Chapter 5 005
Rhea's POV
The day was a marathon of exhaustion.
Alejandro treated me more like a maid than an assistant, barking orders and making me re-type memos for "formatting errors" that didn't exist.
A dozen times I'd opened my mouth to snap back, but I swallowed the fire every time.
The office finally emptied out, the sunset fading into a bruised purple outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The automatic lights had already dimmed, leaving us in a sort of gray, half-shadowed silence.
I was vibrating with anxiety, watching the clock. It was Friday, and I needed to be at The Rusty Nail bar by ten.
When Harlan ran things, he let folks with side gigs dip early on Fridays. He respected the hustle.
But Alejandro? He didn't care about our lives outside these four walls. He looked at me like he wanted to chain me to the desk just to prove he could.
I kept glancing at the clock. Seven. Eight. Every time I worked up the nerve to ask to leave, I'd see that jagged, harsh expression on his face and my throat would lock up.
When the clock finally hit nine, I couldn't take it anymore. I took a deep breath, ready to speak, but he beat me to it.
"I have a meeting with new investors tomorrow morning," he said, not even looking up from his iPad. "I want you there."
It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a question. It was a cold command.
My mouth literally fell open. I stared at him, waiting for the punchline that I knew wasn't coming.
"Sir..."
"Dress professionally," he cut me off, finally snapping his eyes to mine. "Don't embarrass me, Rhea."
I felt my fists clench under the desk. I forced a long, slow exhale through my nose, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
"Sir, I can't make it. And honestly? That's not part of my job description."
His head snapped toward me. The air in the room turned freezing not from the Ac but his harsh glare.
I felt myself instinctively shrink back into my chair, my heart hammering against my ribs, but I didn't look away.
"Did you just talk back to me?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.
I bit my lip so hard it hurt. Focus. Don't let him see you sweat.
"My pay covers Monday through Friday," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I'm already doing you a favor by staying five hours past closing. It's not like I'm getting overtime for this."
He looked like a storm cloud ready to burst. He stood up slowly, and stalked towards me.
"Do you have any idea what the repercussions are for speaking to me like that?"
I didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. I just stared at him for a beat, then reached for my bag.
I stood up, my legs feeling like jelly, but I kept my chin high.
"I'm very much aware, sir," I said, forcing a sweet, sugary smile that didn't reach my eyes.
"I've finished my tasks for today, and I have another job to get to. See you Monday. Have a great weekend."
I snapped my laptop shut, and brushed past him before he could find his breath.
He didn't come after me. There were no shouts, no footsteps echoing down the hall—just the heavy, final thud of the door behind me.
A jagged breath hitched in my throat as I stepped out into the hallway.
I just stood there for a beat, the silence of the corridor ringing in my ears while my heart hammered against my ribs.
I looked down and realized my hands were vibrating—not just a tremor, but a full-blown shake. I had to shove my palms against my chest to make them stop.
I was pretty sure I'd just fired myself.
Alejandro wasn't the type to let a "puppet" cut her own strings, and he'd probably make sure I never worked in this town again.
Fine, I thought, my jaw tightening as I hit the elevator button. Let him do whatever pleased him. I'd rather be drowning in debt than spend another minute dancing like a puppet on his strings.
He wasn't worth the constant, sick knot in my stomach or the tears I'd wasted on him.
Later, once the adrenaline faded and the panic about my rent set in, I'd have to reach out to Harlan.
I'd beg if I had to. I'd scrub his floors, cook his meals, or pull weeds in his garden—whatever it took to keep my head above water.
A few bucks and my dignity were a hell of a lot better than being under Alejandro's breath on my neck.
^^^
I collapsed onto my couch the second I got home. My body screamed for rest, but there was no such luck.
I glanced at the clock: 9:15 p.m. Already cutting it close. With a groan, I hauled myself up, stripped off my work clothes and tossed them into the hamper.
I took a quick shower to wash away the corporate grime, then I pulled on my bartending uniform: black jeans that hugged just enough to earn tips, a fitted tank top under a cropped jacket, and sturdy boots for the long hours on my feet.
I twisted my hair into a high ponytail, swiped on some waterproof mascara, grabbed my keys, and hurried down the street.
When I pushed through the heavy wooden doors, the heat of the crowd enveloped me.
The place was already crowded—shoulder-to-shoulder bodies, loud laughter, and a bass line that I could feel in my teeth.
It smelled like the usual: spilled beer, and grease from the kitchen. People were shouting orders over the music, and the constant clinking of glasses sounded more like a headache than a melody.
"Rhea! You're late—again!" My manager, Greta, barked from behind the bar, her face flushed and sweaty under the neon lights.
She was a no-nonsense woman in her fifties, with a smoker's rasp and zero patience for excuses.
