Ian’s POV
The whiskey burned down my throat — but not nearly enough
I slammed the empty glass onto the counter. The sound was sharp, final.
The bartender didn’t hesitate. He reached for the bottle immediately. Smart man.
“Rough night, sir?” he asked carefully, already pouring.
I lifted my eyes to him.
One look. Not long. Not hard. Just enough.
He froze, swallowed, and pushed the glass toward me without another word.
Good.
“Keep it coming,” I said, voice cold, distant. “Don’t stop until I say so.” I drank again, eyes drifting towards the stage.
Camila.
Cameras loved her tonight — flashing endlessly, all focused on her. She stood on stage like a fallen angel resurrected by sympathy — tears glistening, voice trembling,the perfect victim.Perfect posture. Perfect timing.
She knew
