The amber glow of the bar lights cast long shadows across the polished mahogany counter as I wiped down a persistent ring of condensation left by a sweaty beer glass. Bass-heavy music throbbed through the walls of Malcolm's Bar, just loud enough to energize the Friday night crowd without drowning out conversation. I tucked a rebellious strand of dark hair behind my ear and forced another customer-service smile as I slid a martini across the counter.
"Here you go. Enjoy," I said, my practiced chirp masking the exhaustion that had settled into my bones three hours into my shift.
The businessman in the rumpled suit didn't even look up from his phone as he slid a twenty across the counter with pudgy fingers. "Keep the change," he muttered, already scrolling through whatever held his attention more than basic courtesy.
I pocketed the tip and turned away, catching my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the liquor bottles. Seraphina Cole, twenty-three, with tired eyes that betrayed the caffeine crash from my earlier livestream. The dichotomy of my life was almost comical by day, an energetic gaming personality with a growing following; by night, just another bartender dodging wandering hands and drunken propositions.
A notification buzzed at my wrist. A new subscriber to my channel. The fifth one today. A small smile tugged at my lips genuine this time. My social media presence was growing, slowly but steadily. Sometimes I wondered if my nighttime patrons had any idea that the woman mixing their drinks had over fifty thousand followers watching her battle through fantasy worlds and first-person shooters every afternoon.
"Hey sweetheart, when do you get off?" A voice slurred from the end of the bar. I didn't even need to look up to picture the type mid-forties, wedding ring tan line, enough expensive cologne to mask the scent of desperation.
I pretended not to hear, busying myself with organizing bottles that were already perfectly aligned. The weight of his stare crawled across my skin like insects.
My phone buzzed again in my back pocket probably my parents' monthly check. I hadn't even touched the last one. The money sat untouched in a separate account, my own private protest against their version of parenting. Throwing money at problems or in this case, daughters had always been their solution.
"Money can't buy presence," I muttered to myself, the words lost in the pulse of the music.
I still remembered the day they'd announced we were moving from our spacious New York penthouse to a sprawling Los Angeles mansion as if geography could fix what was broken. Three months later, they'd shipped my sister and me off to LA anyway, staying behind for "business reasons." As if the California sun alone could raise two teenage girls.
The memory tightened my grip on the glass I was polishing until my knuckles whitened. I set it down before I could crack it and took a deep breath. No point dwelling on old wounds when the night was young and the bar was filling up.
The entrance door swung open, letting in a brief gust of cool night air that carried the scent of expensive perfume. The woman who entered moved with the slightly unsteady gait of someone who'd already had a few drinks elsewhere. She was tall five-nine at least with caramel-colored hair that cascaded past her shoulders in loose waves. Designer clothes hung from her slender frame like they'd been tailored for her, which, given the logo subtly embroidered on her blouse's collar, they probably had been.
But it was her face that caught my attention. High cheekbones, perfect skin, and eyes that held the unmistakable glint of recent tears beneath carefully reapplied mascara. She radiated the kind of beauty that belonged on magazine covers, marred only by the storm clouds of emotion brewing behind her expression.
She made a beeline for the bar, sliding onto a stool directly in front of me with practiced grace despite her apparent state. Her fingers, adorned with a single platinum ring on her right hand, drummed an impatient rhythm against the polished wood.
I approached, wiping my hands on a bar towel. "Good evening. What can I get for you?" I asked, my voice slipping into the professional cadence I reserved for customers.
She looked up, her hazel eyes meeting mine with an intensity that momentarily caught me off guard. "Give me your hottest shot," she replied, her voice a blend of honey and gravel. "Something that burns."
I nodded, reaching for the Bacardi 151. The way she said "burns" suggested she wasn't just looking for alcohol she was looking for something to cauterize a wound. I'd seen that look before, usually after breakups or job losses.
