Lola sat at the bar, stirring her drink absentmindedly, the weight of the last twenty-four hours pressing down on her like a vice. Yemi had walked away, the company was slipping through her fingers, and Desmond was playing his game so well that she barely had time to react. She was losing. And she hated losing.
The low hum of jazz music in the background did little to soothe her frayed nerves. She hadn’t wanted to come here, but something about the solitude of a dimly lit bar on the outskirts of town felt like the only place she could breathe. No boardrooms, no backstabbing, no whispered conspiracies—just silence and the bitter burn of whiskey against her throat.
But even that small reprieve was short-lived.
“Didn’t take you for the type to drink alone,” a familiar voice murmured behind
