Chapter 16
723words
"Shall we join the reception?" he asked. "Alexander and Vivienne have already left, but there are some people you should meet."
The thought of more small talk, more pretending, made my head throb. The encounter with Vivienne had shaken me more than I wanted to admit, and Felix's cryptic comments about justice had left me unsettled.
"Actually," I said, "I think I need some air. It's been... an intense evening."
Concern flickered across Felix's face. "I can drive you home."
"No." I needed space, time to process. "Thank you, but I'd prefer to be alone. I'll catch a cab."
Felix studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. I understand."
But he didn't understand. He couldn't possibly understand what it felt like to stand face to face with the woman who had murdered me, to feel Alexander's lips on my hand again, to navigate this surreal second chance at life.
Outside, the cool night air did little to clear my head. Instead of hailing a cab, I found myself walking, heels clicking against the pavement, no destination in mind. After several blocks, I spotted a dimly lit bar tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop. "The Last Page," the sign read. Perfect.
Inside, the atmosphere was mercifully subdued—dark wood, low lighting, jazz playing softly in the background. I took a seat at the bar, away from the few other patrons.
"Whiskey," I told the bartender, a bearded man with kind eyes. "Neat. Make it a double."
He nodded, pouring amber liquid into a heavy crystal glass. "Rough night?"
"You could say that." I took a long sip, welcoming the burn.
One drink became two, then three. The jazz blurred with the low murmur of conversations around me. I lost track of time as I tried to drown the memories of Alexander's touch, Vivienne's cold smile, the baby I'd lost.
"Another," I said, pushing my empty glass forward.
The bartender hesitated. "Maybe some water first?"
"I didn't ask for water," I snapped, then immediately regretted my tone. "I'm sorry. It's just been... a day."
"No offense taken." He filled my glass again. "But this is the last one unless you're calling a cab."
I nodded, not bothering to tell him I had nowhere particular to go. My apartment felt like a stranger's home in this timeline—filled with books and papers from a life I'd already lived and lost.
As the alcohol took hold, my carefully constructed walls began to crumble. Tears pricked at my eyes, and I blinked them back furiously. I would not cry. Not here. Not over them.
"Men," I muttered to no one in particular. "They're all the same."
A woman at the end of the bar raised her glass in solidarity. "Amen to that."
The bartender smiled sympathetically. "Want to talk about it?"
"Not really." I finished my drink. "Unless you want to hear about how my fiancé let his ex-girlfriend murder me."
The words slipped out before I could stop them. The bartender's eyebrows shot up.
"That's... quite a story," he said carefully.
"You have no idea." I laughed, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "The best part? I came back. I got a second chance. And what am I doing with it? Sitting in a bar, drinking alone."
"Maybe it's time to call it a night," the bartender suggested gently. "Is there someone I can call for you?"
"No one," I said, attempting to stand. The room tilted alarmingly, and I gripped the bar for support. "I'm fine. I just need to..."
I fumbled in my clutch for my phone, but it slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. When I bent to retrieve it, the world spun, and I nearly toppled from the barstool.
"Okay, that's it," the bartender said firmly. "I'm calling someone. Friend? Family?"
"No family," I mumbled. "No friends. Just... work."
"Work it is." He picked up my phone. "Password?"
I told him, too drunk to care about privacy. He scrolled through my recent calls.
"Felix Blackwood?" he asked. "Called you three times today. Boss?"
"Something like that," I replied, resting my head on the cool surface of the bar.
