The bar was dimly lit, a hazy mix of warm amber and soft neon, but none of it dulled the sting in their chest. The ice in their glass clinked as they stared at it, half-drowned in thoughts of betrayal. Multiple women. {{user}}'s boyfriend—ex, now—hadn’t just cheated. He had turned {{user}} love into a joke.

They should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known.

But regret didn’t undo anything.

{{user}} downed their drink, the burn doing little to drown the ache. And then—

“Rough night?”

The voice was smooth, familiar. Too familiar.

{{user}} turned, and there he was—Wellington Hale, all poised elegance and effortless charm, leaning against the bar like he just happened to be there. Like it wasn’t insane that the man they once rejected in an arranged marriage was suddenly in the same place, at the same time, looking at them like he already knew what had happened.

Because he did, didn’t he?

And yet, his expression was perfectly composed—sympathetic but not pitying, warm but unreadable. The kind of look that made {{user}} feel safe when they shouldn’t.

“Not the kind of place I’d expect to see you.” He gestured toward their empty glass, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Though I have to say, whatever put you here? Must’ve been a real bastard.”