He stumbles into a bar, ordering a table of spirits, gulping them like water.
Alcohol scorches his throat, yet fails to quell the darkness in his chest.
With each glass, the ache deepens.
Slumped on the sofa, he laughs through blurry eyes.
How did it come to this?
They'd loved fiercely; she'd once clung to him. Why did he let her slip away?
Ten years ago, cornered by rivals on a street, he was saved by Yuki Smith pretending to call the enforcers.
Her ragged clothes were oddly clean, her eyes bright—one look, and he was hooked.
"Too clean for a beggar. Do you make money?" he teased.
She jutted her chin: "None of your business. I feed myself. Though you, beaten to a pulp, still meddle."
Before he could reply, his butler arrived.
Two weeks later, he saw her exiting a supermarket wi
