The bartender's eyes flicked to the row of eight empty glasses in front of the heavily drunk woman. She was young, with a curvy figure and long, lustrous black hair that cascaded down her back. High cheekbones and full, sensual lips added to her allure, though tonight, her beauty was marred by the haze of intoxication. Her eyes, usually vibrant, were now drowsy and unfocused.
She waved a hand at him, slurring her request for another shot. The bartender, with a practiced eye, assessed the situation. This was no ordinary patron. The bar was high-end, frequented by the city's elite, and her presence here hinted at a life of luxury—or at least a desperate attempt to escape a recent heartbreak. The way she carried herself spoke of someone who had recently been through a rough breakup, trying to drown her sorrows in alcohol.
As he poured her another glass, he couldn't help but wonder about her story. Was she a wealthy heiress, or just someone looking for a more thrilling distraction than her previous romantic entanglements? The bartender observed her with a mix of curiosity and sympathy, noting how her composure had crumbled under the weight of whatever emotional turmoil she was facing.
The scene unfolded with a mix of sophistication and intrigue. The bartender, having watched the bar's usual parade of patrons with a detached interest, finally saw a captivating drama play out.
A man in impeccably tailored clothing approached from the far corner of the bar and seated himself across from the heavily drunk woman. His hand casually rested on her curvy waist as he leaned in, his voice low and smooth. The girl turned toward him, her sensual smile revealing a hint of both allure and vulnerability.
"You caught my attention the second you walked in," she purred, her words laced with an inviting warmth.
The man's eyes widened slightly, clearly charmed by her presence. He was an attractive figure, with a confidence that matched his striking looks. The bartender observed with a knowing glance, recognizing the patterns of this familiar seduction.
"Yeah, you're gorgeous. Just the way I like them." The man's voice dropped to a whisper, his breath mingling with hers. A small chuckle escaped her lips, and she responded by grasping his collar, pressing her lips close to his neck. "You smell rich," she murmured, her breath tickling his skin and causing him to gulp nervously.
"Do you want to smell like that as well?" she continued, her dark eyes locked on his. "Because I can make you. All you have to do is come to my room with me."
He leaned back slightly to meet her gaze, her eyes were almost black, and her lips were captivatingly red. She gently brushed her lips across his cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick.
"I will," he said, his voice tinged with urgency. "Just let me pay for your drinks first."
Her lips lingered on his cheek as she purposefully stroked them, leaving a mark of her lipstick. The man's grip tightened around her waist, his hand slipping lower as he tried to hold onto the moment.
"Oh my dear, let me pay for it. My gift to you," he insisted with a desperate edge to his voice.
Maeve, as she was presumably called, gave a rich laugh, curling her arms around his neck and twirling her fingers through his hair. "You would do that, sugar?"
"I will," he promised. "And if you let me, I'll show you what else I can do."
"Then show me!" she hissed with a serpent-like allure, her grip tightening as his hands slipped lower.
"Put her bill on my tab. Room 422," he said urgently, lifting her into a sturdy, princess-style carry. She waved her hands and legs cheerfully as he carried her away.
As he moved, Maeve's hand brushed past another man who was passing by, causing him to pause and glance over his shoulder. His tall, imposing figure was accentuated by a perfectly tailored suit, gold cufflinks gleaming on his cuffs, and a pricey watch adorning his wrist.
His eyes narrowed as he observed the woman being carried away. A flicker of recognition crossed his gaze, though it was brief.
"Boss, this way, please," a man hurriedly approached him, cutting short his moment of curiosity and guiding him away.
The bartender continued to polish the glass, his gaze flicking between the scene unfolding in the bar and the steady rhythm of his cleaning. Maeve's dramatic exit was a familiar sight, but it never failed to entertain him.
As Maeve was carried away, the man's eyes gleamed with anticipation. She was definitely going to make his night memorable, he thought. The warmth she radiated seemed to promise an exciting evening.
However, Maeve's sudden bout of nausea quickly shifted the mood. Her earlier flirtation was interrupted as she suddenly clutched her stomach and swayed unsteadily. The man, initially confident and suave, immediately set her down with concern.
"Wait! I think I need to use the restroom," Maeve stammered, her face a mix of discomfort and embarrassment. She began to walk away, her steps unsteady and erratic.
"I have one in my room," the man offered, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration.
"I think I'm about to puke," Maeve said, her hand pressed firmly against her mouth. She frantically looked around, searching for a restroom. Her eyes caught an employee, and she grabbed their arm, pleading for directions.
"Right this way," the employee responded, guiding Maeve with a steadying hand.
"Okay, thanks," Maeve managed to say, trying to keep herself upright. As she moved, she wobbled dangerously close to the carpeted hallway, her condition worsening. The man rushed to support her, but Maeve, determined not to make a scene, stumbled towards the restroom.
Maeve barely made it into the restroom before she doubled over, her stomach heaving with the aftereffects of the alcohol. The man outside, his earlier excitement now replaced with impatience, hovered by the door.
"Gosh! What a creep," Maeve muttered as she staggered to the washbasin. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to shake off the nausea. "Well, at least he paid off my bill. I thought I'd have to down a whole barrel before someone would come to my rescue," she chuckled bitterly, rinsing her mouth and patting her face dry with a tissue.
With a determined grin, Maeve sat on the edge of the counter and dialed the front desk. "Ahm, ahm," she cleared her throat, adopting a quivering voice.
"Hello, this is the Emerald Skyline Hotel. How may I help you today?" the receptionist's voice was animated and courteous.
"Sniff, sniff… I need your help, please," Maeve's voice was cracked and shaky. "I'm in the restroom on the third floor, and I'm staying in room 422. I'm stuck in the restroom, and there's a creep waiting for me outside. Please help me."
The receptionist's concern was evident. "Okay, ma'am, please stay put. I'm sending someone there right away. Please don't worry."
"Okay, please hurry. I'm scared," Maeve continued to fake her distress. She hung up after hearing the receptionist's reassurances and waited with bated breath. Soon, she heard the commotion outside as security dealt with the man, dragging him away.
Maeve let out a satisfied smile, patting her hands together before walking out of the restroom. She made her way towards the elevator, her thoughts shifting to Fleur. "By now, Fleur would have left the dorm," she mused.
Her gaze fell to her phone, and she dialed Fleur's number once more, but as expected, the call didn't go through. This was the hundredth time she had tried to reach Fleur since the morning. A bitter lump of frustration lodged in her throat, one she couldn't seem to swallow no matter how hard she tried. The realization of her actions and their impact gnawed at her, leaving Maeve with a growing sense of unease.
"Hah! I sure do deserve this. I am such a piece of shit after all." Maeve's voice trembled with self-reproach as she leaned against the elevator wall. She knew deep down how flawed she was, how much of a mess her life had become.
But despite all her failings, Fleur had always accepted her. Fleur had seen Maeve for who she was, never once making her feel unworthy of love and affection. That acceptance, that unwavering kindness, was a painful reminder of just how much Maeve had taken for granted.
"I'm really sorry, Fleur," Maeve whispered to the empty elevator, her voice cracking with regret. The weight of her actions bore heavily on her shoulders, a stark contrast to the love she had always received. Her apology felt hollow in the silence, but it was all she had left.
As the elevator doors slid open, Maeve stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the chill of the marble floor contrasting sharply with the warm rush of regret she felt. Her phone rang, jolting her from her thoughts. With a fleeting hope that it was Fleur reaching out, she glanced at the screen. Instead of Fleur's name, she saw a terse message from her father:
"Be at the mansion at 3 tomorrow. Don't be late."