Harper POV
The bar is exactly what I expected.
I perch on a barstool at the far end, trying to look like I do this all the time. The bartender—a woman with silver hair and kind eyes—slides a menu across the mahogany surface.
"First time in Vegas?" she asks with a knowing smile.
"That obvious?"
"Honey, I've been working bars for twenty years. You've got that wide-eyed look." She leans in conspiratorially. "But also that 'don't mess with me' vibe. Good combination for this city."
I order a Manhattan because it sounds sophisticated and because Marcus always said they were too strong for me. When it arrives, I take a sip and try not to wince at the burn. It tastes like liquid confidence, which is exactly what I need.
"Celebrating or commiserating?"
The voice comes from my left, low and warm with just a hint of amusement. I turn to find a man sitting two stools down, nursing what looks like whiskey neat. He's got the kind of face that would photograph well—strong jaw, dark hair that's slightly mussed like he's been running his fingers through it, and eyes that are almost black in the dim lighting. But it's not his looks that make me pause; it's the expression he's wearing. He looks exactly how I feel—like someone who's been kicked by life and is still figuring out how to get back up.
"Commiserating," I admit, surprising myself with my honesty. "You?"
"Same." He raises his glass in a mock toast. "To whatever brought us both to a hotel bar on a Friday night instead of somewhere we probably should be."
I clink my glass against his, and something about the gesture feels significant. "To running away from our real lives."
"Is that what we're doing?" He shifts one stool closer, and I catch a hint of his cologne—something expensive and understated. "I prefer to think of it as... strategic regrouping."
I laugh, and it's the first real laugh I've had in days. "That sounds much more dignified than hiding."
"Are we hiding?"
The question is simple, but the way he asks it makes it feel loaded with meaning. I study his face, trying to read the story written in the lines around his eyes, the way he holds his shoulders like he's carrying something heavy.
"Maybe," I say finally. "Is that terrible?"
"Not if what we're hiding from deserves it." He takes a sip of his whiskey, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. "Some things you have to run from before you can figure out how to fight them."
There's something in his voice that tells me he knows what he's talking about. We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, two strangers sharing the weight of unspoken pain.
"What do you do?" he asks eventually. "In your real life, I mean."
"I plan other people's perfect moments." The bitterness in my voice surprises me. "Weddings, corporate events, birthday parties. I spend my days making sure everything goes exactly according to plan for everyone else."
"Sounds like a lot of pressure."
"It is. But I'm good at it. Or I was, anyway." I take another sip of my Manhattan, feeling the alcohol warm my chest. "What about you?"
He's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured. "Family business. The kind where everyone has opinions about what you should do with your life."
"Ah." I nod knowingly. "The golden handcuffs."
"Something like that." He turns his glass between his hands, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd just... left. Picked a different city, a different life entirely."
"What's stopping you?"
The question hangs between us like a challenge. He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I feel something electric pass between us. It's not just attraction—though that's definitely there—it's recognition. Like seeing yourself in someone else's eyes.
"Fear, maybe," he says quietly. "What about you? What's stopping you from running away from your perfect event-planning life?"
"I just did." The words come out before I can stop them, bold and honest in a way that would have terrified me a week ago. "This is me running away."
His smile transforms his entire face, chasing away the shadows I saw when I first noticed him. "How's it working out so far?"
"Ask me tomorrow." I finish my Manhattan and signal the bartender for another. Dutch courage, my grandmother used to call it. "Though I have to say, the company is better than expected."
"Just better than expected?" He moves to the stool right next to mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "I'm wounded."
"Don't fish for compliments. It's not attractive."
"What is attractive?" The question is playful, but there's something serious underneath it, like my answer actually matters to him.
I consider this, studying his face in the golden light of the bar. "Honesty," I say finally. "Real conversation. The kind where you're not performing for each other."
"No performance," he agrees. "Just truth."
"Just truth," I repeat, and it feels like we're making some kind of pact.
The bartender brings my second Manhattan, and somehow we fall into the kind of conversation I haven't had in years. We talk about dreams we've forgotten, about the weight of other people's expectations, about what it feels like to wake up one day and realize the life you're living doesn't fit anymore.
He tells me about growing up in a house where tradition was more important than happiness, where every choice was scrutinized and judged against generations of family legacy. I tell him about spending so long being half of a couple that I forgot how to be whole on my own.
"Do you think it's possible?" I ask as the bar starts to empty around us, the late-night crowd giving way to the truly desperate and the truly free. "To start over completely? To become someone entirely different?"
"I don't know," he admits. "But I think maybe that's not the right question."
"What is?"
"Maybe it's not about becoming someone different. Maybe it's about becoming who you were before everyone else told you who you should be."
The words hit me like a physical thing, settling somewhere deep in my chest. I look at this stranger—this beautiful, broken stranger who somehow understands exactly what I needed to hear—and feel something shift inside me.
"I can't remember who that was," I whisper.
"Then maybe tonight you get to find out."
The way he says it, low and intimate, makes my pulse quicken. There's an invitation in his words, in the way he's looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing in the room. For the first time in my adult life, I feel truly seen—not as someone's girlfriend or someone's employee or someone's daughter, but as myself. Whoever that is.
"I don't usually do this," I say, though I'm not even sure what "this" is yet.
"Do what?"
"Talk to strangers. Stay out this late. Drink Manhattan's in hotel bars." I pause, meeting his eyes. "Feel this alive."
Something flickers across his face—hunger, maybe, or recognition of his own. He reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and brushes his fingers across the back of my hand. The touch is electric, sending shivers up my arm and straight to my core.
"Do you want to get out of here?" he asks, his voice rough with something that might be hope or might be desperation.
I should say no. I should finish my drink, go back to my room, and stick to my original plan of room service and overpriced pay-per-view movies. I should be sensible, careful, exactly who I've always been.
Instead, I slide off my barstool and take his offered hand.
"Yes," I say, and mean it completely.