The rain had been falling for hours.
It drummed relentlessly against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Damien Villafuerte's penthouse, turning the city beyond the glass into a blur of silver lights and shadows.
But Damien barely noticed.
He sat alone on the edge of his living room sofa, his white polo shirt completely undone at the collar, the sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows. His expensive watch lay abandoned on the coffee table beside an untouched phone.
And around him were empty bottles.
One.
Two.
Three.
Damien lifted another glass to his lips and swallowed the whiskey without tasting it.
His eyes were bloodshot, his usually immaculate hair disheveled, and the sharpness that normally defined his face had disappeared beneath exhaustion and alcohol.
For the first time, the
