Chapter 2

I push open the heavy wooden door and walk into the dim interior. Jazz music floats from a small stage in the corner, the air thick with the scent of tobacco and whiskey. A few patrons are scattered in various corners, most focused on their own drinks.

I walk to the bar and sit on a high stool. The man behind the bar has his back to me, washing glasses.

"Can I get the strongest drink you have?" I say, my voice hoarse.

He turns around, and my breathing instantly stops.

'Impossible.'

This man... his profile, that jawline, even the arch of his eyebrows... they're strikingly similar to Montgomery's. Not exactly the same, but enough to make my heart start racing again.

"Looks like you've had a rough night." His voice is warmer than Montgomery's, without that harsh edge he uses with everyone else. He has tousled brown hair and wears a black t-shirt and jeans. There's a small scar above his right eyebrow.

I wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes, realizing my makeup must be ruined.

He places a glass of amber liquid in front of me. "Whiskey. Neat." Then he leans on the bar, studying my face. "I'm Dorian."

"Celeste." I take a sip of whiskey, feeling it burn down my throat. "Your... your eyes..."

His eyes aren't blue, but deep brown, yet the shape... the shape is too similar.

"What about them? Do they remind you of someone?" he asks, a slight smile playing at his lips.

'If only you were him...' I think, but don't say it out loud. Instead, I take another sip of whiskey, feeling the alcohol beginning to burn through my veins.

"Maybe." I finally say. "Maybe someone I thought I knew."

Dorian hands me a pack of tissues. "Did that person hurt you?"

I laugh, but it sounds more like crying. "No, I hurt myself. I had fantasies about someone who will never love me."

"He's an idiot." Dorian says simply.

I look up at him, and in the dim light, his face flickers in and out of shadows. If I squint my eyes, if I let the alcohol blur my vision...

"If only you were him..." I whisper, almost unconsciously saying the words.

Dorian's expression becomes complex. He studies my face, then slowly says, "Maybe tonight, I can be anyone you want me to be."

Alcohol made my world both blurred and crystal clear. Blurred were the boundaries of reality, clear were those desires buried deep in my heart that I normally didn't dare acknowledge.

When Dorian helped me up from the bar, his hands were warm and steady. "You need somewhere quiet," he said, his voice deep with a tenderness both familiar and strange.

'Something about his tone... it reminds me of how Montgomery used to speak to me when I was younger, before everything became so complicated.'

He guided me toward a small booth in the back of the bar, where dim lighting cast soft shadows across the leather sofa. Jazz music drifted in from outside like distant whispers. I collapsed onto the sofa, the whole world gently swaying.

"Have a seat," Dorian sat beside me, maintaining just the right distance—close enough to feel safe, far enough not to feel invaded.

I closed my eyes, alcohol stripping away my usual defenses. In this dim little space, I could pretend he was Montgomery. I could pretend the humiliation in that living room had never happened.

"Montgomery..." I murmured unconsciously, leaning my head against his shoulder. "Why didn't you wait for me to grow up? I'm already eighteen..."

Dorian's body tensed slightly, but he didn't push me away. Instead, his voice became even gentler, deliberately lowering his tone: "Maybe... he's just afraid of ruining your future."

I opened my eyes and stared at him. Even in the dim light, I could see something profound in his eyes. "Your voice... it's as gentle as his used to be." The memory hit me suddenly—Montgomery reading me bedtime stories years ago, his voice soft and protective, so different from the cold authority he'd shown me tonight.

"You're imagining I'm someone else," Dorian said, but there was no reproach in his tone, only something I couldn't decipher.

"Yes," I admitted honestly. "Is that crazy?"

"Maybe." He reached out to stroke my hair, his touch light as a feather.

We sat there quietly, my head on his shoulder, his hand gently stroking my hair. In this false tenderness, I could almost forget everything about tonight—Montgomery's coldness, Scarlett's smugness, the guests' whispers.

But reality always intrudes on the most beautiful fantasies.

At three AM, the bar's music suddenly stopped.

"What's happening?" I lifted my head in confusion.

Then I heard that voice—Montgomery's voice, filled with anger and urgency: "Where is she?"