The bar was dimly lit, cozy in a way that's not overbearing. No sleek surfaces or overpriced cocktails here—just mismatched stools, cheap neon lights, and the comforting scent of old wood and fried food.
Martin handed her a beer. She took it without question.
"Do you drink?" he asked, raising a brow.
"Sometimes," Kierra replied, bringing the bottle to her lips. "When I'm trying to forget how disappointing people can be."
He smirked. "Wow. That's so... dramatic."
"You haven't met my father. Try to be his father for a day, maybe you will get where I am coming from."
Martin leaned back on his stool, arms crossed casually. "So tell me, rich girl. What exactly are you running from? Failed corporate deal? Your yacht got repossessed? Your bank account got frozen?"
She laughed, dry and humorless. "Try being the firstborn in a billion-dollar empire and still being told you'll never lead it."
Martin blinked. "Wait—what?"
"My father owns Davidson Corp," she said flatly. "I've spent over a decade preparing to take over. But last week, he gave the position to my younger brother. Jeremy."
He whistled low. "Ouch. The favoritism seemed obvious. Uh huh."
"Jeremy barely passed his business classes. He thinks brand strategy is choosing which car to post on Instagram," Kierra lamented.
Martin sipped his drink, watching her carefully. "So your dad picked him just… because?"
She met his eyes. "Because he's a man. And I'm not."
There was a pause.
Martin looked genuinely confused. Not indifferent—just... lost. Like she was speaking a language he didn't fully understand.
"You already have everything," he said slowly. "Money, power, freedom. If your dad doesn't want to hand it over, why not just walk away? Live your life. Start your own thing."
Kierra stared at him.
"That's easy to say when you've never had anything to fight for," she said softly. "Some of us weren't raised to give up. Especially not to someone who didn't earn it."
Martin raised his hands, defensive. "Alright, alright. Just saying—it's hard to feel sorry for someone who probably owns more shoes than I have meals this month."
That stung. But he didn't say it with malice. Just upfront honesty.
She looked away, tapping her fingers on her glass.
"That mindset," she thought. That's exactly why people like him struggle. Not because they lack talent, but because they think pride is better than ambition. Or maybe, passion over career.
Still… he was easy to talk to. No pretenses. No power plays. Just being himself.
And his voice—calm, steady, with just a touch of mischief—had a way of lowering her guard.
"I don't want your pity," she muttered.
"Good," he grinned, "because I'm all out of that. I've got sarcasm though. And bad jokes. Want one?"
Kierra rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
He was infuriating. Unfiltered. Completely unbothered by her wealth.
And yet… kind of charming.