A Poor Attempt At Distraction
Michael’s POV
Ryder texted me around the time I left work, which was at five in the evening. He was asking if I was “alive, functional, and wanted to meet for a drink.”
I ignored the message and refused to answer, but by eight, I was restless and bored in my penthouse; there was nothing to do, and I didn't want to be alone at the moment. So I finally sent him a short reply, grabbed my jacket, and called my driver.
It wasn’t just about wanting company, it was also because I wanted my thoughts to shut the hell up for one night.
The driver dropped me in front of a high-end lounge downtown, the kind of place with tinted windows, warm gold lighting, and music low enough that people with money could pretend they were relaxed.
Ryder was leaning against the