My hands moved with practiced efficiency, mixing the potent concoction. I slid the glass toward her, the amber liquid catching the light. "Fair warning this has a kick."
Without hesitation, she wrapped manicured fingers around the glass and tilted her head back, downing it in one fluid motion. She barely winced as the alcohol blazed a trail down her throat. Instead, she set the empty glass down with a decisive clink and pushed it back toward me.
"Another," she said, not a request but a command.
I raised an eyebrow but complied, preparing a second shot. "Rough night?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, breaking my usual rule of not prying into customers' lives.
"You could say that." Her lips curved into a bitter smile that didn't reach her eyes. "When your family treats you like an investment rather than a person, every night gets rough eventually."
Something in her words resonated with me, stirring memories I preferred to keep locked away. I slid the second shot toward her without comment, watching as she downed it with the same determined efficiency as the first.
By the fourth shot, her posture had softened, shoulders slumping slightly as the alcohol worked its magic on her tense muscles. By the sixth, her words had begun to slur, and the carefully maintained facade was crumbling. After the seventh, I knew I had to intervene.
She placed the empty glass down with less precision than before, nearly missing the counter entirely. "One more," she demanded, though the words blended together like watercolors in rain.
I shook my head, moving the bottle out of her reach. "I think you've had enough for tonight."
Her eyes narrowed, a flash of the entitlement that comes from never hearing the word "no" darkening her features. "I'm paying you, aren't I? It's your job to serve drinks, not lecture customers."
"It's also my job to cut people off when they've had too much," I countered, meeting her glare with a steady gaze. "And you, Miss, have definitely had too much. It's almost closing time, and I wouldn't feel right letting you leave in this condition. The streets aren't safe for anyone at this hour, let alone"
"Let alone what?" she challenged, her words sharp despite their slurred edges. "A drunk woman? A rich drunk woman? What exactly are you implying?"
I sighed, feeling a headache forming between my eyebrows. "I'm not implying anything. I'm stating a fact. It's not safe out there, and you're in no condition to defend yourself if something happens."
She scoffed, fumbling with her designer purse and pulling out a wad of cash that she slapped onto the counter with more force than necessary. "There. Keep the change. I don't need your concern."
I glanced at the clock 11:53 PM. My shift ended at midnight. Seven minutes and she would no longer be my problem. I could walk away with a clear conscience, knowing I'd done my professional duty by cutting her off.
And yet...
"Give me a few minutes," I said, more to myself than to her. "I need to change, and then I'll help you get home."
She opened her mouth, likely to protest, but I had already turned away, heading toward the back room where employees kept their belongings. I quickly changed out of my work uniform a black button-up shirt and slacks into my street clothes: dark jeans, a forest-green sweater, and a leather jacket that had seen better days but remained my favorite piece of clothing.
When I emerged from the back room, my heart sank. The barstool where she had been sitting was empty, her purse gone.
"Damn it," I muttered, rushing past a group of men who had been eyeing me all night. One reached out, his fingers brushing my arm as I passed.
"Hey beautiful, leaving so soon? Night's just getting started," he called after me.
I ignored him, pushing through the exit into the crisp night air. My eyes scanned the street, heart racing as I searched for the caramel-haired woman among the late-night crowd.
There half a block down, she sat swaying slightly on a bench, fumbling with her phone. Relief washed over me, quickly followed by a new surge of concern. Across the street, partially hidden in the shadow of a closed boutique, stood a man watching her. Even from this distance, I could see the predatory calculation in his posture as he waited, patient as a spider.
I moved quickly, adrenaline sharpening my senses. As I approached the bench, the woman looked up, her eyes struggling to focus on my face.
"You," she said, the word more accusation than greeting. "Are you stalking me now?"
"I'm trying to help you," I explained, taking her arm and gently but firmly pulling her to her feet. "Come on, let me drive you home."
She yanked her arm away with surprising strength for someone so intoxicated. "No! You're probably probably one of those people who kidnaps drunk girls and sells their organs on the black market!"
