Shades of Betrayal

The bar was a dive, the kind of place where the lights flickered just enough to make you question your choices, and the jukebox played songs about heartbreak that hit too close to home. Lena sat at the far end of the counter, nursing a whiskey neat, the amber liquid burning a trail down her throat. She’d lost count of how many she’d had—three, maybe four—but it still wasn’t enough to drown the image of Marcus and Sasha tangled in her sheets.

Her phone sat facedown beside her, buzzing intermittently. She didn’t need to look to know it was him. Or maybe Sasha, with her crocodile tears and half-baked apologies. Lena didn’t care. She’d driven aimlessly for an hour after leaving the apartment, the highway stretching out like a lifeline she didn’t know how to grab. She’d ended up here, in this grimy hole-in-the-wall, because it was the last place anyone would look for her.

The bartender, a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard, slid another glass her way without a word. She nodded her thanks, her fingers brushing the cool rim. The burn of the whiskey was the only thing keeping her grounded, a tether to something real when everything else felt like a lie.

“You look like you’re running from something,” a voice said, low and rough, cutting through the hum of the bar.

Lena glanced to her left. A man had settled onto the stool beside her, his presence quiet but undeniable. He was older than Marcus, maybe mid-thirties, with a jawline shadowed by stubble and eyes that held a storm of their own—gray, piercing, like they’d seen too much and didn’t flinch anymore. His leather jacket was worn at the elbows, and a faint scar curved along his left cheek, giving him an edge that made her pulse quicken despite herself.

“Maybe I am,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “What’s it to you?”