Chapter 175

~ Annie ~

The moment I stormed out of Clinton’s apartment, a storm of emotions crashed over me—heartbreak, jealousy, and a deep, burning anger that made my chest feel too tight. The image of Octavia sitting there alone with him on his birthday night refused to leave my mind. The way she looked at him, the way he couldn’t deny his feelings when I confronted him... it all pointed to one painful truth: Clinton was in love with her. A married woman.

And I? It wasn’t enough.

Tears stung my eyes as I walked briskly toward the bus stop near his apartment building. Why her? Why would he fall so deeply for someone who could never truly be his, when I had been right here all along? I had given him my time, my laughter, my body, my heart—pieces of myself I had never offered anyone else. We shared an intimate friendship that danced dangerously close to something more, yet he still chose to long for a woman whose heart and life belonged to another man.

Wasn’t I good enough?

"Taxi!" I called out, my voice cracking slightly as I raised my hand.

A yellow cab slowed to a stop beside me. I slid into the backseat, the leather cool against my skin.

"Where to, ma’am?" the driver asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.

I stared down at my trembling hands, fighting back the tears threatening to spill. I couldn’t go back to the estate like this. Not with my mother waiting, ready to read every emotion on my face. She would know something was wrong the second she saw me.

"Any bar downtown," I muttered.

"There’s a popular spot on the main road called Black Velvet. It’s lively but not too crazy. Want me to take you there?"

"Yeah... sure," I whispered, leaning my head against the window as the taxi pulled away.

The city lights blurred past while my mind tortured me with vivid images of what might be happening back in Clinton’s apartment. Octavia’s soft laughter. Clinton’s intense gaze. The two of them finally alone, no interruptions, no excuses. The thought twisted like a knife in my gut. It felt exactly like a breakup, even though Clinton and I had never officially dated. What we had was deeper than friendship but never quite romantic—the kind of connection I had secretly prayed would blossom into love. The kind I had always wished for with him.

"Ma’am? We’re here."

The driver’s voice pulled me back to reality. I looked up to see the glowing outdoor lights of Black Velvet casting a warm, inviting glow over the entrance. A few people lingered outside, chatting and laughing, completely unaware of the turmoil inside me.

I paid the driver, forcing a weak smile. "Thank you."

Inside the bar, the atmosphere was a comforting mix of low jazz music, dim lighting, and the quiet hum of conversation. A handful of customers glanced my way as I entered, but I avoided their eyes. I slipped off my light coat, draped it over the back of a stool at the counter, and sat down.

"Hi," I greeted the bartender, my voice steadier than I felt.

"What can I get for you?" he asked with a friendly nod.

"A bottle of beer, please."

"Coming right up."

A few minutes later, he placed a chilled bottle in front of me and popped the cap. I took a long swig. The bitter taste made me grimace at first, but the second sip brought a strange, numbing comfort.

The bartender studied me while polishing glasses. "Rough night?"

I let out a heavy sigh and offered a small, tired smile. "You have no idea."

"Sorry to hear that," he said kindly before moving away to serve another customer.

My phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out and read the text from my mother:

"HEY HONEY, HOW’S THE CELEBRATION GOING? DID CLINTON SEE OUR GIFTS FOR HIM? I’M TRYING TO CALL HIM BUT HIS LINE ISN’T GOING... WHEN YOU GET THIS, JUST CALL OR TEXT ME, OKAY? LOVE YOU!!"

I stared at the screen for a long moment, guilt mixing with my sadness. I wasn’t ready to face her questions or pretend everything was fine. I placed the phone face down and took another sip of beer.

"You don’t look like one of my regular customers," the bartender said when he returned.

"That’s because I’m not," I replied with a faint shrug.

He chuckled softly. "I figured. I’m Brody, by the way."

"Annie," I said quietly.

A comfortable silence settled between us until I finished the first bottle. "Can I get another one, please?"

Brody raised an eyebrow as he wiped the counter. "Are you planning on getting drunk tonight?"

"I don’t know...maybe," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Want to talk about what’s got you wanting to drown your sorrows?"

I looked up at him, surprised by his gentle persistence. "You want me to pour my heart out to a complete stranger?"

He smiled warmly. "I’m not asking you to spill every secret. Sometimes just saying it out loud helps. And I’m a pretty good listener."

I considered it for a second, then shook my head. "I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll keep this one to myself tonight."

"Fair enough," he said without pushing further.

The clock on my phone showed it was already half past ten. My thoughts drifted back to Clinton and Octavia. Part of me wanted to call him, to hear his voice, to demand answers. But I refused to let myself. I wouldn’t lower myself to chasing after a man who clearly had feelings for someone else. I wouldn’t appear desperate. Not tonight.

Brody returned with my second beer. Before I could take a sip, he leaned in slightly.

"Look, Annie... whatever you’re going through, don’t let it define you. You’re stronger than whatever pain brought you here tonight. Don’t give it that power."

His words hit deeper than I expected. I paused, letting them sink in as I stared at the condensation on the bottle.

When he came back around, I had made up my mind.

"How much for the drinks?" I asked.

"You’ve barely touched the second one."

"I know. But your words...they were stuck. I don’t want to sit here drowning in self-pity. I’m better than that." I managed a genuine, albeit small, smile. "Thank you, Brody. You gave me exactly what I needed tonight."

He grinned. "Glad to hear it. That’ll be five dollars."

I handed him the money, adding a generous tip. "Keep the change. Consider it payment for the good advice."

"Thank you," he said warmly. "Need me to call a cab for you?"

"No, I’ve got it. Thanks again."

I grabbed my purse and coat and headed toward the exit, feeling a little lighter than when I’d walked in. As I pushed the door open, I accidentally bumped into a man stepping inside. His phone slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

"Oh my God, I’m so sorry!" I exclaimed, bending down at the same time he did.

He was dressed in a black hoodie pulled low over his head and a baseball cap that shadowed most of his face. Without a word, he picked up his phone.

As he straightened up, a small white card fluttered to the ground. I quickly scooped it up. It was a business card.

"Anthony Rice," I read softly, along with an email address: [email protected].

"Hey, mister, you dropped this," I said, holding it out to him.

He paused, tilting his head slightly so I caught a glimpse of sharp jawline and dark eyes. He stretched out his hand, took the card from me without a single word, and continued into the bar.

Not even a "thank you." Strange.

I shrugged it off, the encounter already fading from my mind as I stepped into the cool night air. I hailed another taxi and slid into the backseat, giving the driver directions to the estate.

As the car moved through the quiet streets, I leaned back and closed my eyes. The pain was still there, raw and heavy, but I refused to let it consume me. Tonight, I had chosen myself. Tomorrow...Well, tomorrow I will figure out what to do with these feelings for Clinton.

For now, I was done letting heartbreak win.