"Sorry, Greta," I mumbled, slipping behind the counter and tying on my apron.
She huffed but waved me off, already turning to yell at a server dropping a tray. Then she turned back and pointed a meaty finger toward the bar.
"Get moving. We're slammed tonight."
I kept my head down, falling into the rhythmic trance of the job. Measure, pour, shake, strain.... And it went on.
I didn't chat with the other bartenders. I never did.
A quick "Hey" and a "Heads up" when I was swinging a tray was the extent of my social life.
I didn't do the whole work-friend thing. I just didn't have the room for it.
Between Alejandro's knife in my back, losing Brenda, and the constant, suffocating guilt from my parents, my plate wasn't just full, it was cracked.
I was done letting people in. Friends, or should I say humans, were just liabilities waiting to happen; either they'd screw you over or life would rip them away the second you started to care about them.
It was easier this way—to be alone.
"Hey girl. Manager wants a 'Vibe Shift' for the VIP tables," Pinky said, leaning next to me.
She was a girl half my age, all pink-streaked hair and fake lashes who chewed her gum with a disgusting, rhythmic pop-pop-pop that set my teeth on edge.
"She says we need to make sure the big spenders have a 'great night.' You know the drill."
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. I knew exactly what that meant: endure the wandering eyes and the "accidental" touches for the sake of the tip jar.
I nodded without a word.
Just get through it, Rhea. I whispered to myself.
I could only hope I didn't run into some vile creep with grabby hands. But hope? Yeah, that fickle bitch laughed in my face.
I grabbed a tray of high-end scotch and made my way toward the corner booth. It was filled with men in tailored suits, men who looked like they owned the world and felt entitled to everything in it.
My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest when I saw the man sitting at the center.
Owen.
My parents weren't just pushing the marriage because they were desperate; they were doing it because Owen had asked for it.
He didn't want a wife; he wanted a replacement part for the one that had turned into dust.
Our eyes met in the dim light, and I froze. His smirk spread slowly and oily, like he relished my discomfort.
"Well, well," one of his friends drawled, his eyes traveling up and down my legs. "I see Greta saved the best bottle for last. Who knows.... Is she on the menu, or do we have to pay extra for a private tasting?"
The table erupted into a chorus of low, dirty chuckles.
Owen didn't defend me. He didn't tell them I was his late wife's sister. He just leaned back, nursing a glass, and watched me with a hungry, possessive gaze that made me feel naked.
"Ignore them, Rhea," Owen slurred, his voice thick with expensive bourbon. He stood up, unsteady on his feet, and moved toward me.
"I've been trying to call you. Your parents said you were being... difficult."
"I'm working, Owen. Please just take the drinks," I whispered, trying to set the tray down with trembling hands.
He didn't take the drinks. He took my wrist. His finger pads traced the skin of my forearm, a touch that felt like a slug crawling over me.
I flinched, but he pulled me closer, his breath hot and smelling of liquor against my ear.
"Let's take this somewhere... private," he muttered, his grip tightening until it bruised.
"I've got a car outside. We can talk about the wedding. About how much I'm going to do for your family once you start behaving."
Tears pricked my eyes. I was exhausted, broken, and cornered to fight against him.
I tried to pull away, but he was stronger, his hand a shackle around my arm.
The men at the table were still cheering him on, treating my assault like a spectator sport.
"Owen, stop. You're hurting me," I pleaded, my voice breaking.
He didn't stop. He started to drag me toward the exit.
I looked around the crowded bar, but everyone was blurred, indifferent, or too drunk to care. I was alone. I had always been alone.
Then, the air in the room seemed to displace.
I didn't see a shadow, but I felt the sudden, violent rush of movement from the corner of my eyes.
One second, Owen's fingers were crushing my wrist, and the next, a hand had clamped onto the back of his neck with a force that looked like it could snap bone.
Owen was ripped away from me so fast I stumbled forward. I barely had time to blink before a fist connected with his jaw.
He went flying backward, and crashed into a table of empty glasses before hitting the floor.
The bar went silent. The music seemed to die mid-beat as everyone gasped and scrambled back.
I stood there, gasping for air, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked up, expecting a bouncer or a random hero.
Instead, I saw Alejandro.
He was standing over Owen, his chest heaving under his white dress shirt, his knuckles already split and blooming with blood.
He didn't resemble the cold, clinical CEO who had spent the day mocking my "incompetence."
He looked like a god of war. His grey eyes were no longer frozen; they were a raging, lethal storm.
He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at Owen groaning on the floor. He looked at me, and for the first time since he came back into my life, the mask was gone.
"He touched you," Alejandro rasped, his voice vibrating with a dark, terrifying protectiveness.