group moved on.

I was content to just watch until I noticed someone staring.

Across the booth, a young woman was looking at me. She was beautiful in that effortless, “old money” way… soft features, elegant clothes, and a delicate air.

“Don’t look now,” Mason whispered, leaning in. “But Eloise Park has been staring at you for twenty minutes. She’s an intern in Legal. Her dad owns like four percent of the company shares. This is FATE, Noah.”

“Mason, don’t—”

Too late. Mason literally shoved me toward her. “GO!”

I stumbled slightly, ending up right next to her. She laughed softly, a silver-bell sound. “Sorry about him,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice gentle. “I’m Eloise.”

The conversation was actually easy. She was nice. Genuinely nice. We talked about work and the Spain trip (the sanitized version), and then she tilted her head. “Wait a minute… are you Nick Bennett’s brother? From the news?”

“Please don’t,” I groaned.

She laughed again. “Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone you’re related to a national hero.”

It was a pleasant conversation. But as I looked at her, I felt absolutely nothing. No spark, no flicker of interest. Just the recognition that she was a nice person.

The rest of the group noticed, of course.

“Company couple alert!” someone teased, making Eloise blush furiously. One guy, Jin, was glaring at me from across the table, his hand gripping his drink too tight. He clearly liked her.

Please, Jin, take her, I thought. I’m not competition.

Then the drinking games started.

Eloise was terrible at them. She lost three rounds in a row, her cheeks flushing a deep pink as she took shot after shot.

“You should stop,” I warned her. “You’ve had enough.”

“I’ll get better!” she giggled, leaning against me. I could feel her chest pressing against my arm.. an objective fact that should have elicited some kind of reaction, but I felt like a piece of wood.

“Nooo!” Eloise lost again. A shot of clear, sharp-smelling vodka was placed in front of her. She looked at me with big, glassy eyes.

“Take it for me? Please? I can’t do another one.”

“Come on, Noah!” the group chanted. “Don’t be boring! It’s Friday! Just one!”

The voices started to overlap. The smell of the vodka was filling my nose, sharp and medicinal.

The room started to feel too small.

Then I felt it, a real panic.

It began to claw at the back of my throat. I looked for Mason, but he was at the mic, butchering a pop song.

Eloise’s hand was on my arm, her face close to mine. “Just one,” she whispered.

I reached for the glass. My hand was shaking.

Fine. Just to make them stop. Just one.

I picked it up, raising it to my lips. The smell was a punch to the gut. My vision flickered, nausea settling in.

Suddenly, a hand appeared out of the darkness.

Long, thick, elegant fingers snapped around the glass and snatched it out of my hand with surgical precision.

The room went dead silent.

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