The humid evening air felt like a reprieve after the pressurized silence of the fifty-eighth floor. Elara walked toward the bar with Leo and Sarah, her heart thumping in a rhythm of defiance. Rowan's suggestion had felt like a challenge, and for the first time in her life, she was leaning into the friction.
"You look like you're heading into battle, El," Leo laughed, pushing open the heavy oak door of The Tipsy Ledger.
"Just shaking off the office," she replied, though her eyes darted to a black sedan idling at the curb. It looked identical to the ones in the Thorne motorpool. She forced herself to look away.
The bar was dim, crowded, and loud—everything the Annex was not. Elara sat in a corner booth, the leather cracked and smelling of hops.
"Rounds are on me!" Sarah shouted over the music. "To surviving our first week without getting fired by the Ice King."
A tray of shots appeared, followed by tall glasses of something amber and strong. Elara didn't usually drink much—she liked her control too much for that—but tonight, the weight of Rowan's gaze was a phantom limb she wanted to amputate. She took the first shot. It burned, a sharp, clean heat that made her cough and laugh.
"There she is!" Leo cheered. "The Wizard has a human side."
By the second drink, the sharp edges of her anxiety began to blur. By the third, the music seemed to pulse in her veins.
She felt light.
For the first time since she'd seen that cream-colored envelope from her father, she felt like she wasn't being hunted.
"I'm going... to get another," Elara announced, her voice a little too loud. She slid out of the booth, her feet feeling slightly disconnected from the floor. She was grateful for the loafers; if she'd been in heels, she would have tipped over ten minutes ago.
The bar was a sea of moving bodies. Elara leaned against the polished wood of the counter, waiting for the bartender. She felt a sudden, familiar chill. That prickle on her neck.
She turned around, her vision swaying. The crowd was a blur of faces, but there, tucked in a shadow near the back exit, stood a man. He wasn't drinking. He wasn't talking. He was wearing a dark suit that cost more than the bar itself.
It wasn't Rowan.
It was Marcus, his head of security.
The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water, momentarily piercing through the alcohol. He was standing there with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on her with the clinical detachment of a shepherd watching a stray lamb.
"Hey, El! You okay?" Leo appeared beside her, his hand moving to rest on the small of her back to steady her. "You look like you saw a ghost."
"I... I think I need to go," she whispered.
But Leo didn't hear her over the roar of the crowd. "Come on, one more dance. They're playing the good stuff." He started to pull her toward the small, crowded dance floor.
Elara tried to laugh, tried to lean into the fun, but as Leo's hand tightened slightly on her waist to guide her through the crowd, the atmosphere in the bar changed.
The front door opened, and a sudden silence rippled out from the entrance, moving through the room like a shockwave. The laughter died down. The music seemed to fade into the background.
Rowan Thorne walked in.
He didn't belong here. He looked like a god of industry who had accidentally stepped into a coal mine. He didn't look angry; he looked focused. His eyes swept the room once and locked onto Elara.
His gaze dropped to Leo's hand on her waist.
The air in the room grew dangerously thin.
Rowan walked through the crowd, and people instinctively parted for him, sensing the jagged edge of his temper. He stopped two feet from them.
"The bar is closed," Rowan said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made the bartender freeze.
"Who are you?" Leo asked, his voice brave but cracking. He hadn't realized who was standing in front of him yet.
Rowan didn't even look at him. He looked at Elara, whose head was spinning from the whiskey and the sudden appearance of her boss.
"You're drunk," Rowan murmured. There was a trace of something in his voice—not just possession, but a dark, simmering protectiveness.
"I'm... having fun," Elara managed, her tongue feeling heavy. She tried to step away from Leo, but her balance wavered.
In a flash, Rowan was there. He didn't grab her; he caught her, his arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her flush against his chest. The heat of him was staggering. He smelled of the night air and cold fury.
"The fun is over," Rowan said, his eyes finally flicking to Leo. The look was so predatory that Leo's hand dropped instantly.
"Mr. Thorne, I didn't—" Leo started, his face turning pale as recognition set in.
"Leave," Rowan commanded.
He didn't wait for a response.
He swung Elara up into his arms, carrying her toward the door as if she weighed nothing at all.
"Put me down," she protested feebly, her face buried in the crook of his neck. He was so warm, and he felt so much like a solid, unmoving earth in the middle of her spinning world.
"No," he whispered into her hair, his grip tightening. "I told you that you wouldn't enjoy the company, Elara. From now on, you'll stay where I can see you."
He stepped out into the rain, the black SUV waiting with the door already open.