In the hotel, Llewellyn sat quietly, almost staring at nothing — or perhaps at everything. A mind like his was too occupied not to be occupied. He lifted the bottle before him and took a slow sip, letting the taste rest on his tongue.
Around him, life sparkled. Soft jazz played through the speakers, the air thick with the clink of glasses, murmured laughter, and the fragrance of perfume. Waiters glided through the golden light, serving wine and dishes with mechanical grace. The grand hall gleamed — polished marble, velvet curtains, laughter of the rich.
But tonight, in the VIP lounge, sat a reckless man dressed in black, his heart far too disturbed for such luxury.
Llewellyn stared at the half-empty bottle before him. He couldn't name the feeling inside him — something between exhaustion and emptiness. Then, a waiter appeared at his side and bowed politely.
"Sir," the waiter said.
Llewellyn looked up lazily.
"This is for you," the waiter continued, setting a slender wine glass bottle on the table.
Llewellyn's brow twitched. He didn't need to ask what it meant. He'd seen this kind of gesture before — too many times.
His eyes trailed upward, and sure enough, he caught them: a small group of women across the hall, draped in silks and confidence, giggling behind jeweled hands. One of them — the boldest — was staring directly at him, her gaze shameless, lashes fluttering like a challenge.
Llewellyn's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. He picked up the bottle and rose, each step toward their table slow, deliberate, almost theatrical. The women shifted nervously, whispering as he neared — their excitement practically dancing in the air.
When he reached them, he placed the wine bottle gently on their table and said, in a calm, deep tone,
"It's too cheap."
The women froze, glancing at one another, their painted confidence cracking.
"If you needed help," Llewellyn added, slipping his hands into his pockets, "you could've just said so."
He turned slightly, about to leave, when a low voice — smooth but trembling faintly with attraction — stopped him.
"Well," she said, her tone soft but daring, "why don't you help me, then?"
Llewellyn turned his head. It was her — the bold one.
Her eyes didn't waver. She was beautiful — effortlessly so. Her hair fell over one shoulder, her dress hugged her like temptation, and her lips curled in the slightest of smirks.
She tilted her head, waving her eyelashes at him seductively. "You don't look like a man who turns down a lady's request," she said, her voice smooth, but there was an unease beneath it — an attraction she couldn't quite hide.
For a moment, he said nothing. He simply looked at her — his gaze cool but steady, the kind that stripped through confidence and reached the person beneath. Then, a faint smile crept over his face.
Without a word, he turned and walked back to his seat.
And, just as expected, she followed.
As she left her friends, the others leaned in, whispering, "How lucky is she…" their envy barely concealed.
The lady sat beside him, close enough that her perfume mixed with the faint scent of his drink.
"Why were you sitting here all alone?" she asked, her voice light but her eyes fixed on him.
He leaned back in his chair, meeting her gaze. "Well," he said smoothly, "you're here now. I'm not alone anymore, am I?"
The lady chuckled softly, a blush rising on her cheeks. His words—simple yet disarming—had the effect he knew they would. As a player, lines like these came naturally to him; they slipped out effortlessly. But tonight, something felt off. His mind was elsewhere.
He sat still, spinning his drink slowly in his hand, his gaze fixed on the swirling liquid as though it might reveal what he was feeling. Around him, the hall buzzed with chatter and laughter, yet he seemed detached—distant.
The lady watched him, her patience thinning. Her eyes, dark and deliberate, roamed over him, a silent invitation laced with intent. "Should we go already?" she asked, her eyes holding his with a glint that needed no further explanation.
Llewellyn met her gaze, the corner of his lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The silence, the look in his eyes, said enough.
This was the kind of thing he liked, action without hesitation, desire without refusal.
The room was dimly lit, casting shadows that made the atmosphere more intimate. Llewellyn leaned in, his breath warm against the lady's face. She reached up to touch his back. But then, suddenly, he froze.
Something, no, someone had crossed his mind. His brow furrowed deeply.
"What is it?" the lady asked, her voice unsteady.
He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned in again, kissing her with intent, as if to chase the thought away. But once more, he stopped, his head tilting slightly, confusion clouding his gaze. Why now? Why this?
"Are you okay?" she whispered, searching his face.
Still, no reply. His silence filled the room heavier than words. He drew closer again, his lips hovering just a breath from hers—but then he stopped completely. The image in his mind sharpened, cruel and vivid. Diane.
Her eyes. Open. Cold. The hostility in her stare earlier that day replayed in his mind, cutting through him like glass. He clenched his jaw.
He couldn't ignore it. It hurt, and it stopped him in his tracks.
Unable to shake the thought, Llewellyn pulled away from the lady and sat on the bed, his back to her.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice tinged with irritation.
