Chapter 1: Drink Until It Burns

The city never slept. Neither did its pain.

Chicago's skyline bled neon through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ember Lounge, but Sloane Carter wasn't looking at any of it. She was staring at the ring of condensation her glass left on the bar, counting drinks the way other women counted regrets.

Seven. Or eight. Did it matter?

"Another," she said, sliding the empty glass forward without lifting her eyes.

"Ma'am." The bartender — young, nervous, clearly not paid enough for this — leaned in. "I think maybe—"

She pulled a thick fold of cash from her clutch and dropped it on the bar like a verdict. "Does that answer your question?"

He shut up. Poured. She drank.

The bass from the DJ booth vibrated through the floor, up through the barstool, into her bones. Hundreds of bodies packed the dance floor, all of them sweating and laughing and touching each other, completely unbothered by the fact that Sloane's entire world had detonated six hours ago.

She pressed her left hand flat against the bar. Stared at the pale indent on her ring finger where Marcus's promise used to live. Four years. Four years she'd given that man — her weekends, her patience, her absolute, humiliating trust — and she'd walked in on him tangled up with her coworker in the bed she'd helped him pick out at West Elm.

"Sloane Parker," she muttered into her glass. "You are a spectacular idiot."

You handed him your whole heart and he used it as a doormat.

She tipped the glass back.

---

"You look like you could use some company."

The voice slid up from behind her, smooth in the way that only men with bad intentions ever sounded. Sloane didn't turn around.

"No."

"Come on, sweetheart—"

"I said no." She enunciated it like she was teaching him a new vocabulary word. "Walk away."

He didn't walk away. His hand landed on her waist instead — possessive, uninvited, revolting — and she felt his breath hot against the back of her neck. "I like a woman with a little fire—"

The sound he made when she twisted his wrist back was not dignified. Neither was the way he stumbled into the couple behind him when she shoved him off.

A few heads turned. Good. Let them look.

"Anyone else?" Sloane announced to the general vicinity, her voice carrying clean over the music. A few people laughed. A few more shook their heads and went back to their drinks. The creep disappeared into the crowd, cradling his arm.

She exhaled. Grabbed her clutch. Stared at her reflection in the mirrored backsplash behind the liquor bottles — mascara holding on by sheer stubbornness, lipstick long gone, hair a little wild.

Fine. She looked fine.

You're not fine.

She knew that. She also knew that Marcus was probably asleep right now, completely unbothered, while she was dissolving on a barstool in the West Loop. That thought alone made her want to do something reckless. Something that proved she still existed, still mattered, still had a pulse under all this wreckage.

I'm not going home alone tonight.

She pushed off the barstool.

The room tilted — just slightly, just enough — and she reached out to catch herself and collided with a wall instead.

Except the wall was warm. And it smelled like cedar and something cool, something faintly like mint, and it had hands that caught her by the shoulders before she could hit the floor.

"Careful."

Sloane blinked up.

The man looking down at her was — God, he was unfair. Tall, dark suit, jaw like it had been carved out of something expensive. Not pretty. Striking. The kind of face that didn't smile easily, and when it did, you'd know you earned it. His eyes were dark and sharp and completely unreadable, moving over her face with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never once been uncertain about anything.

Something clicked awake in Sloane's chest that had no business being awake right now.

She gripped the lapel of his jacket to steady herself.

"You free tonight?" she heard herself say.

One dark brow lifted, barely. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She held his gaze, tipped her chin up. The alcohol was making her brave. Or maybe she just didn't have anything left to lose. "I'm asking if you want to spend the night with me. Yes or no."

A beat of silence. The music pulsed around them.

Then his mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close. Something more dangerous than a smile. "You sure about that?"

"I'm sure I don't want to go home." Her voice came out steadier than she expected. "I'm sure I want to feel something tonight that isn't this." She pressed her free hand to her sternum, just briefly. An accidental truth. "And I'm sure I want it to be with someone who's actually—" She looked at him. All of him. "—here."

He studied her for a long, unreadable moment.

Then he bent down, and his lips found the corner of her jaw, barely a touch, and Sloane's breath left her body completely.

"Then let's go," he said against her skin.

---

The elevator was all chrome and silence.

He'd barely touched the button before he had her against the wall — not rough, not violent, just certain, the way he did everything, like he'd already decided. His mouth found hers and Sloane stopped thinking about Marcus. Stopped thinking about the indent on her finger and the West Elm bed and the four lost years.

There was only this. Only heat and cedar and the low sound he made when she pulled him closer.

"Which floor?" she managed.

"Doesn't matter." His hands framed her face. "We're not leaving until morning."

The elevator opened. He walked her backward into the room without breaking the kiss, and the door fell shut behind them, and Sloane made the only decision she'd been certain of all night.

She reached up. Pulled him down.

"Don't be gentle," she whispered.

His eyes went dark.

And whatever was left of the old Sloane Carter — the faithful one, the patient one, the fool — burned away completely.