Friday nights were predictable.
Alexander Reid liked predictable.
At exactly seven-thirty, his penthouse lights came on automatically. At seven-thirty-five, his assistant's final email of the week landed in his inbox.
At eight, the city below him pulsed with life while he stood alone, loosening his tie, staring out at Manhattan like it owed him something.
"This is it," he muttered to the glass. "Another thrilling night."
The penthouse was silent—too silent. No laughter. No warmth. Just expensive furniture and empty space. The kind of quiet that reminded him he could buy anything except companionship that stayed.
He poured himself a drink. Whiskey. Neat.
"One more week survived," he said dryly, raising the glass.
He drank.
This was how it always went.
Work consumed him Monday through Friday. Meetings, deals, power plays. People feared him, respected him, avoided him. Then Friday night arrived like permission—to be reckless, indulgent, detached.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
Marcus: Same place tonight?
Alexander stared at the message for a moment before replying.
Alexander: Where else?
He downed the rest of his drink, grabbed his jacket, and headed out.
The club was already alive when he arrived.
Lights strobed. Music thundered. Bodies pressed together in careless intimacy. The smell of alcohol and perfume wrapped around him like a familiar vice.
The bouncer nodded immediately. "Mr. Reid."
Alexander didn't respond. He never did.
He moved through the crowd effortlessly, dominance rolling off him like heat. Heads turned. Women noticed. Men made space.
This was his territory.
Marcus spotted him near the bar. "There he is. The king himself."
Alexander smirked. "You're early."
"Couldn't miss Friday night," Marcus said, lifting his glass. "What's the plan? Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?"
Alexander scanned the room lazily.
It used to be easy.
Pick one. Any one.
A woman at the bar caught his eye—short dress, long legs, eyes already assessing him like a prize, definitely his type.
She smiled.
Normally, that would have been enough.
Instead, his mind betrayed him.
A different smile flashed in his thoughts,reckless, unguarded, unfamiliar.
He frowned as his eyes scanned the room searching for someone.
"Alex?"he turned his gaze to meet Marcus
Marcus snapped his fingers. "You good?"
"Yeah," Alexander said sharply. "Just tired."
Marcus raised a brow. "You? Tired? That's new."
Alexander ignored him and signaled the bartender. "Whiskey."
The bartender slid the glass over. "Usual?"
"Yes."
He took a sip, eyes drifting again.
Every woman looked the same tonight.
Too polished. Too aware. Too rehearsed.
He leaned closer to Marcus.
"You ever feel like you're stuck in a loop?"
Marcus laughed. "You mean money, power, women?"
Alexander didn't smile.
Marcus studied him more carefully. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing happened."
"That's not an answer."
Alexander's grip tightened on his glass.
Nothing had happened.
And yet
The memory surfaced uninvited.
Her laughter cutting through the noise.
The way she hadn't tried to impress him. The way she'd looked at him like he was just a man, not a name.
The way she had kissed him, how he had pressed her to the wall as he tasted her sweetness.The way he had pulled her dress aggressively as his hands held her firm breasts.
Then her soft and innocent fingers had roamed at his lower body.
It had sent electric waves to his body.
He couldn't forget how soft, a moan had escaped from her lips
Dismissing his dirty thoughts,he drained his drink.
"I'm picking someone," he said abruptly.
"There we go," Marcus said. "Back to normal."
Alexander stepped toward the bar.
The woman in the short dress straightened immediately, smile widening. "Buy me a drink?"
He leaned in just enough for her to smell his cologne.
"You already have one."
She laughed. "Then buy me another."
He nodded to the bartender.
They talked. Or rather—she talked. About herself. About how exciting New York was. About how lucky she was to run into him.
Alexander barely listened.
She leaned closer. "So… do you live nearby?"
He hesitated.
For a split second—just a second—he saw another woman in his apartment. Barefoot. Laughing. Unexpected.
His chest tightened.
"Yes," he said finally.
She smiled like she'd won something.
His penthouse felt colder than usual.
The woman kicked off her heels and wandered around like she owned the place.
"Wow," she said. "This place is insane."
He watched her from the kitchen, arms crossed.
She turned. "You're very quiet."
"You don't mind," he said flatly.
She shrugged. "Strong, silent type. I can work with that."
She moved closer, hands sliding over his chest.
Normally, this was the part he enjoyed.
Tonight, it felt… empty.
Her kiss was eager. Predictable.
His body responded out of habit, not hunger.
She pulled back slightly. "You okay?"
He forced a smirk. "Just had a long week."
She smiled and tugged him toward the bedroom.
He followed.
Later, much later she slept curled on his bed, breathing slow and even.
Alexander stood at the window, shirtless, staring out at the city.
That night.
That damn night.
He had never needed a woman to linger in his thoughts before.
Never.
He looked back at the woman in his bed.
She was beautiful.
And completely forgettable.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He frowned and picked it up.
Unknown Number.
His jaw tightened.
He stared at the screen.
The message came through.
Unknown: I don't know why I'm doing this. But I can't stop thinking about that night.
His pulse spiked.
He read it again.
And again.
The city seemed to fade into silence around him.
Slowly, Alexander typed.
Then stopped.
Deleted.
Typed again.
His gaze flicked to the sleeping woman on his bed.
The message waited.
His thumb hovered.
For the first time in years, Alexander Reid felt something dangerously close to anticipation.