Chapter Five The Wrong Kind Of Man
1255 Words
~ Lily ~
I don't realise how late it is until my phone lights up against the bar counter. Thankfully, it isn't Dylan this time, It seems the universe has apparently decided one major annoyance is enough for a single evening, because Ginger's name flashes across the screen instead. I stare at it for a moment before finally answering.
"Lily are you okay?" she says immediately, skipping any greeting in favour of pure concern.
"I'm alive.”
At my reply, Ginger lets out a sigh of relief. "Do you have any idea how many times I've called you tonight?" she adds.
"A few," I answer.
"A few? The internet thinks you've declared war on your ex-husband, every TV station is discussing your divorce like it's a geopolitical event, and I've spent the last two hours wondering if you threw yourself into the Hudson."
A smile tugs at my lips. "That's oddly specific."
"You hate swimming, so I think it's a very fair concern." Then her voice slightly softens. "Are you okay?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because it's unusual, but because she actually wants a real answer. I glance around the room while the music drifts softly through the air and people continue talking, laughing, and living around me and for some reason, I don't want to leave this place yet, which is ridiculous because I don't belong here at all.
"I'm okay," I tell her honestly.
There's a brief pause before Ginger bursts out laughing.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You finally did it." Her excitement grows with every word. "Because you divorced him six months ago and still tried to protect his reputation. Do you realise how insane that is?"
"I was managing the fallout," I say.
"You were enabling a man who treated infidelity like a day-to-day exercise."
That earns a real laugh from me, the kind that surprises even me.
"There she is," Ginger murmurs.
"Who?" I ask.
"The woman I haven't heard in years," she answers.
I swallow unexpectedly. The warmth in her voice feels a little too dangerous.
"I wasn't that bad." I insist.
"Lily, you really were," she replies.
"Okay. Maybe I was a little bad."
"You got an STI and let that man convince you he caught it from a toilet seat," she adds
I nearly choke on my drink. "Please never repeat that sentence."
"He blamed a toilet seat." she insists
"He did," I confirm.
"A toilet seat," she repeats.
I pinch the bridge of my nose while trying not to laugh. Across the bar, Hector glances over briefly, probably because I look like I've completely lost my mind.
"If I ever meet that specific toilet seat," Ginger continues, "I have questions."
"I hate you." I jokingly say.
"No, you don't," she replies.
Unfortunately, she's right.
A moment later she asks where I am, and when I tell her I'm out, she lets out a dry sigh.
"Very helpful," she says
I laugh softly. "That's the second time I've heard that tonight."
My eyes drift toward the bar. Hector is helping another customer, completely focused on his work. He isn't watching me, eavesdropping, or paying attention at all. For some reason, the realisation feels oddly disappointing, which is a very interesting development on my part.
"I'm at a bar," I finally admit.
"A bar? You?" she questioned with confusion in her voice.
"Try to contain your shock, Ginger," I tell her.
"Did somebody drug you at the gala?" she asks.
That one makes me laugh out loud. The sound surprises me almost as much as it surprises her.
Apparently, tonight is full of surprises.
"I'll call you tomorrow," I tell her.
Immediately, she becomes suspicious.
"Why? Because you're tired, or because there's a man involved?"
"There isn't a man," I reply.
The denial comes out entirely too fast.
Ginger makes the exact sound doctors make when patients lie directly to their faces.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Lily."
"Goodnight, Ginger."
I end the call before she can continue.
My phone remains in my hand for several seconds before I slowly lower it into my purse. Across the room, Hector catches my eye for the first time since our conversation ended. It isn't a stare, just a brief glance that feels professional and completely neutral. Then he returns to work, showing no curiosity, no attempt to flirt, and no interest in continuing our conversation.
The complete lack of interest feels strangely irritating, which is ridiculous because men are usually interested, sometimes painfully interested, and most of my life has involved filtering attention, avoiding attention, or managing attention. Yet somehow, the first man who doesn't seem remotely interested has my full attention. That's probably a problem.
I finish my drink and let a few more minutes pass before reality finally catches up with me. My feet hurt, my head hurts, my entire life is trending online, and I desperately need sleep. I slide off the stool and reach for my purse.
Hector notices immediately.
"Leaving?" he asks
"Unfortunately," I answer.
He nods. There is no disappointment, no attempt to stop me, no exchange of numbers, and no awkward lingering. He simply tells me to get home safe.
"Thanks," I reply.
For a moment, neither of us says anything as the music from the bar fills the silence and I turn toward the stairs, but halfway up I stop maybe because I'm tired maybe because I'm curious. Or maybe because I'm not ready to admit how much I've enjoyed being here.
I glance back.
Hector is already helping another customer, moving on as though I'd never been there at all.
The thought follows me all the way upstairs.
Outside, Manhattan greets me with rain and noise. My phone immediately starts vibrating again, but I ignore it and call my driver instead.
He answers on the first ring.
"Ms Ryder?"
"Please tell me you're awake," I ask.
"Of course, ma'am," he answers.
"Good. Come rescue me." I request.
Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in the back of a black SUV watching city lights blur across rain-covered windows. The penthouse feels different when I return. It seems quieter, larger, and infinitely emptier than it did before.
I kick off my heels near the entrance and immediately regret every decision that led to wearing them. My feet are covered in blisters, my marriage is over, and the internet is melting down, but somehow the blisters feel more urgent.
By the time I collapse on my bed exhaustion wins and I simply fall asleep.
The next morning is chaos. News coverage, board members, lawyers, and public relations teams dominate the day. Messages arrive faster than I can read them as everyone demands a statement, an explanation, or a strategy. I give them almost nothing.
By evening, I'm exhausted all over again.
The city glows beyond my windows while rain taps softly against the glass. My phone sits beside me, unusually quiet, and despite everything happening around me, one thought keeps returning. I keep thinking about the bar, the music, the whiskey, and the man who somehow looked straight through the act.
I tell myself I'm only curious and that it's nothing more than a passing whim.
The lie lasts until sunset.
By eight o'clock, I'm standing in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear. By eight-thirty, I'm sitting in the back of another car. And by nine, I'm walking down the same staircase again, heading straight toward the last man in Manhattan who seemed completely unimpressed by Lily Ryder.
- Writer
