Tether Me Softly

Abby’s POV

“Are you even listening to yourself, Dad?” My voice cracked as the words shot out of me, trembling with anger I had bitten back for weeks. Maybe months. It wasn’t weakness, it was rage. The kind that burned my throat raw and pressed tears against the corners of my eyes. “Five years since Mom’s death, and now you’re telling me you want to marry someone else? Just like that?”

The living room felt colder, as though her absence still lived in its walls, and hearing him talk about filling that empty space with another woman—with Nina Stone—was unbearable.

Dad let out a weary sigh, his hand dragging over his face the way it always did when he was tired of fighting me. His shoulders looked heavier than they had this morning, weighed down by too many responsibilities I never asked him to carry. “It’s not just like that, Abby. The company is drowning, and Nina Stone—”

“Don’t say her name,” I cut in, sharper than I intended. My arms folded tightly across my chest, more to hold myself together than to look defiant. “You’re replacing Mom with a business deal. That’s what this is. A contract dressed up in vows.”

His voice softened but carried that steel I hated—the tone that always left me cornered. “I loved your mother. I still do. But I have to protect what she helped me build. If merging with Nina saves Anderson Enterprise, then I’ll do it.”

His words were supposed to sound noble, maybe even romantic in his head. But all I heard was betrayal. My chest heaved as if I couldn’t get enough air in this house anymore. “So you’d marry a stranger for the company, but you’d ignore what this does to me?”

Dad’s eyes softened with guilt, the kind that always chipped at me because I knew he did care—just not enough to stop. His shoulders sagged as though the fight was draining him too. “I thought you wanted me happy.”

A laugh burst out of me, bitter, hollow. “Happy? Or powerful?” The word burned on my tongue. I grabbed my purse off the sofa, fingers trembling so much I nearly dropped it. “I can’t do this right now. I need air.”

“Abby—”

The sound of the door slamming shut behind me cut off the plea in his voice. For a split second, I imagined Mom standing there, arms folded, glaring at him for even daring to think of someone else. But she wasn’t here. She hadn’t been for years.

---

By the time I reached the club, the fury had twisted into something darker, something hollow. Music pounded against my chest the moment I stepped in, drowning out everything except the throb of bass and bodies moving like shadows under colored lights. The air smelled like alcohol and smoke, sweet perfume tangled with sweat.

I pressed through the crowd, my heels clicking against the sticky floor, and ordered the strongest drink I could think of. The first burn of liquor clawed down my throat, leaving behind the faint illusion that it could cauterize the ache in my chest. The second sip made me dizzy enough to pretend it might work.

Mom’s face still found me in flashes. Her soft hands in mine. The smell of her perfume. Then Dad’s voice barged in, dragging reality back like broken glass—Protect the company. Protect the legacy.

I hated it. God, I hated it. Hated the golden cage my last name trapped me in, hated that my life was always tied to balance sheets and board meetings I never asked for. Tonight, I didn’t want to be Richard Anderson’s daughter. Tonight, I wanted to burn.

“Bad night?”

The voice brushed against me, deep and smooth, close enough that it curled under my skin. I turned my head, and the rest of the world slipped out of focus.

He stood there like he belonged to another life entirely—messy dark hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times, a sharp jaw that could’ve been carved by shadows, and eyes that made me feel like he could see straight through every wall I had built.

For the first time all night, my anger wavered. My lips twitched into something like a smirk, though it came out shakier than I wanted. “What gave it away?”

“The way you’re drinking like the glass owes you money,” he said easily, leaning on the bar beside me. His grin was maddeningly casual, as though this conversation was inevitable. “Or maybe the way you’re pretending you don’t want anyone to notice you.”

I raised a brow at him, trying to summon my usual sharpness, but curiosity tugged at me anyway. “And you? Do you just walk around analyzing strangers?”

His grin deepened. “Only the ones I can’t stop looking at.”

That shouldn’t have made my pulse race the way it did. It was cliché, stupid even, but when he said it, something in me snapped awake. My heart skipped. My skin hummed.

