The man stood beside her radiating a contained, dangerous power that was almost physical. Liana instinctively straightened her spine, refusing to look weak in front of him. The desperation might be real, but her defiance was all she had left.
"You look like you're going through a hard time, like you have things you want to forget by drowning yourself in whiskey," he murmured, his voice a low, sound that cut through the club's music and the low hum of conversation. It was a voice that commanded attention, a voice used to giving orders that were instantly obeyed.
Liana stared fixedly into the bottom of her glass, now empty. A bitter, involuntary laugh died in her throat, sounding like shattered glass. "I need to forget I was ever stupid enough to trust anyone, or believe in any kind of lasting promise."
"Trust is severely overrated," he agreed instantly, his voice holding an edge of sharp, cold cynicism that resonated deep within Liana's broken heart. It wasn't a philosophical statement he was testing out; it was a proven, cold, hard fact, delivered with the absolute conviction of a man who had seen the worst of humanity and wealth.
"That sounds like experience talking," she said, turning the empty glass in slow circles.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in faint amusement. "It's survival talking."
He leaned in closer, his proximity an electric charge. His scent—expensive, custom-blended cologne mixed with something faintly metallic and vital, surrounded her, drowning out the smell of stale whiskey and perfume.
"I have a proposition, then," he continued, his eyes, dark and relentless, searching hers for weakness. "One night. An exchange of oblivion. No names, no promises, no history, no past, and absolutely no future."
She exhaled slowly, the words slicing through her haze of misery. "You make it sound like a business deal."
"Everything is a deal," he said simply. "Some people trade power. Some trade lies. Tonight, we trade pain."
The words were cold. They were transactional. They were everything Liana needed right now. He wasn't offering shallow romance or some ridiculous, heroic rescue. He was offering a temporary, clean slate, a violent, temporary annihilation of her agonizing pain. He was offering a moment where Liana Brooks, the betrayed fiancée, the gullible sister could simply cease to exist.
She finally forced herself to look up, meeting those dark, dangerous eyes that held so much hidden misery. Up close, Liana could see the subtle, fan-like network of lines around his eyes, suggesting deep weariness, endless, crushing responsibility, and far too many sleepless nights spent battling his own inner demons.
"What makes you think I need that?" she challenged, the desperation making her voice low, husky, and slightly reckless. She thought of the tears she had shed, the messy scene she had left behind. She was chaos right now.
"I can tell," he replied instantly, without hesitation, his hand resting lightly, possessively on the small of her back. It was a dominant, authoritative touch that startled Liana, reminding her exactly what kind of power he wielded. "I know you need it."
"You don't know me," she shot back quietly.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "I don't need to. I recognize the look in your eyes. You're tired of pretending you're fine."
Something inside her cracked open. She looked away, her voice trembling slightly. "Pretending is easier than falling apart in front of strangers."
"Then don't fall apart," he said. "Just stop pretending. For one night, forget everything else. Forget who hurt you, who lied to you, who made you question your worth. Forget them all."
She hesitated. The thought of going back to that apartment, to the betrayal, to the suffocating stench of Michael's lies, was enough to make her stomach heave violently. Oblivion. It sounded less like a mistake and more like the only possible salvation.
He must have seen the flicker of surrender in her eyes because his voice softened, just slightly. "You can think about it," he said, his tone almost gentle now. "But I don't offer second chances."
Liana let out a shaky breath, caught somewhere between exhaustion and defiance. "You really think I'm that desperate?"
He studied her for a long moment. "No," he said finally. "I think you're that honest."
Her pulse tripped. For a fleeting second, she saw not arrogance, but a quiet, familiar ruin hiding behind his confidence. He knew her pain because he'd lived his own. And that realization broke her last line of resistance.
"Oblivion," she whispered, her resistance completely gone, handing him her empty glass.
He didn't truly smile, but a shadow of something fierce, possessive, and deeply relieved crossed his handsome face. He placed his hand more firmly on her waist, turning her towards the exit.
"Good. Let's go and forget everything."
"Are you married?" She asked.
He didn't flinch. "No."
Liana almost smiled, a small, bitter curve of her lips. "Good."