Under different circumstances, I might have laughed at her dramatic leap of logic. Instead, I glanced across the street, where the man had stepped out of the shadows and was now crossing toward us.
"Listen," I said, lowering my voice and gripping her shoulders, "see that guy heading this way? He's been watching you since you sat down. I don't think he's planning to ask for your number. Now, you can either come with me a bartender who just wants to make sure you get home safely or stay here and find out what he wants. Your choice."
Something in my tone must have penetrated the alcohol fog because her eyes widened slightly, darting to the approaching figure and back to me. Without another word, she allowed me to guide her toward the staff parking lot where my car a moderately priced sedan that represented three years of saving waited.
I helped her into the back seat, where she immediately slumped against the window, eyes half-closed. I slid behind the wheel, locking the doors before starting the engine.
"Where am I taking you?" I asked, adjusting the rearview mirror to keep an eye on her.
For a moment, I thought she'd passed out, but then she mumbled something against the glass.
"I need an address," I prompted, more gently this time.
She lifted her head slightly, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "Blackwood Mansion," she said, the words surprisingly clear. "The Blackwood Estate in Bel Air."
My hands froze on the steering wheel. Blackwood as in *the* Blackwoods? The family name was synonymous with wealth and power, their empire stretching across fashion, beauty, tech, and God knows what else. Their son, Lucian Blackwood, was practically royalty in the business world, having taken his parents' already successful company and transformed it into a global phenomenon before he'd even hit thirty.
My sixteen-year-old sister, Maya, had his poster on her wall, for heaven's sake. Between her and my best friend Zoe, both beauty influencers with growing followings, I'd been subjected to countless hours of Lucian Blackwood appreciation.
"He's not just hot, Sera, he's like... sculpted by the gods," Maya had gushed just last week, trying for the hundredth time to convince me to accompany her to some influencer event where he might be present.
I had always declined. Not because I was immune to good looks I'd seen enough magazine covers and social media posts to acknowledge that Lucian Blackwood was objectively attractive but because I had no interest in the world of the ultra-rich and their gilded problems. I'd seen enough of that growing up.
And now here I was, with an apparently drunk Blackwood in my back seat, heading toward their estate. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
I navigated through the late-night LA traffic, the streets gradually changing from the neon-lit commercial areas to the palm-lined avenues of the wealthy neighborhoods. The woman in my back seat had fallen silent, her breathing deep and even. I wondered who she was a daughter? A cousin? Whoever she was, she clearly had access to one of the most exclusive addresses in Los Angeles.
Finally, I turned onto a private road that wound up into the hills, ending at a massive wrought-iron gate emblazoned with an ornate "B." A security booth stood to one side, manned even at this late hour.
I rolled down my window as a uniformed guard approached, his hand resting casually but noticeably on his holstered weapon.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone professional but wary as he peered into my decidedly middle-class vehicle.
"I have" I hesitated, realizing I didn't even know her name. "I have someone who lives here. She had too much to drink at Malcolm's Bar, where I work. I wanted to make sure she got home safely."
The guard's eyebrows rose skeptically. "And who might that be?"
I gestured toward the back seat. "She's sleeping now, but she directed me here. Said she lives at the Blackwood Estate."
He stepped closer, shining a flashlight through the window into the back seat. His expression immediately changed from suspicion to recognition.
"Miss Camille," he said, straightening up. "I'll open the gate. Follow the main drive to the front entrance."
The massive gates swung open with a soft mechanical hum, revealing a winding driveway flanked by perfectly manicured topiary and soft landscape lighting. I drove forward, feeling increasingly out of place as the mansion came into view. Three stories of modern architectural brilliance, all glass and stone and dramatic angles, illuminated to showcase its grandeur even at night.
