Married by Morning The Hathaways 4

The third shot of cheap tequila burned a violent path down Elenor's throat, forcing hot, physiological tears to the corners of her eyes.

She slammed the empty shot glass onto the sticky surface of the Tribeca bar.

The neon lights overhead buzzed, a harsh, grating sound that matched the pounding in her skull.

The bartender, a guy with too many tattoos and a sympathetic frown, slid a glass of ice water toward her.

"Do you need me to call you an Uber, miss?" he asked, his voice a low rumble beneath the heavy bass of the club music.

Elenor shook her head sharply.

Her vision blurred as she stared down at her phone, which was lying face-up on the counter. The screen lit up again. One Missed Call: Clemens.

Her stomach violently contracted.

Just three hours ago, under the crystal chandeliers of the Vincent family's annual charity gala, Clemens' voice had sliced through her chest like a serrated blade.

"She's just a charity case my family sponsors. Don't take her seriously."

The words echoed in her ears, magnifying until they drowned out the music.

Her lungs forgot how to process oxygen. She closed her eyes tightly, her trembling fingers reaching out to flip the phone face-down against the wood.

She just wanted the noise to stop. She wanted the crushing weight of her own pathetic existence to vanish.

"A neat whiskey. Macallan 25."

The voice came from right beside her. It was low, resonant, and carried an undeniable weight of authority that didn't belong in a dive bar.

Elenor's heavy eyelids fluttered open. She turned her head slowly, her alcohol-laced brain struggling to focus.

A man was sitting on the stool next to her. The dim, flashing neon lights caught the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw.

He was dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that screamed Upper East Side elite.

Elenor's brain was too numb to recognize the face that frequently graced the covers of financial magazines. She didn't see the youngest billionaire on Wall Street; she only saw a stranger.

The man turned his head. His eyes, dark and bottomless, locked onto her bloodshot ones.

He didn't look away. He held her gaze for three agonizingly long seconds.

Then, he slowly raised his whiskey glass toward her in a silent, restrained, yet incredibly invasive toast.

The unwavering focus in his eyes felt less like interest and more like an assessment, cold and penetrating.

Elenor flinched, her hand jerking backward in sudden panic. Her knuckles clipped the glass of ice water.