A Chance Encounter

Normally, I don't drink, but tonight was an exception. Laughter echoed off rich mahogany wood and polished glass as the Manhattan bar throbbed with life and vitality, yet I felt completely cut off from the celebration going on around me. The aftertaste of whiskey sour burnt my lips, and even the alcohol couldn't take away the dull agony that throbbed in my chest.

I was reminded of the email that had destroyed my whole day by the buzzing notice on my phone. I looked at the screen, anticipating what I would see: *Ms. Vance, three weeks. In three weeks, we must receive the money; else, we will start the foreclosure process. In three weeks, $250,000 will be generated. The benefit it would do me would have been worth a million dollars. My parents had left me the one house I had ever really loved, and it was pretty well gone.

A middle-aged guy with a soft smile and weary eyes, the bartender frowned in worry as he observed me. “Another one, miss?” he pointed to my almost empty glass.

I pondered, listing all the reasons why I need to stop talking to myself. But I couldn't help but nod as the environment around me became more oppressive and heavy. "Yeah," I said, attempting to maintain a steady tone, "just one more." I would be brave enough to forget for a night if I had one more.

I gazed at the glass as the wine flowed around it, quietly wishing it would take me far away. Tonight, I shouldn't have gone out. I ought to have been cooped up at home, trying to make ends meet while dealing with the financial catastrophe my late father had left me. But the image of vacant rooms and growing expenses was too much for me to handle.

And then he entered.

The cosmos itself seemed to hold its breath for a brief instant. A tall guy in a fitted suit with black hair pulled back in an almost flawless manner. Eyes and voices were raised as he entered, but he didn't seem to notice—or maybe he didn't care. He seemed more at home in a boardroom than a boisterous, packed pub. The little stubble that adorned his chin was the only thing that softened his sharply defined jawline. His chilly, penetrating eyes, however, were what really drew me in. eyes that seemed to have seen the world and decided to play with it.

I forced myself to turn aside. He wasn't the kind of man I belonged with. In fancy fragrances and silk ties, men like him were nothing but trouble.

He sat down at the other end of the bar, and I made an effort to ignore his order for a neat scotch. I made a greater effort to ignore how his deep voice made me tremble for no apparent reason. The last thing I needed was to get entangled with someone like him; I was already a mess, God. But it seemed like life was out to get me.

The bartender came back and put a handwritten note on the back of a cocktail napkin in my direction. * You seem to be in a losing struggle. What about an amicable diversion? I read the words again, scowling as they became a little hazy. My eyes strayed to the stranger with the black hair. I was gazing at him. He lifted his glass in a silent toast, a sneer curling his lips.

Everything in me begged me to ignore him. However, my heart was already pounding, and my thoughts were slanting toward the dangerous edge that desperation had chiseled out of my existence. The world was falling apart all around me, and this was the perfect night to engage in a risky diversion.

"Are notes really being sent to me?" Putting as much confidence as I could into my voice, I cried out. "What are teenagers like us?"

Unconcerned by my jeering, he reclined back, his grin widening. "Didn't it work?" The unoccupied stool next to me was indicated by him. "Can I?"

I had the option to refuse. I *should have* declined. However, the excitement of a charming stranger was the only thing I had left to control after the world had delivered me enough blows today. I said, "Sure," in a tighter voice than I had meant. I'm going to leave, however, if this becomes a sad love poetry on another napkin.

The sound of his laughter seemed to wrap into the void between us; it was rich and low. "Remembered."

Even more overpowering was his presence up close. He was obviously wearing a tailored suit, and it fit him well, yet there was a sense of something rough about him that contrasted with his polished appearance. He watched me intensely, making my skin tingle, and said, "What brings you out tonight?"

"Just... life," was my evasive response. Sharing my worries was not appropriate, particularly with someone who was most likely completely unconcerned. “How about you?”

"Today, a deal fell through," he acknowledged. Because someone changed their mind, millions of dollars were wasted. I am now drowning my sorrows.

I blinking. millions. I suddenly realized how far apart we were—a chasm too great to bridge. More angrily than I meant to, I said, "Must be nice."

I saw a glimmer of interest rather than anger as his eyes narrowed. "What's your name?" he said, trying to divert the topic from financial hardship.

"Audrey," I said. "You too?"

“Damien.” I accepted his outstretched hand, and the contact of it lit a flame. "Audrey," he said again in a soft voice. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice." For whatever was going on between us, it wasn't the term. Everything vanished in his presence, including the bar, the clamor, and the oppressive weight of my bills. But before I could completely lose myself, reality slammed back.

A voice interrupted, “Damien.” It was a lady with eyes that looked at me like daggers and a body that could halt traffic. Her arms were crossed, and a poisonous red paint was applied on her lips. "We need you upstairs."

He didn't even recoil. "I'll arrive in a moment."

She gave me a warning glance and then hurried away. I took a deep breath, breaking the enchantment that had held Damien and me together. Playing dress-up in a world that wasn't hers made me feel silly.

Damien, however, stayed put. He was still looking at me, probing, seeking. "One evening," he murmured, his voice becoming a whisper. "Set everything aside for a single evening."

I was tempted for a second, and my breath caught. Even if it was just until daylight, I tried to picture what it would be like to forget, to have someone else carry the burden of my concerns. My phone buzzed again before I could respond, reminding me of the unavoidable reality: $250,000, three weeks, and a life in ruins.

I withdrew, the spell completely shattered. I said in a whisper, "You don't want to get involved with me."

His head cocked, a challenge igniting in those icy eyes. "Perhaps that is the reason I ought to."

In an instant, I became aware that I had wandered into something hazardous. Something that promised me not only pleasure but also pain—a risk that I may not make it through.