"Come on, Zahra. We both know that's not true." The way he said it, so damn certain, cracked the frozen block behind my ribs in two, and a flow of ice-cold fear rushed through my veins. He was pushing me, testing me, seeing how far he could go, just likebefore. "Remember how good we were together? How I used to make you?—"
"She said she's not interested."
The voice cut through the space between us, low and dangerous.
I saw Ryan tense before he turned. Because he knew. Oliver was behind him.
And Oliver wasn’t just standing there. He was waiting.
Ryan’s smirk faltered, but he forced a chuckle. "Beck. How nice of you to finally join us."
Oliver didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His silence was heavier than a fist.
The bartender shot me a look, then took a careful step back. Oliver took a step forward.
Ryan must have felt it then—the weight of Oliver’s patience running out. He tilted away on instinct but covered it quickly.
"This is a public place," he said, lifting his drink with an easy shrug. "I’m just having a friendly conversation with an old girlfriend."
Oliver didn’t respond, didn’t react except for the tick of his jaw and the hardening of his eyes, but the temperature around us dropped.
Ryan smirked, taking Oliver’s silence as weakness, opening his mouth to say something, probably another twist of the truth or below-the-belt jab.
Then Oliver leaned in, hands still tucked in his pockets, and whispered something in Ryan’s ear.
I couldn’t hear the words, but Ryan went rigid. His fingers flexed around his glass, his smirk slipped and became a twisted snarl.
"You’re lying," Ryan muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.
Oliver didn’t answer, just held Ryan’s gaze, unfazed. The epitome of cold calculation. A vision of silent fury. Quiet violence wrapped in lilac Ralph Lauren and dark denim.
Ryan swallowed.
For a second, I thought he might throw a punch. But his gaze flickered to me, then back to Oliver, weighing his odds.
"This isn’t over," he spat, pushing past Oliver and toward the elevators.
The bartender let out a low whistle. "Damn. That was impressive. Ex-boyfriend?"
"Something like that," I murmured, mesmerized by this version of Oliver, who was still watching Ryan, eyes dark, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.
I touched his arm, a light, cautious touch, and his head snapped to me so fast it startled me. Then his gaze softened, something melting at the edges.
Without breaking eye contact with me, he took his hand out of his pocket and slid a fifty across the bar. "Thank you for keeping my Lumina company until I got here."
My breath hitched.
Not just from the words. From the way he said them.
Possessive. Undeniable.
And then his hand slid around the back of my neck, fingers fanned across my nape, thumb stroking my jaw before his mouth covered mine, and the world blurred into heat and bourbon and Oliver.
Nothing about this kiss was calculated. Nothing about it was for show.
This was a claim.
When he pulled back, his pupils were blown wide, dark with something that made heat pool low in my belly.