Friday nights were predictable.
Alexander Reid liked predictability.
At exactly seven-thirty, the penthouse lamps came on automatically, warm brightness spilling across glass and steel.
At seven-thirty-five, his assistant's final email of the week slipped into his inbox, concise, efficient, conclusive.
At eight, Manhattan thumped beneath him while he stood alone at the window, relaxing his tie, staring out at the city as if it owed him something.
"This is it," he muttered to the glass.
"Another thrilling night."
The penthouse was silent, too silent.
No laughter. No warmth.
Just costly furniture arranged with clinical accuracy and space reflecting back at him. The kind of quiet that reminded him he could buy anything except companionship that lingered.
He poured himself a drink. Whiskey. Neat.
"One more week endured," he said dryly, raising the glass as he cheered to the air.
He drank.
This was how it always went.
Work devoured him Monday through Friday, meetings stacked on meetings, deals negotiated into submission, power shifting beneath his hands like something alive.
People feared him, admired him, and avoided him.
And then Friday night arrived like permission.
Permission to be reckless.
Indulgent.
Detached, he did whatever he pleased.
His phone whizzed on the counter.
Marcus: Same place tonight?
Alexander stared at the message for a moment longer than was crucial before replying.
Alexander: Where else?
He finished the drink, snatched his jacket, and headed out.
The club was already alive when he reached.
Lights strobed in hypnotic rhythm. Music thundered through the floor. Bodies squeezed together in reckless closeness. The scent of alcohol and perfume wrapped around him like a familiar vice.
The bouncer straightened immediately.
"Mr. Reid, Good day."
Alexander didn't respond. He never did. He looked in his direction and forced a smile.
He moved through the crowd effortlessly, authority rolling off him like heat. Heads turned. Women glimpsed. Men made room.
This was his territory.
Marcus spotted him near the bar. "There he is. The king himself."
Alexander smirked faintly. "You're early."
"Couldn't miss Friday night," Marcus said, lifting his glass. "What's the plan? Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?"
Alexander surveyed the room lazily.
It used to be easy.
Pick one. Anyone.
A woman at the bar caught his eye, short dress, long legs, eyes already assessing him like a prize. She smiled, confident and practiced.
Normally, that would have been enough.
Instead, his mind double crossed him.
A different smile twinkled through his thought, reckless, unguarded, unfamiliar.
His jaw narrowed.
"Alex?"
He veered around to Marcus.
Marcus snapped his fingers. "You good?"
"Yeah," Alexander said sharply. "Just exhausted."
Marcus raised a brow. "You? Tired? That's new."
Alexander ignored him and signaled the bartender. "Whiskey."
The bartender slid the glass over. "Usual?"
"Yes."
He took a sip, eyes drifting again.
Every woman looked the same tonight.
Too waxed.
Too aware.
Too rehearsed.
He bent closer to Marcus.
"You ever feel like you're stuck in a loop?"
Marcus giggled.
"You mean money, power, women?"
Alexander didn't smile.
Marcus studied him more closely.
"What happened to you? Are you okay?"
"Nothing happened."
"That's not an answer."
Alexander's grip tightened around the glass.
Nothing had happened.
And yet,
The memory emerged uninvited.
Her chuckle cut through the noise.
The way she hadn't tried to impress him.
The way she'd looked at him like he was just a man, not a name.
The way she'd kissed him without calculation. Without expectation.
He drained his drink.
"I'm picking someone," he said abruptly.
"There we go," Marcus said with satisfaction. "Back to normal."
Alexander stepped toward the bar.
The woman in the short dress straightened immediately, smile widening. "Buy me a drink?"
He leaned in just enough for her to catch his cologne.
"You already have one."
She chuckled. "Then buy me another."
He nodded to the bartender.
They talked. Or rather, she talked.
About herself.
About how exciting New York was.
About how lucky she was to run into him.
Alexander listened with half an ear.
She leaned closer. "So… do you live nearby?"
He hesitated.
For a split second, just a second he saw another woman in his apartment. Barefoot. Laughing. Unexpected.
His chest narrowed.
"Yes," he said finally.
She smiled like she'd won something.
His penthouse felt colder than usual.
The woman kicked off her heels and wandered around as if she belonged there.
"Wow," she said. "This place is insane."
Alexander watched her from the kitchen, arms crossed.
She turned. "You're very quiet."
"You don't mind," he said flatly.
She shrugged. "Strong, silent type. I can work with that."
She moved closer, hands brushing his chest with deliberate confidence.
Normally, this was the part he enjoyed.
Tonight, it felt hollow.
Her kiss was eager. Predictable.
His body responded out of addiction, not starvation.
She tugged back slightly, studying his face. "You okay?"
"Long week," he said.
She smiled and tugged him toward the bedroom.
He followed.
Later, much later, the city buzzed beyond the glass walls as the woman slept, curled on his bed, breathing slowly and evenly.
Alexander stood at the window, shirtless, staring out at Manhattan.
That night.
That damn night.
He had never allowed a woman to linger in his thoughts before. Never needed them to.
He glanced back at the woman in his bed.
She was beautiful and slender just the way he liked his ladies to look.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand interrupting him.
He frowned and picked it up.
His mother.
His jaw tightened.
The screen lit again.
Mum: You should think about going out on a date with Ellen, she is a nice girl.
His pulse spiked.
He read it once.
Twice.
The city seemed to fade into hush around him.
Slowly, Alexander typed.
Stopped.
Deleted.
Typed again.
His gaze flicked to the sleeping woman behind him.
The message stayed.
His thumb hovered over the screen, unsure of what to say.
For the first time in Alexander's life, he wasn't interested in the beautiful lady lying on his bed.