I sat alone at the round table, the amber liquid in my glass catching the dim bar light like liquid gold. This was the first time I'd set foot in a bar in years—the kind of place where shadows swallowed secrets and whiskey drowned sorrows. The pain in my chest felt like a living thing, clawing at my ribs with every breath.
The scenes kept replaying in my head, each memory a fresh blade twisting deeper into wounds that refused to heal.
I ran my hands through my hair until my usually pristine appearance became disheveled. I was supposed to care—I was the Sloan heir, a billionaire in my own right even without my father's empire. Cameras followed my every move, shareholders scrutinized my decisions, but tonight? Tonight, I refused to give a damn.
For three months since *that day*, I'd buried myself in work like a man possessed. Barely eating, sleeping in my office, changing clothes only when my assistant insisted. But today, my body finally rebelled. My hands began trembling during a board meeting, my skin turned ashen, and the memories crashed over me like a tsunami of betrayal.
I'd tried to fight it at first, but now I let the pain consume me entirely. I drained the remaining scotch from my glass and signaled for another, allowing the memory to play out in all its devastating clarity.
---
It had started so innocuously. I'd forgotten an important file and rushed home to retrieve it, parking hastily at the gate instead of pulling into the circular drive. The gateman's greeting was unusually cheerful—too cheerful, as if he'd been waiting for this moment with perverse anticipation.
"Is Bella inside?" I'd asked, already loosening my tie in the humid afternoon heat.
He nodded eagerly. "She hasn't left since you went out, sir."
"Good," I murmured, already planning how she'd help me find a fresh suit while I showered. My pregnant fiancée was always so thoughtful, so caring. I hoped she wasn't overexerting herself—not with our baby due in just a few months and our wedding six months away.
The moment I stepped through the front door, wrongness prickled along my spine. The air carried an unfamiliar scent—masculine cologne that wasn't mine. Then I heard it: sounds drifting from our bedroom. Intimate sounds that made my blood turn to ice.
*No,* I told myself. *She's pregnant. It's probably just the television.*
But then her voice cut through my denial like a serrated knife:
"Oh God... Aaron... harder..."
The world tilted on its axis. My legs turned to lead, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged animal. This couldn't be happening. Not Bella. Not the woman carrying my child, the woman I'd planned to marry, the woman I'd trusted with every piece of my carefully guarded heart.
I forced myself forward, each step an act of pure will.
"Fuck!" Bella's scream pierced the air the moment she saw me. The man—*Aaron Walker*, my business rival—continued his relentless rhythm, oblivious to my presence until she gasped his name.
He turned lazily, smugly, and our eyes met across the wreckage of my life. Aaron's smile was pure victory as he rolled away from my fiancée, his hand possessively stroking her swollen belly.
"I think our baby's going to be a boy," he said with calculated cruelty, pressing his lips to her bump before trailing kisses upward.
*Our baby.*
The words detonated in my chest. Bella's eyes found mine, wide with panic and guilt, while Aaron closed his eyes to kiss her. In that moment, watching her face, the truth crystallized with brutal clarity. The child wasn't mine. They'd been playing me for months—maybe longer.
Everything clicked into place with sickening precision. Every failed business deal, every strategy that Aaron had somehow anticipated, every plan that had crumbled before it began. She'd been feeding him information, using our pillow talk as corporate espionage.
I swallowed the betrayal like broken glass and waited. Aaron dressed with theatrical slowness, kissed Bella goodbye with obvious relish, and promised to see her later. Only then did she fall to her knees before me, words tumbling out in a desperate cascade of confession.
She told me everything: how she'd met Aaron, how he'd seduced her, how she'd gotten pregnant and he'd convinced her to make me the father. How sorry she was, how it had never meant anything, how she loved me.
I listened to every word without speaking, without moving, my heart crystallizing into something harder than diamond.
"I have two words for you," I finally said, my voice deadly quiet. "Get. Out."
The only reason I didn't physically throw her out was the pregnancy. Even betrayed and broken, I wouldn't hurt an unborn child. I grabbed my file and left her sobbing on the bedroom floor, instructing my security team to pack her belongings and have them gone before I returned.
---
Since that day, I hadn't allowed myself to feel. I'd worked like a machine, functioned like a robot, existed without living. But tonight, the dam had finally burst.
I raised my glass in a bitter toast to the empty bar. "To never loving again," I whispered, and drained the whiskey in one burning gulp.
Four bottles later, I called Damien. My best friend arrived within the hour, took one pitying look at my condition, and helped me to my feet. I was babbling incoherently, stumbling over words and memories, when we both went down in a tangle of limbs right outside the bar.
Neither of us noticed the photographer lurking in the shadows, camera clicking rapidly, capturing every compromising moment.
By tomorrow morning, the headlines would be everywhere:
**SLOAN HEIR'S DRUNKEN BREAKDOWN: BILLIONAIRE BACHELOR'S MYSTERIOUS FALL FROM GRACE**
The photos would trend for weeks, spawning a thousand theories about my dramatic downfall. But none of them would guess the truth—that the most powerful man in the city had been brought to his knees by the oldest betrayal in the book.
Love had made me weak once.
It would never happen again.