I parked near the front steps, my modest car looking like a child's toy against the backdrop of luxury. Before I could even turn off the engine, the guard who had been at the gate pulled up in a golf cart behind me. He must have called ahead because the massive front door opened, spilling warm light onto the marble steps as several people emerged.
"Let me help," the guard offered, already opening the back door of my car. Together, we managed to extract the now half-conscious woman Camille, apparently from the back seat.
"She's completely intoxicated," I explained as we each took one of her arms over our shoulders. "I found her at the bar where I work, and she was in no condition to get home alone."
The guard nodded, helping me navigate the steps. "Thank you for bringing her home safely. The family will be grateful."
As we entered the mansion, I tried not to gawk at the opulence surrounding me. The foyer alone was larger than my entire apartment, with soaring ceilings, a crystal chandelier that probably cost more than my yearly salary, and marble floors so polished I could see our reflections.
Voices drifted from deeper within the house, growing louder as we approached what appeared to be a living room, though "living room" seemed too mundane a term for the sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the twinkling lights of Los Angeles below.
Four people occupied the room, their conversation cutting off abruptly as we entered with Camille sagging between us. A woman in her fifties, elegant despite the hour and with the same caramel hair as Camille, rose from an armchair with a gasp.
"Camille!" she exclaimed, rushing forward. Without acknowledging me, she took Camille's arm from my grasp as if my touch might contaminate her daughter, shooting me a look that could curdle milk. "What happened to her? Who are you?"
The guard tactfully withdrew, leaving me alone to face what I now realized must be the Blackwood family in all their intimidating glory. I squared my shoulders, refusing to be cowed despite feeling like an intruder in my worn jeans and leather jacket.
"She came into Malcolm's Bar, where I work," I explained as they maneuvered Camille onto a nearby couch. A young woman who looked like an older, more refined version of Camille immediately sat beside her, checking her pulse with practiced movements. "She had several shots in quick succession. When she tried to leave, I was concerned for her safety and offered to drive her home."
The older woman Mrs. Blackwood, I presumed turned her attention fully to me, her eyes narrowing as they assessed everything from my scuffed boots to my unmade face. "And you are?" she asked, her tone suggesting I was something unpleasant she'd found on the bottom of her designer shoe.
I lifted my chin slightly. "Seraphina Cole. I'm a bartender at Malcolm's, as I mentioned."
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. "And what exactly is a *bartender* doing with my daughter?"
The emphasis she placed on my occupation made it sound like I'd said I was a professional assassin. Heat rose to my cheeks, but I kept my voice level. "I was ensuring she got home safely, Mrs. Blackwood. The area around the bar isn't the safest at night, especially for someone in her condition."
She waved a manicured hand dismissively. "I'm sure. Or perhaps you recognized who she was and saw an opportunity? We're quite familiar with people who suddenly discover their *concern* for our family when they realize who we are."
The implication hung in the air between us, as subtle as a sledgehammer. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms as I struggled to maintain my composure.
"Gold digger?" The words escaped before I could stop them, my voice quiet but razor-sharp. "Is that what you think saving your drunk daughter from potential assault makes me?"
Mrs. Blackwood's eyes widened, clearly unaccustomed to being challenged.
"Let me be clear," I continued, anger overriding my usual caution. "I have enough to take care of myself, and if I needed more, I'd earn it through my own means. Not everyone views your family as a meal ticket, Mrs. Blackwood. Some of us actually help others without calculating what we might gain from it."
I took a step back, suddenly aware that everyone in the room was staring at me. "I don't come from poverty, despite what you seem to assume based on my occupation. I chose independence over privilege and parents who think throwing money at their children substitutes for actual parenting. As for friends" I let out a short, humorless laugh, "I've found most to be disappointingly self-serving. If it was a crime to help your daughter tonight, rest assured I won't make the same mistake twice."
Mrs. Blackwood's mouth hung open, shock written across her features. I turned on my heel, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere of wealth and judgment. I'd done my good deed for the night and received nothing but contempt in return. Typical.