I tried to focus back on my glass, the melting ice clinking as I tipped it toward my lips. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

He leaned in then, so close that his breath tickled my ear. My body froze, betraying me, waiting for his answer like it was oxygen.

“Someone who wants to be touched,” he murmured. “But won’t admit it.”

The words sank into me, heat flooding my cheeks, spilling down my throat. My fingers tightened around the glass until I thought it might shatter. I should have walked away. I should’ve scoffed, rolled my eyes, pretended I wasn’t affected.

But instead, I looked right back at him, into eyes that felt both dangerous and safe. “And if I do admit it?”

His grin stretched slow, knowing, almost wicked. “Then I’ll be the one who touches you.”

The music around us pulsed louder, brighter, like the world was daring me to follow through. The crowd melted into a blur, strangers becoming shadows, and for the first time all day, maybe for the first time in months, I felt alive.

I don’t remember how his hand found mine, only that the second it did, my body reacted before my mind could catch up. One moment we were at the bar, staring at each other like there was no one else in the room, and the next I was following him through the crowd, the heat of his palm tethering me to something reckless and alive.

I should’ve cared. I should’ve pulled back, reminded myself he was just a stranger with a cocky grin and eyes that had no right to look at me the way they did. But I didn’t. God help me, I didn’t. Tonight I didn’t want to be Richard Anderson’s daughter. I didn’t want to be the grieving girl still living in her mother’s shadow. I wanted to be someone wild. Someone who chose sin without hesitation.

We stumbled into a dark corner room at the back of the club, the door clicking shut behind us like the world had been locked out. My breath caught when he pressed me against the wall, his chest firm against mine, his scent all warm spice and danger.

His lips hovered just a breath away. “Still want me to touch you?”

A shiver crawled down my spine, my body answering faster than my voice. “Yes.” It came out broken, needy, more honest than anything I’d said in months.

He didn’t wait. His mouth crushed against mine, and I melted into him with a hunger I didn’t know I had left. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was the kind of kiss that stole air, that made me forget where I ended and he began. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for more.

Every brush of his hands lit fire on my skin. My blouse slipped off my shoulders like it had been waiting to be discarded. His mouth trailed down my neck, each kiss branding me, erasing the last traces of anger and grief.

I thought about my mother for half a second, about how disappointed she would be if she could see me giving myself to a stranger in a club. But the thought was swallowed by the sheer ache in my chest—the need to feel wanted, to feel alive, to feel something.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against my skin, though his hands never stilled.

I didn’t. I couldn’t. My nails dug into his back, pulling him closer, desperate, as if keeping him there would keep the rest of the world away. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Clothes became nothing more than obstacles, falling away piece by piece until there was nothing left between us but heat and bare skin. Every touch, every kiss, every ragged breath felt like surrender. My body trembled beneath his, but not from fear. From release. From finally letting go of the anger I’d carried like armor.

When he moved inside me, the world tilted. My breath hitched, breaking into moans I couldn’t hold back. His rhythm was demanding, then gentle, then demanding again, as though he too couldn’t decide whether this was supposed to be about lust or something far more dangerous.

I closed my eyes and let it consume me. The music outside was a muffled echo, but in here, there was only us—two strangers who didn’t know each other’s names, clinging like we’d been searching for each other all our lives.

His hand found mine above my head, our fingers lacing together. The intimacy of it wrecked me more than the heat, more than the pleasure. It was the way he held me like he wasn’t just taking my body, but the broken pieces of me I didn’t show anyone.

The sound of his voice in my ear, low and ragged, unraveled me completely. I let go—of grief, of anger, of every wall I had spent years holding up. My release tore through me, leaving me shaking and clinging to him as though he were the only thing tethering me to the earth.

After, the room was quiet except for our uneven breathing. His forehead rested against mine, his hand still entwined with mine, as though letting go would undo everything we’d just shared.

I should have felt guilt. I should have felt shame. Instead, I felt… full. Alive in a way I hadn’t in years. Like for one night, I had escaped everything—my father, the company, the suffocating expectations.

I didn’t ask his name. He didn’t ask mine. Maybe that was the point. This wasn’t meant to be remembered in daylight.