[ESTELLE]
The moment Damien left the ballroom, I knew where he was going.
Because heartbreak has a predictable pattern—first, the stunned silence. Then, the walk of shame past a crowd of whispering guests. And finally, the reckless attempt to drown it all in alcohol.
And Damien? Oh, he was textbook.
I found him exactly where I thought I would—at The Blue Ember, a bar just far enough from the fancy gala to ensure none of the event's guests would come looking for him.
Except for me, of course.
The scene was almost cinematic—Damien slumped over the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other rubbing his temple like he was trying to massage the pain out of existence. His tie was loose, his jacket discarded on the seat beside him, and his usually perfect hair was a mess from frustrated fingers raking through it.
