Page 125 of Unleashed By Eden

Inside, I change into one of the black floor-length gowns, shove my bag into my locker, and stand there with my phone in my hand.

I could turn it on. Get it over and done with. Spend my shift with the sting instead of the dread. Find out exactly how bad it is.

My thumb hovers over the power button.

Nope.

Not yet.

I toss it into my bag and slam the locker shut.

The club is already busy, and the familiarity of it rolls over me. It’s home, in its own fucked-up way. I pause just inside the doorway and let it sink into my skin.

The routine is a comfort. Everyone knows their role, and none of them requires me to explain myself. The men at the bar don’t care about my career, my scandal, or my catastrophic love life. They want a drink and my submission. That, at least, I know how to give.

Things always look worse when you’re standing in the middle of it. Because you can’t see the edges, the way out, or which way is up. You convince yourself there’s no solution because you can’t see past the fire in front of you.

I don’t know where I stand with Carter. I don’t know where I stand with PrimeTime+, either. Both have been stolen from me. But I’ve never been someone who stays down. I’m not about to start now.

I refuse to sacrifice one to have the other, to choose between the man I’ve loved in some form since I was twelve, and the career I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into. I want both. I deserve both, and I’m not settling for anything less.

I move behind the bar with Hailee, fall into step beside her. I don’t care if it’s bar, tables, or Le Jardin—work is work—but tonight I’m grateful for working the bar. Being on the floor leaves too much room to think. Behind the bar, there’s no space for that. It’s orders, glassware, and muscle memory.

I line up three schooners and pull the tap, watching amber rush in and foam rise. The hiss of carbonation grounds me. Two whiskeys next, neat, obviously. The men who come here either don’t like ice, or like to pretend they’re above it.

Hailee bumps my hip gently, eyes saying what she doesn’t: You okay?

I give her the smallest nod.

Two hours disappear, and this is exactly what I needed. When my hands stay busy, my brain finally shuts the hell up.

Pour, shake, strain, slide. Pay, tap, nod, smile.

My thoughts become muted, and it’s the closest thing to peace I’ve had since LA.

Hailee hums something off-key and cheerful beside me, wiping down the counter between orders, absolutely unbothered by the wall of testosterone pressing in. Only she could drag me out of my cave and drop me in front of a swarm of horny men and somehow make it feel like self-care.

I’m rinsing out a cocktail shaker when the staff door swings open and Chloe steps through, wearing a black goddess gown.

“What are you doing here?” I blink, confused.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Hailee called. Said she was short-staffed so I’m back for the night. Didn’t expect you to be here, though.”

She doesn’t ask how I am. Or mention the photos. She treats me the same.

Thank fuck.

She snags an empty tray and grins. “Oh. My. God. Have you seen the pictures of Cora’s baby?”

I freeze, shaker still under the tap. “Shit. She had the baby?”

Chloe stares at me like I’ve grown another head. “Violet. Yes. A whole tiny human. A baby girl. Where have you been?”

I didn’t even ask about Cora. I’ve been wrapped in my own catastrophe, and the rest of life kept moving without me. Guilt pricks under my skin.

“Inside my own ass, apparently,” I say dryly. “How are they doing?”

“They’re good,” Chloe says, then snorts. “James has taken Overprotective Father to a whole new level.”