Chapter Three
1647 Words
Chapter 3
Leilani's POV
The party was a total mess. Cynthia’s birthday meant the club was packed with people who had too much money and zero manners. But no matter where I went—the bar, the kitchen, the tiny hallway by the bathrooms—I could feel him. Timothy Beckett’s eyes were like a weight on my back, following me through the crowd like a laser.
And then there was Elias Mendez.
Elias was actually being decent. Every time he saw me, he’d try to start a conversation that didn't involve an order.
"So, Leilani," Elias said, leaning against the bar while I was trying to organize my tray. "Cynthia told me you’re a writer. That’s a pretty cool change from... well, this."
I actually smiled. A real one. "Yeah, it’s a bit different. I mostly write at night when—"
Suddenly, the air got cold. I didn't even have to look up to know Timothy was standing right there. He didn't say hi. He didn't even look at Elias. He just slammed his empty glass onto the wood.
"Another one," Timothy muttered. His voice was thick, like he’d been swallowing gravel.
"You’ve had way too much, Timothy," I said, not looking at him.
"I’ll tell you when I’m done," he snapped, cutting his eyes toward Elias with a look that basically said get lost or else.
Elias wasn't an i***t. He held up his hands, gave me a "see you later" nod, and vanished into the crowd. This happened all night. Every time a guy talked to me for more than ten seconds, Timothy would just... appear. He’d order a drink he didn't want or just stand there, staring, until the other guy got uncomfortable and left.
By 3:00 AM, the music was finally off and the lights were turned up. The "beautiful people" had all gone home to their mansions, leaving behind a floor covered in sticky booze and broken glass.
Timothy was the only one left.
He was slumped at the bar, his head in his hands. His tie was gone, his hair was a disaster, and he looked nothing like the "King of the City" I saw on the news. He just looked like a guy who’d drunk way too much of his own pride.
Raffy walked up to me, jingling his car keys. He looked like he was about to fall over. "Lei, we’re closing. But we’ve got a problem."
He pointed at Timothy. "He’s wasted. Like, can’t-even-stand-up wasted. His driver had some emergency and left an hour ago because Timothy told him to screw off. I can’t leave him here, and I can’t put him in a random cab—he’s a Beckett. Someone will rob him blind."
"So call Cynthia," I said, untying my apron. "I’m tired, Raffy."
"Cynthia’s phone is dead, and his friends are probably passed out in a gutter somewhere," Raffy sighed. "Look, I have to finish the books. You’re the only one he hasn't tried to fight tonight. Just take the club’s car and drop him at his penthouse. It’s ten minutes away. Please, Lei. I’ll give you the whole weekend off."
I looked at Timothy’s slumped shoulders. I wanted to leave him there. I really did. But the thought of him stumbling around outside alone... it made my stomach twist.
"Fine," I groaned. "But you’re paying for my ride home after."
It took forever to get him to the car. He was heavy—all muscle and dead weight. He kept leaning his head into the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
"Leilani," he mumbled as I buckled him in. "You smell... you smell like real things. Not like this fake place."
"Shut up, Timothy," I said, but my heart was doing a weird rhythm.
The drive was quiet. When we got to the Beckett Towers, the doorman didn't even ask questions. He just saw Timothy and opened the private elevator. The penthouse was huge—all glass and cold stone. It felt more like a fancy hotel than a home.
I managed to get him to the edge of his bed. As I tried to pull away to leave, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. He was drunk, but he was still strong.
"Don't go," he whispered. He opened his eyes, and they weren't mean or arrogant anymore. They just looked... lonely.
"I have to, Timothy. You’re home. You’re fine."
"I’m never fine," he said, giving a sad little laugh. He pulled on my arm—not hard, but enough to make me sit on the edge of the mattress.
"You’re the only one who doesn't want my money," he said, staring at me. "Everyone else... they want a piece of me. You just want me to go away."
"Because you're a lot of work," I said softly.
He turned his head, his face only inches from mine. "I’m sorry about the handshake. And being a prick. I just... I don’t know how to make you see me."
He looked so vulnerable right then. I reached out, and without thinking, I brushed a stray hair off his forehead. He was burning up.
"You need to sleep," I whispered.
"Stay until I do?" he asked, his eyes already fluttering shut. "Please, Parker. Just... stay."
I sat there in the quiet of his massive apartment, watching the man who thought he owned the world fall into a messy sleep. I hated how arrogant he was, and I hated how much he got under my skin.
But as I sat there, I realized the chasing game was over. Things just got a whole lot more complicated.
I didn’t mean to crash. Honestly. But that bed was like a cloud, and I hadn't slept more than four hours a night in weeks. I must’ve just blinked and passed out, because the next thing I knew, the sun was hitting my face so hard it hurt.
I scrambled up, panicking for a second about where the hell I was, until I saw the glass walls and the fancy furniture. Timothy’s place.
"You're finally up."
I turned around, feeling like a total mess. Timothy was standing there, looking annoyingly fresh for someone who was literally a zombie a few hours ago. He had a coffee mug in each hand and was looking at me with this quiet expression.
"I have to go," I said, looking for my shoes. "I shouldn't have stayed. Raffy’s gonna kill me."
"Raffy’s fine. I texted him," Timothy said, coming closer. "And you aren't going anywhere yet. Your stomach is making so much noise I can hear it from over here. You’re starving, Lei."
He wasn't lying. My stomach felt empty and twisted. I looked at the door, then at the coffee, and gave in. "Fine. But just breakfast. Then I’m gone."
He led me out to this big balcony that looked over the whole city. But when I got there, I stopped dead.
He had this silver tray set up. There was fancy juice, two glasses, and a huge spread of food. But the weird part? He had a white napkin draped over his arm, standing there all stiff like he was waiting for an order.
"What are you doing?" I asked, looking at him like he’d lost his mind.
"I’m the server for this table," he said. He wasn't even cracking a smile. He stepped over and pulled out my chair, waiting for me to sit down.
I sat, totally confused. "Timothy, you’re being weird."
"Our first meeting was trash," he said. He started pouring the juice into my glass, but he was doing it real careful, not like a jerk. "I was a prick. My friends were assholes. I treated you like you were just... there for us. I wanted a do-over. A real one."
He set the glass down in front of me. He didn't slide it or act like he was doing me a favor. He just placed it there, nice and quiet.
"Good morning," he said, looking me straight in the eyes. "I’m Timothy. It’s really nice to meet you, Leilani. I hope you like the breakfast."
I stared at the tray, then at him. He actually looked nervous. Like, his hand was shaking just a tiny bit. The guy who runs half the city was scared I’d hate his little "replay."
"You really did all this?" I whispered.
"The first impression was a disaster," he admitted, finally dropping the act and sitting across from me. "I wanted to give you a second one. One where I’m just a guy, you’re just a girl, and nobody is getting slapped."
I picked up my fork, feeling a weird lump in my throat. The food looked incredible, but it was the fact that he remembered every detail of that night just to fix it that was getting to me.
"The service is way better this time," I said, trying to act like I wasn't being affected by it.
Timothy smiled, and it actually looked real. Like it reached his eyes for once. "Does that mean I’m not fired?"
"Don't push it, Beckett," I muttered, but I couldn't help it—I smiled back.
We sat there eating, the sun warming up the balcony. It was actually... nice. For a second, I forgot about the club, the money I owed, and the running hospital bill. I just looked at him, with his messy hair and his simple t-shirt, and realized that this second impression was working way too well.
- Writer
