Cyril’s POV
The glass of scotch in my hand felt heavy, but not half as heavy as the air pressing down on me. From the upper lounge of the bar, I looked over the crowd below. People laughed, shouted, drank, and touched each other too freely. Music pounded through the speakers, steady and relentless. Everyone else looked like they belonged here, like they could melt into the noise and chaos.
But I could not.
I leaned back against the leather seat, trying to force myself to relax. This was supposed to be a distraction, but instead I felt restless. My hands itched, my jaw was tight, and I could not shake the sharp irritation biting through me.
I had chosen to come here. I had chosen not to go home. No one had forced me out of my house. I could have walked through those doors, sat down in
