The whiskey bottle was still half full.
But Xavier's throat burned like fire as he took another shot, slumping into the leather chair by the window. The city glowed beneath him-cold, distant, untouched by the hell inside him.
She had run out.
And he had let her.
Because he was a coward.
Because if his father knew...
The thought alone was enough to make him close his eyes-and suddenly he wasn't in the penthouse anymore.
He was fifteen again.
Rain hammering against tall windows.
A fire roaring in the corner of the vast study.
And a man-taller than life, colder than death-stood by the fireplace in a tailored black coat.
"Do you know what disgusts me most about weakness, Xavier?"
His voice had been calm. Measured. Deadly.
Xavier didn't answer. He stood still, back straight, fists clenched.
"The way it spreads," his father continued. "One man's flaw becomes another's failure. A soft heart makes for a soft empire."
Xavier remembered nodding once.
Just once.
That was the rule.
"Yes, Father."
"Good."
His father finally turned, eyes sharp like winter steel. "And what did we learn about women?"
Xavier's chest tightened. "They are a distraction. A weakness. A tool."
"A tool," his father repeated, nodding. "Used well, they build empires. Used poorly..."
He let the words trail off like smoke. Xavier never forgot the chill that followed.
That night, he'd seen his father slap a servant girl so hard she bled from the mouth-for daring to cry when dismissed. She had loved him. Or thought she did.
His father called it delusion.
"Feelings are for the poor," he'd said. "You, Xavier, are not allowed to feel. You are allowed to own. To lead. To conquer. That is what Blackwoods do."
And Xavier-young, afraid, desperate to earn his father's approval-had swallowed every word like poison.
Now, years later, in a penthouse that cost more than most buildings, Xavier still felt like that fifteen-year-old boy.
Except now?
Now he'd gone soft.
Now he'd kissed her.
Touched her.
Told her he loved her.
And it showed.
He had become the kind of man his father hated. The kind of son he swore Xavier would never be.
And Sasha?
She was the type of woman his father destroyed without flinching.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.
"God damn it..."
She would never understand.
Not the fear.
Not the danger.
His father wasn't just returning.
He was coming to take back control.
And if he ever found out that Xavier Blackwood-the heir to his empire-had fallen in love with his secretary...
He would burn everything.
Including Sasha.
Absolutely - here's a raw, human-paced, AI-free-feeling scene that captures Sasha's heartbreak and the deep emotional whiplash she just endured. This is her breaking point - vulnerable, messy, real.
The rain hit her skin like needles.
Sasha didn't feel it.
Her heels had snapped halfway through the street. She kicked them off and walked barefoot, mascara bleeding into the collar of her dress, lips trembling, chest heaving with every gasping breath.
She didn't even realize she was crying until she couldn't see where she was going anymore.
The tears wouldn't stop.
Not after what he said.
Not after what he looked like when he said it-cold, detached, like she was nothing more than an inconvenience he'd accidentally enjoyed too much.
Her hands clutched her bag like it was the only thing holding her together.
When she reached Stella's apartment, it was almost midnight.
She knocked once.
Twice.
No answer.
A third knock, louder. Desperate.
The door swung open.
"Sasha?" Stella blinked, half-asleep in a hoodie and shorts, her eyes widening. "What the hell-?"
Sasha stumbled forward.
"I'm sorry- I didn't know where else to-" Her voice cracked.
Stella caught her just before she hit the floor.
"Jesus Christ. You're soaking. Come in, come in-what happened?"
But Sasha couldn't speak.
She collapsed onto the couch, wet hair sticking to her face, lips pale. Her body started to shake-not from the rain. Not from cold.
But from the heartbreak finally cracking through her bones.
Stella returned seconds later with a towel and a blanket. She dropped them when she saw the way Sasha was curled up-like something broken.
"Talk to me. What happened?"
Sasha sucked in a breath.
And then it poured out-like water through a cracked dam.
"He lied to me."
Stella knelt down in front of her, her hand gently brushing the wet hair from Sasha's cheek.
"Who?"
Sasha didn't need to say it.
Xavier.
The name hung between them.
"Tonight, he told me he loved me," Sasha whispered. "He looked at me like I was the only person in the world. He kissed me like he couldn't breathe without me."
Stella said nothing.
"And then... downstairs... after everything... he looked me in the eyes and said he loved her. That he used me."
She let out a choking sound. A sob. A scream.
"I was just a toy, Stella. Just a warm body to pass time."
Stella's jaw clenched.
"No. No, you're not."
"I believed him," Sasha whispered. "I actually believed that someone like him could want someone like me."
"Sasha, stop-"
"I let him touch me. I let him in. I loved him, Stella. And he just... threw me away."
Her hands gripped the blanket like it could absorb the pain.
"I feel dirty," she whispered.
"No," Stella said firmly. "Don't say that."
"I let him see all of me. And it still wasn't enough."
Stella pulled her into a hug, wrapping her arms tightly around her.
"You were more than enough," she said into her hair. "He's the one who doesn't deserve you. Not the other way around."
Sasha didn't respond. She just pressed her face against her best friend's shoulder and
cried until her throat was raw, until the room blurred, until the pain blurred with it.
And deep down, in the quiet corner of her heart...
She still wanted him.
Even after everything.