Chapter 57

The city never truly quieted, but inside this bar, it tried. A low hum of conversation merged with the occasional clink of glass, creating a dull, steady rhythm. I chose the furthest booth, nestled in shadows where the light was dim enough to avoid attention but bright enough to keep my thoughts company. My drink—untouched—sat between my hands, its amber glow an accusation of indecision. This place wasn’t peaceful, but it was close. After the chaos of the last few weeks, it was the best I could manage. Social media has turned my life into a circus, all because of one damn photo. Hera and I, caught mid-conversation, immortalized with a caption that suggested something deeper than what it was. The headlines spiraled out of control—“Bryan Sinclair’s Secret Flame?”—all baseless, all wrong. But the noise didn’t stop.