Melissa declared a girls' night out like it was a military order, not an invitation.
No objections. No excuses. Ariana had laughed, Sunny had hesitated for half a second, then nodded like she desperately needed the distraction.
Sofia was dropped off with Zara for a sleepover—extra pajamas, a stuffed dolphin tucked under one arm, kisses planted on her forehead.
Melissa watched the door close behind Sofia and felt the familiar ache bloom in her chest.
Guilt. Relief. Fear. All braided together.
By the time they reached the club, the bass was already rattling Melissa's bones.
Lights strobed in violent colors—purple, red, electric blue—washing over bodies packed too close together. Sweat, perfume, alcohol, and desperation hung thick in the air.
Ariana was the first to let go, dragging Sunny onto the dance floor with reckless laughter.
Sunny resisted for exactly three seconds before the music swallowed her whole.
Melissa didn't join them.
She sat on a bar stool, back straight, shoulders tense, knocking back whiskey shots like they were medicine.
One. Two. Three. The burn was welcome—it reminded her she was still here, still breathing, still in control. Or pretending to be.
From the corner of the club, Antonio watched her.
He hadn't come for her. At least, that's what he told himself.
The owner of the club owed him—money, loyalty, and a mistake that could only be paid for one way.
Business. Blood. Clean and simple. Yet his eyes kept drifting back to Melissa.
She tilted her head back, throat exposed as she swallowed another shot.
Her fingers trembled just slightly when she set the glass down. He noticed. He always noticed.
The way her jaw clenched. The way her eyes darkened—not drunk, not yet—just tired. Worn thin by things she never spoke out loud.
Antonio's grip tightened around the glass in his hand.
She wasn't supposed to be here. Not like this.
Not drowning herself while pretending she didn't care who was watching.
On the dance floor, Ariana spun Sunny under the lights, both of them laughing too loudly, moving like women who had survived too much and were determined to feel alive for at least one night.
Melissa watched them with a hollow smile, another shot already waiting in front of her.
Antonio finally looked away.
Business first, he reminded himself. Always business first.
But even as he stood and disappeared into the shadows of the club, one thought burned in his mind—
If she kept drinking like that, tonight wouldn't end cleanly.
After business was concluded, Antonio returned to his seat.
The club felt louder now, harsher. The music pounded like a heartbeat he couldn't slow.
His eyes found Melissa immediately—still on the bar stool, still drinking like she was trying to erase something from the inside out.
Another shot went down.
He didn't know how many she'd had. He didn't need to.
The pile of empty cups stacked beside her told the story well enough.
Then a man slid into the empty space beside her. Too close.
Antonio watched the stranger lean in, fingers brushing Melissa's arm like he had a right to it.
The man laughed at something she hadn't said, spoke directly into her ear over the music.
Promises spilled from his mouth—cheap ones. A good time. No strings. One night.
Melissa's spine went rigid.
"Fuck off," she said, fierce and clear, her voice slicing clean through the noise.
The man laughed anyway. Antonio's jaw tightened.
Something cold and precise settled behind his eyes as he leaned slightly toward Sebastian, who stood a step behind him like a shadow given form.
"I want his teeth plucked out," Antonio said quietly. No raised voice. No emotion.
"Now."
"Yes, boss," Sebastian replied, already moving.
Seconds later, security appeared—efficient, unquestioning. Hands gripped the man's arms before he could protest properly.
He laughed at first, confused, still drunk on his own arrogance.
That laughter died quickly as he was dragged toward the back exit.
Melissa noticed the sudden absence.
She frowned, glancing toward the door, then back at her glass.
She poured another shot with unsteady hands and drank it anyway, unaware—or pretending to be—of the silent war that had just been fought on her behalf.
Antonio didn't move.
He watched her like a storm held in check, knowing full well that if she looked up—really looked—she'd find him there.
And tonight, neither of them was ready for that.
Sunny was the first to notice.
Melissa was no longer upright, no longer pretending.
She was slumped over the table, forehead pressed against cool wood, one hand still loosely gripping a shot glass like it might drift away if she let go.
"Okay…" Sunny exhaled, already walking towards Melissa. "Let's call it a night."
Ariana nodded, concern snapping her out of the haze of music and lights.
They moved quickly, one on each side of Melissa.
"Let go of me, you perverts," Melissa slurred, swatting weakly at them, all fire and no balance.
"Yeah, yeah," Ariana muttered. "Save the insults for tomorrow."
They dragged her outside despite her protests.
The fresh night air hit Melissa like a slap—sharp, cold, unforgiving.
She barely had time to bend forward before she vomited onto the pavement, her body folding in on itself.
Sunny held her hair back, grimacing but steady.
"Hold her," Ariana said, already pulling out her phone.
"Let me call my driver."
Melissa clutched Sunny's jacket, face buried against her shoulder, mumbling words that made no sense—names, half-formed apologies, something that sounded like regret.
Ariana returned a minute later. "He'll be here in ten minutes."
By the time the car arrived, Melissa had started crying.
Not loud sobs—those would have been easier—but quiet, broken sounds, like her chest couldn't quite remember how to breathe properly.
Sunny squeezed her hand, helpless. The drive home was hell.
Melissa vomited again in the back seat, the smell immediate and unforgiving.
Ariana screamed in horror, scrambling for tissues, Sunny rolling down the window despite the cold.
"I am never drinking again," Ariana declared, near tears herself.
No one believed her.
The next morning, Melissa showed up to work with a skull-splitting headache and a mouth that tasted like regret.
Her not so medicated glasses hid her eyes. Makeup hid the rest.
She moved slower than usual, but she moved.
She always did.
There were things to sign. Calls to make. Problems that needed solving.
The world didn't pause for hangovers or heartbreak.
Antonio watched her from his office.
The woman from last night—the one slumped over a bar, drowning quietly, eyes hollow—was gone.
In her place stood a young lady with her hair neatly pulled back, shoulders squared, fingers flying across documents like nothing had happened.
Professional. Focused. Untouchable. But Antonio knew better.
He had seen the loneliness. The sadness she thought no one noticed.
As she passed his office without looking in, he realized something unsettling—
She wasn't strong because she felt nothing.
She was strong because she carried everything and showed none of it.