AT YOUR SERVICE MADAM

Chapter 3- Alcohol and Heartbreak

The bar reeked of spilled liquor, sweat, and poor decisions.

Exactly where I belonged tonight.

My fingers trembled as I lifted the shot glass again, the amber liquid catching the light before burning down my throat like acid. I welcomed the fire. Hell, I craved it. Anything to scorch out the ache inside my chest, to cauterize the jagged wound Cameron and Sofia had carved into me.

“Another,” I rasped, slamming the glass against the counter.

The bartender—mid-thirties, tattoos peeking out from under rolled sleeves—hesitated, his brow furrowing as his eyes flicked over my face. I could see the question in his expression: Are you sure?

I arched a brow, daring him to challenge me. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

He muttered something under his breath, grabbed the bottle, and poured.

I downed the shot without thinking. It burned, seared, clawed its way down my throat, but the pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache splitting me open from the inside.

Cameron.

The name itself was poison in my mouth.

Five years. Five years of loyalty, of love, of sacrifice—and what did I get in return? Betrayal. Humiliation. Laughter at my expense while he f****d another woman.

Old woman. Money. Resources. Pathetic.

The words wouldn’t leave my head. They wrapped around me like barbed wire, squeezing tighter with every replay.

I clenched my fists, my nails biting crescents into my palms. The urge to scream bubbled up again, but I swallowed it down with another drink. My vision blurred, and the world tilted slightly, but I didn’t care. Let it tilt. Let it crash. Nothing mattered anymore.

I wasn’t even aware of how many shots I’d taken. Five? Seven? More? The numbers slipped through the cracks of my foggy brain. All I knew was that I wasn’t sober, and I didn’t want to be.

Cameron had made me a fool.

I had built him up, molded him, poured myself into him—and he’d spat in my face, torn me down, chosen a child over me.

Sofia.

The rage inside me twisted, clawing higher, sharp enough to choke. I could still hear her syrupy voice moaning in my bed. My bed. The sheets I picked out, the home I paid for. She’d looked at me like a sister, called me her mentor, and all along she was waiting for the perfect chance to stab me in the back.

“Pathetic,” I muttered, laughing bitterly to myself.

A low, amused sound floated from a few stools down. Not mocking, not cruel—just deep and smooth, like someone had brushed velvet against stone.

My head turned sluggishly, and that’s when I saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, like he hadn’t bothered taming it after a long day. Work boots. Jeans that clung to thick thighs. A black shirt stretched tight across a strong chest. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms corded with muscle, grease stains smudged faintly along one wrist.

He was raw. Real. Dangerous in a way that didn’t need Armani suits or rehearsed smiles.

And he was staring straight at me.

Something about him tugged at my alcohol-fogged memory. I narrowed my eyes, my words tumbling out before I could stop them. “Wait. I know you.”

One corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one. “Do you?”

I squinted, leaning forward on the bar. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Cameron’s… Cameron’s always bitching about you.” My words slurred, but I didn’t care. “Lucas.”

His eyebrows arched, just slightly. “That’s me.”

I laughed, sharp and bitter. “Lucas Draven. The good-for-nothing, wrench-wielding half-brother. Cameron always says…the disgrace. The stain on the family name.”

His expression didn’t flicker. If anything, the faint curl at his mouth deepened. “Sounds about right.”

I barked out another laugh, but it broke halfway, splintering into something closer to a sob. I shoved my hair back, fingers trembling. “Of course it’s you. Of course I run into you tonight of all nights.”

Lucas tilted his glass, studying me with eyes the color of the ocean. Calm. Steady. Infuriatingly unreadable.

I slammed my hand against the counter, the sound too loud in my ears. “Do you know what your brother did to me?”

Lucas didn’t answer, just waited, like he had all the time in the world.

My throat tightened. My chest ached. The words poured out before I could stop them. “Five years. I gave him five f*****g years. And tonight I find him screwing my assistant in our bed. Our bed.” My voice cracked, breaking into shards. “And you know what he said about me? That I’m old. That I’m pathetic. That he only loves her.”

The rage spilled over, shaking through my hands, my voice. “I built him. I made him. Without me, Cameron is nothing—nothing—and this is how he pays me back.”

The bar blurred, my vision swimming, but Lucas’s face stayed sharp. Solid. Like an anchor. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t judge. He just listened, his broad frame leaned casually against the counter, his gaze locked on me.

It made me want to scream. It made me want to cry. It made me want to throw myself against his chest and let someone else hold the weight for once.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I laughed again—harsh, hollow. “God, listen to me. I sound pathetic, don’t I?”

Lucas’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “No. You sound angry.”

Something in the way he said it made my stomach flip. Not pity. Not mockery. Just truth.

I dragged a hand down my face, smearing what was left of my makeup. “Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, broken only by the dull thump of music in the background and the clink of glasses around us.

Then Lucas leaned closer, his voice dropping into something darker, quieter, meant only for me.

“I think…I can help you.”

The words slithered through the haze of liquor and rage, striking something deep in my chest.

My heart stuttered. “Help me how?”

Lucas’s lips curved into that ghost of a smile again, slow and deliberate.

“By giving you exactly what you want.”