Damien's pov
The restaurant was stunning—gold chandeliers, dim lighting, and the quiet hum of soft jazz in the background. It was the kind of place where people came to make million-dollar deals or break up over expensive wine.
I wasn't here for either. I just needed a drink and a moment to clear my head before I got on the next flight out of Paris.
I walked up to the bar, scanning the staff. None of them looked familiar.
Where the hell was she?
That bartender from the other night—the one who shoved me away before everything went black. I needed to see her, to know if she was real or just a drunken hallucination.
I leaned against the counter, drumming my fingers. "Where's the bartender who worked two nights ago?"
The guy polishing glasses barely glanced up. "Which one?"
"The one who has no manners," I said dryly.
He frowned, clearly unimpressed. "We have a lot of those."