"Wait, Seraphina."
I paused at the threshold, glancing back to see the young woman who had been checking on Camille now standing. Up close, I could see she was perhaps a few years older than me, with the same fine features as her sister but a warmer expression.
"Yes?" I replied, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
She approached, her smile apologetic. "It's late, and you've gone out of your way to help Camille. Please, stay the night and leave in the morning. The roads up here can be treacherous in the dark."
I softened slightly at her genuine concern but shook my head. "Thank you for the offer, but I'll be fine driving home. I know these roads well enough."
"Are you sure? It's the least we can"
I spun on my heel, eager to escape the suffocating opulence of the room. My heart hammered against my ribs as I made for the exit, shoulders hunched forward as if I could make myself invisible through sheer force of will. The ornate double doors beckoned, promising freedom from the weight of scrutiny that had followed me since I'd stepped into Blackwood Villa.
Three more steps. Just three more and I'd be
My body collided with something solid and warm. Not something someone.
I stumbled backward, momentarily disoriented, and lifted my gaze. The breath caught in my throat, trapped behind a sudden constriction that made my chest ache.
Lucian Blackwood stood before me, a living sculpture carved from midnight and sin.
The photos circulating online hadn't done him justice they'd captured his features but missed his essence. In person, he radiated a magnetism that seemed to bend the very air around him. His obsidian hair fell in artful disarray across his forehead, framing eyes so intensely Gold.they looked like they were capable of hypnotizing you where you stood if you stared too long. The sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones caught the light streaming through the nearby window, casting half his face in shadow that only emphasized the dangerous curve of his lips.
He wore authority like a second skin, his tailored charcoal suit molding to broad shoulders and a narrow waist with the reverence of a worshipper. A silver watch glinted at his wrist understated but undoubtedly worth more than my car.
For one treacherous moment, I forgot why I'd come to Blackwood Villa in the first place. Forgot the years of carefully constructed defenses. Forgot everything but the man standing before me, whose presence seemed to draw all the oxygen from the room.
His eyes narrowed slightly as they swept over me, not with disdain but with curiosity as if I were a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. My skin prickled under his assessment, heat blooming across my cheeks despite my determination to remain unmoved.
"Leaving so soon?" His voice was deep and smooth, like aged whiskey poured over river stones.
I forced steel into my spine, mentally rebuilding the walls his unexpected appearance had momentarily breached. I would not be another moth drawn to his flame, destined to burn.
"Excuse me," I murmured, the words barely audible even to my own ears.
Without waiting for his response, I stepped around him, careful to maintain enough distance that we wouldn't touch again. The ghost of our brief contact still lingered on my skin, unwelcome and unsettling.
I could feel his gaze following me as I pushed through the doors and into the corridor beyond. My steps echoed against the marble floor, too loud in the pressing silence. I didn't look back couldn't afford to. One backward glance and I might falter.
The crisp autumn air hit me like a blessing when I finally burst outside, filling my lungs with something other than the lingering scent of his cologne cedar and spice and something untamed. I fumbled with my car keys, fingers trembling slightly as I pressed the unlock button.
The familiar comfort of my beat-up sedan welcomed me, and I sank into the driver's seat with a shuddering exhale. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles blanched white, willing my racing heart to settle.
"Get it together," I whispered to myself, turning the key in the ignition.
The engine roared to life, and I pulled out of the circular driveway with perhaps more speed than necessary. In my rearview mirror, Blackwood Villa loomed against the darkening sky, its windows gleaming like watchful eyes. And for a moment just a fleeting second I thought I glimpsed a tall figure standing in the grand entrance, watching my retreat.
I pressed harder on the accelerator, putting distance between myself and the villa, between myself and Lucian Blackwood. But even as the imposing estate disappeared from view, I couldn't shake the unsettling certainty that I hadn't seen the last of him.
Nor, if I was being honest with myself, was I entirely sure I wanted to.