He looked up at her briefly, his expression colder than before. "Please go."
The lady froze, offended but unwilling to argue. She gathered her things in silence and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Llewellyn stayed there, bent forward, rubbing his forehead. The thought of Diane, of her eyes, her defiance—lingered like a curse. To think of her now, in this kind of moment, angered him as much as it disgusted him.
After a few moments of stillness, he stood and walked out of the hotel, his mind swirling in confusion.
He sat on his bike, staring at the hotel as if he were disconnected from everything around him. It was past midnight. Without thinking, he pulled out his phone and looked at the text he'd sent earlier: "Meet me close to the laboratory, don't be late." No reply.
Why should he care if she replied? He wasn't sure. But somehow, it mattered.
He slipped on his leather jacket, climbed onto his bike, and sped off into the night.
******
Rick stood outside his house, frozen.
His girlfriend's words still echoed: "Let's break up."
He tried to hold her hand. "Please, I'm sorry if I did anything wrong."
But she pulled away. "It's not you. It's just… over."
She left without looking back.
Rick stood there, empty, his hands falling limply by his sides. His chest ached in silence. He didn't chase her, he couldn't.
"Rick, are you okay?" his grandmother asked from the door.
He turned, forcing a smile. "Yeah, Maa. I'm fine."
"Are you lying to me?" she asked softly.
He couldn't answer.
She sighed, walking closer. "Listen, son… you're special. There's no one like you. Even if she leaves, she won't find another you out there."
Rick smiled faintly, the kind that hides pain. "Thanks, Maa."
He went inside quietly.
In his room, he closed the door, leaned his back against it, and slid down slowly. The tears came quietly — not loud, not desperate, but heavy.
He covered his face with his hands and let it fall — the weight of rejection, of everything he'd bottled up.
******
Llewellyn finally got home — his own house, not the family mansion.
It was too big for one person, yet it carried the quietness of someone who preferred isolation. The kind of house that whispered wealth even in silence.
Inside, the parlor gleamed with cold beauty — cushions, rugs, tables, and vases all arranged in a symmetry that spoke of luxury. Everything looked expensive, almost untouchable. The walls were painted a clean white, and the air itself felt still. It was a perfect abode — one too refined for a man with such a dangerous heart.
He kicked off his shoes lazily, letting them fall wherever they landed. Dropping his bike keys on the long glass table, he headed straight to his room.
The room was convenience turned into comfort — a man's space, orderly yet alive with subtle taste. You could tell most of it had been shipped in from abroad.
He removed his jacket, then his shirt, leaving his toned muscles bare to the cold air that drifted from the air conditioner. His mind was restless, his thoughts racing. He rubbed his head roughly, as if trying to shake something loose — or perhaps someone.
Then, without thinking, he walked to the kitchen. Shirtless — but it was his house, after all.
He opened the fridge. It was nearly empty, except for a few bottles of water and untouched items. A sign he rarely stayed here — maybe only when he needed space. Space from family. From people. From noise.
His father's words still echoed faintly in his head, but he didn't want to think about them. Not tonight. He reached for a bottle of cold water, twisted the cap, and without hesitation, poured it over his head.
The icy shock made him gasp lightly, but that was the point — he needed to cool off. The heat running through him wasn't just from the night, it was from his thoughts. From her. From Diane.
"Just maybe," he murmured.
Just maybe what?
The question hung in the air. He didn't finish it. He only tilted his head, his wet hair clinging to his forehead as droplets slid down. His thoughts went somewhere else entirely — to her.
Diane.
He saw her again in his mind: her eyes, her expression — that moment earlier when he'd leaned close and said those words in her ear. Her reaction had been sharp, timid, hurtful even. But it wasn't her rejection that stayed with him — it was the pain he saw flicker there. The way it cut into her and, somehow, into him too.
He tried to laugh it off, but the memory wouldn't fade. It disturbed him.
And maybe — just maybe — it meant something he didn't want to admit.
Maybe he cared.
And maybe that was what hurt most.
He walked back to his room, pulling on his night clothes this time. He sat on the bed — one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone. One leg raised, the other stretched across the sheets.
His eyes didn't skim the phone; they read. Each word carefully, attentively, like he was studying a problem he couldn't solve.
"Twenty one," he said out loud, then groaned. "Has she really not..." He didn't complete the statement; the thought itself was inappropriate, better left unsaid. He cleared his throat and continued, his eyes fixed on every word written about Diane, with so much concern that he didn't even notice it.
"Doesn't have a boyfriend," he read out. "Hmm," he paused, "doesn't have..." He trailed off, his mind spinning for a moment. "Is that why she acts that way?"
He murmured to himself, looking away from the phone, forming his own kind of bitter perception about her.
The night was quiet, but it held the weight of two broken-hearted men.