Page 3 of Coldhearted King

“I am sorry, Delilah. Let’s just finish our meal, and then I’ll take you home. On Monday, we can both be adults about this and work together to get our proposal finalized.”

The emotion bubbles up in my chest, made mostly of disappointment and frustration—with Paulandmyself. “Actually, I’m not hungry anymore. You stay here and finish. I’ll get a ride home.”

“Come on, Delilah. Don’t be like that. We can still be friends and have a meal together, surely.”

“Maybe we can at some point, but not tonight. I just want to go home.”

He huffs out a breath, which manages to make me feel like I’m being childish. “Fine. But the least I can do is drive you home.”

Being stuck in a car with him is the last thing I want. “No, thank you. I’d prefer to be on my own right now. I have my phone; I’ll call a rideshare.” Before Paul can argue further, I shove back my chair and stand.

Paul’s brow puckers, and he stands too, but I turn and rush from the table before he can say anything else. I push through the door of the restaurant, wondering if I should have paid before leaving. But it’s only a fleeting worry. It’s the least Paul can do, considering what just happened.

My heels clack at a rapid tempo as I make my way down the street, clutching my phone in my hand and dodging oncoming people. I want to get away from the restaurant so I don’t have to stand outside and risk facing Paul while waiting for my lift. When I think I’m far enough to avoid him if he leaves, I raise my phone to open the app. A dark wooden door swings open next to where I’m loitering, and a couple bursts out of it, distracting me. They’re laughing, and before the door swings shut, the sound of music and the murmur of conversation drifts out. I peer through the heavily tinted windows.

A bar.

Standing there in my sexy dress and my strappy heels and my beautiful lingerie, having just been dumped, I suddenly don’t want to slink home like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. I want to have a drink. If my roommate Alex was home, I’d buy a bottle of wine and take it back to our cozy little apartment to drown my sorrows with her. But she’s at a concert with her boyfriend, and I no longer like the idea of being alone.

Trying not to overthink it, I push open the door and enter the dim space. The first thing that hits me is the distinct aroma of beer and whiskey, with an underlying hint of wood polish and leather. When my vision adjusts to the limited lighting, I make out various individuals sitting at tables and clustered around a long wooden bar. That’s what I make a beeline toward.

After finding a vacant high-backed stool next to a dark-haired man in a white business shirt, I throw myself down on it while fighting back my tears.

It’s not that I’m heartbroken—Paul and I weren’t dating long enough for me to fall for him—but Ilikedhim, and I thought that would eventually grow into more. That liking would be enough for now.

But I was wrong.

I get the bartender’s attention, and perhaps seeing the expression on my face, he hustles over. Just as I’m about to order my customary glass of white wine, I catch myself. This situation calls for something stronger. “Whiskey. On the rocks.”

One of his brows twitches upward. Probably because I don’t look like the typical hard-liquor type of girl. And I’m not. But what the hell? Overthinking and caution are what got me here. Rather than questioning my decision-making skills, the man merely nods, grabs a half-full bottle of amber liquid from one of the shelves behind him, and pours an inch or so into a tumbler. He places it in front of me and I smile my thanks, pick it up, and down it in one go.

Oh god, it burns. I gasp and shudder, then cough a little. The bartender’s amused gaze catches me off guard, but I don’t care that he’s laughing at me. “Another one, please.”

This time, his brows shoot up. “Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure,” I say, then laugh. Damn, am I tipsy already? I drank a glass of wine at dinner before Paul decided we’re better off as...friends? Colleagues? Who knows.

The bartender bites back a grin and pours for me. “You want me to set up a tab?”

I’m about to tell him what a great idea that is when a smooth, deep voice comes from next to me. “Not if she’s here on her own.”

CHAPTERTHREE

COLE

From the corner of my eye, I see her turn to stare at me, but I don’t bother to meet her gaze. I’m not even sure why I said anything. It’s none of my business if a woman wants to get drunk at a bar on her own. After all, I’m drinking alone.

My mind flashes back to today’s visit to see Dad in jail—the reason I’m here with a whiskey in my hand. Roman, Tate, and I, along with the King Group’s head lawyer, had gone to inform him of the company’s change in leadership. Seeing him sitting at the table in his orange jumpsuit had been a shock, yet any sympathy I might have felt for him had gone out the window a week ago when I learned the extent of what he’d done. And why.

It was bad enough he’d made money via inside info he received from his contacts within the defense industry, but then he’d used those profits to support at least three of his mistresses. He’d also passed his hot tips to several of his cronies. The stupidity—and selfishness—of his actions had stunned all of us, particularly considering how he’d spent our formative years drumming into our heads that loyalty to our family name and our company was the only thing that mattered.

But everything we’d learned from him also made it easy to do what we were there to do. Saying he was unhappy to hear what we had to say was an understatement. But considering his current situation, there was nothing he could do about it.

As soon as we’d finished our discussion with our team of lawyers, I’d headed home. Except, for the first time, the thought of being alone in my massive penthouse didn’t appeal to me.

I’d come here instead and spent the last hour nursing a couple of glasses of their most expensive whiskey, trying to figure out why the hell my father had done what he’d done. I’d been going around in circles and was about to leave when this woman had thrown herself onto the stool next to me.

Now I’m interfering in her plan to drown whatever sorrows she’s obviously suffering from, and instead of backing off like any self-respecting asshole, I double-down, turning to the bartender. “The next glass you give her should be full of water.”

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