07 Alexander Smith

07

Alexander Smith

The exclusive bar was buzzing with life. Music played overhead, waiters weaved through tables with drinks in hand, and a few flirted shamelessly with their customers. Near the pole stage, call girls danced with slow, sensual grace, entertaining the crowd that never seemed to get enough. It wasn’t the kind of sight most would call pleasant, but for the regulars, it was a paradise.

A female waitress approached the bar counter, balancing a tray already filled with bottles and glasses.

“Is Mr. Alex’s favorite whiskey there?” she asked, double-checking to avoid any slip-ups.

“I would never miss it for anything,” the bartender replied with a grin, flashing perfect white teeth. A fine man in his own right but not on par with Mr. Alex. “Is he brooding as usual?”

“Yep. Planning to drown himself in alcohol tonight.” The waitress clicked her tongue and shook her head in mock pity. “See you later.”

She made her way toward the VIP lounge, Alexander Smith's usual haunt. Reserved only for him, his business partners, and select clients. She pushed the heavy door open to reveal four men sprawled out on a plush couch, surrounded by women. All except Alexander Smith, who kept brushing the girls off with a hard frown and a sharper stare.

He was a sight, even in his current mood, every bit the brooding billionaire. His features were sharp, sculpted, devastating. A man born and made of wealth and power, but touched deeply by loss. Even here, among the city’s elite, his looks and presence easily overshadowed his companions.

“Alex, just pick one of them and enjoy yourself,” one of his friends said, watching him sulk.

The waitress placed the tray on the table and nudged his favorite drink closer.

“Alex!” another man called. “You…”

“I said I don’t want to,” Alex cut in sharply, irritation flickering in his voice.

He unbuttoned a few buttons of his shirt and loosened his tie before leaning back into the cushion.

Alexander Smith. Hot, rich, and the city’s most desired bachelor or rather, widower. A man who’d once loved and lost, now reduced to a shadow of who he used to be. Ever since he lost his beloved wife. But that didn't reduce his value and rate in the market of single ladies who were searching. If it weren’t for that grief, the waitress might have tried her luck.

She eyed him discreetly as she retreated to her station.

Still, she knew there was one woman who could make him feel again. And she deeply wished it was her. Maybe if that woman opens his heart once again, it will be easy for her to seep in.

A girl quietly slid up beside him, pressing a hand to his chest and caressing him gently. She leaned in and whispered against his ear, “Mr. Alex, I can give you what you want. More than what you want.”

Alex sighed, then shoved her off roughly.

“Ahh!” she yelped, scrambling back with wide eyes.

“I will… when I’m interested. But for now, back off,” he snapped, annoyance thick in his tone.

“Ahh, just leave him alone and come to me instead, girl,” one of Alex’s friends chimed in, pulling her onto his lap. “He’s in a bad mood. I can stand in for him. You and her, both. With me.”

He fondled her hair while they giggled drunkenly.

Alex hadn’t been home since sending Ryan to Grams’ house. He’d been retreating to his penthouse each night, waking up with a headache each morning, then dragging himself to work. He didn’t even know how he was still running a company successfully. His wife’s death had destroyed everything in him and made life more sorrowful except the business. The first year, when his wife died, the company had been a mess, but afterward, he’d gotten it back on track.

Alex stood up, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the table.

“Where are you going?” one of his friends asked.

“When you’re done, you can leave,” he muttered before staggering out of the lounge.

He found a stool at the front bar, seated himself, and poured another drink. No one paid much attention to him, everyone was too absorbed in their own little world.

An hour passed.

He was still sitting there, brooding, watching people dance and laugh, pretending the world hadn’t fallen apart. He wished tomorrow would come already so he could bury himself in work. When he was obsessed with work, time moved faster. Maybe he should go now. Go home, review Jack’s deal, go through the documents his secretary left.

“Are you ready to go, Mr. Alex? The night’s getting late,” the bartender asked in his thick British accent.

Alex chuckled, resting his chin on his hand.

“I love your accent,” he slurred. “The way you speak. That... accent thing.”

The bartender smiled and stepped out of his cubicle to stand beside him.

“I know. That was what caught your interest when you hired me. Are you ready to leave?”

Alex shrugged, tried to stand but immediately fell back into his seat.

“Ohhh,” he groaned. “I want to leave, but my feet aren’t cooperating.”

Not again, the bartender thought, suppressing a sigh. He helped Alex up and guided him toward the car park.

“You drank too much. Again.”

Alex leaned against the sleek black car. “Which one’s mine again? Probably the most posh one, huh?”

The bartender gave him a tight smile. “Yeah, but you can’t drive like this. Should I call an Uber for you?”

“No!” Alex snapped. “I’m being careful, okay? I’ve got a deal I’m working on. A big one. People are watching, waiting to drag me down because I’m the top candidate. Enemies everywhere.”

He paused, then tapped his chest. “I’m careful.”

Suddenly, he gagged.

The bartender stepped back just in time as Alex bent over and vomited on the ground.

“Shit!!” he winced. “Alright. Time to call someone. Let’s see… who do I call?”

He retrieved Alex’s phone from his pocket, scrolling. “Who should I call for you, Mr. Alex? Is there anyone I can reach?”

Alex sank to his knees, head in his lap, groaning in pain.

“I have no one,” he muttered. “She died…”

The bartender’s voice softened. “There must be someone else. And… Mr. Alex, I don’t think this is what she’d want for you. I doubt she’d want to see you like this. The one you lost. She wouldn't wish this on you.”

Alex looked up slowly, meeting his gaze for a long, heavy second.

The bartender instantly regretted his words, bracing for a sharp retort. Who is he to advise the wealthy?

But instead, Alex whispered, “Margaret.”

“Huh?”

“Call Margaret.”

“Oh… Okay,” he said quickly, scrolling to the name and dialing.

The call connected almost immediately.

“Hello? Alex? I mean… Mr. Alex?” came her startled voice.

“Erm… Mr. Alex is drunk. Sick. Almost passed out,” the bartender explained. “At the bar. I thought you should know.”

There was a long pause.

Then Margaret’s voice came back, calm but urgent. “I’ll be there. Stay with him till I arrive.”