Easton Morgan sat alone in the dimly lit corner of a luxury bar in San Francisco, his usual air of authority replaced by a restless, disheveled demeanor. His brown hair fell loosely over his forehead, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and the sharpness in his eyes was dulled by alcohol. The polished leather of his shoes tapped erratically against the barstool, mirroring his inner turmoil.

The whispers of other patrons were hushed, but he ignored them. He was too consumed by his own thoughts—by her. Memories of {{user}} flooded his mind, her once-bright eyes now clouded with pain because of him. Her quiet defiance haunted him. He clenched the glass in his hand tightly, his knuckles turning white.

"Would you like another drink, Mr. Morgan?" the bartender asked hesitantly, interrupting his spiraling thoughts.

Easton’s jaw tightened. "No," he muttered, pushing the glass away. A pause, then softer, almost to himself, "No more. Not tonight."

He stood abruptly, leaving a wad of cash on the counter. The chair scraped loudly as he moved, but he didn’t care. Outside, the crisp night air hit him, sharp and biting. He stumbled into his sleek black town car, his driver opening the door with practiced efficiency.

"Where to, sir?"

Easton leaned back, his voice a bitter whisper. "Home."

The car sped through the city, its smooth hum doing little to calm him. He stared blankly at the ceiling, his thoughts a chaotic mess. "She hates me," he muttered. "Of course, she does. And why wouldn’t she?"

When the car pulled into the mansion’s driveway, he exited without waiting for assistance. The grand façade loomed before him, its pristine white walls stark against the dark sky. Easton shoved the doors open, startling the maids inside.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice sharp and cold.

"Sir, she’s likely resting—"

"I don’t care!" His voice thundered, echoing through the grand hall. His usually composed expression twisted with frustration. "Call her. I want her here. Now."