The wine flowed, and everyone was pleasantly buzzed.
Around ten fifty, Joey and the colleagues at the next table said their goodbyes one by one. Only Luna’s table lingered on, chatting in fits and starts.
“So—how was that heroic tale?” Keane arched a brow and looked around the table.
Daisy, across from him, burst out laughing, draped an arm over the table, and tapped her fingers. “It was… great. Captain Victor was amazing. Saved us all!”
Her tone was loose, a hint of tipsiness underneath.
Keane’s mouth twitched; he muttered, resigned, “Hey, Miss Daisy, were you even listening? I’m the hero of that story.”
She was still smiling, eyes noticeably glazed—a certified drunk—so he gave up and sank back into his chair.
Luna, beside Daisy, was a little drunk too but far more composed; she laughed softly and rubbed Daisy’s back for her.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Daisy’s boyfriend—here to take her home.”
A man’s voice popped up out of nowhere and pulled the whole table’s attention.
The named party looked over her shoulder, saw her boyfriend, beamed, squeezed his palm—then swung her head back to the table.
“Everyone, I’m heading home!”
After Daisy left, Keane folded his arms and eyed Luna. “Luna—since when does Daisy have a boyfriend?”
The glass in Luna’s hand paused. She looked up. “No idea. But it must be serious—been a while.”
Keane stroked his chin, nodding slowly. Beside him, Victor leaned back in his chair, glanced at his watch, and spoke:
“It’s getting late.”
A beat, then he added quietly: “Drinking and driving don’t mix.”
Keane turned his head, brow rising. “You didn’t drink, though.”
The words were barely out before his brain spun up, caught on something, and he looked straight at Luna—smiled, nodded slowly, the very picture of understanding.
Luna caught that look and blinked, taken aback.
The next instant, Keane theatrically pulled out his phone, checked it, stood, drained the last of his wine, and looked at Luna with a grin:
“My ride’s coming. I’m off first—carry on, you two!”
And with that, he hurried out of the restaurant.
Luna coughed lightly and shot an awkward glance at Victor across the table.
She reached for her bag—and the silent Victor suddenly spoke. “You’ve been drinking. I’ll drive you home.”
Luna froze mid-reach. Before she could process it, Victor was already rounding the table, bending down for her bag.
She grabbed it first, talking fast. “Hold it—I’ve got it.”
Victor’s hand hovered, then withdrew, the corner of his mouth curling.
A minute later they stood in front of his car, one behind the other.
Luna stopped at the door and glanced toward her own car parked a short distance away, lips pressed together. “I should just drive myself.”
Victor’s hand stiffened on the door handle. He turned to face her. “You’ve been drinking.”
Luna looked up at him, eyes flickering. She said nothing.
Victor slowly bent down to her eye level, holding her gaze, and murmured: “Luna Manfredi. Behave.”
At the sound of her full name her lips parted, and she didn’t dare move. A night breeze swept past, lifting the hair at her temple across his cheek.
It made his throat tighten. He reached out and tucked the stray hair behind her ear.
“Then I’ll drive your car. Send you home?” He glanced at it, patient.
Luna’s grip tightened on her bag. She chewed her lip, wavered a moment—then finally nodded.
They got into her white Mercedes. Once he had the address, Victor started the car and pulled out.
Luna leaned against the passenger seat, watching the city lights stream backward through the window. Neither of them spoke; the car was very quiet.
The dash lights came on. She barely reacted—only saw his reflection caught in the half-closed window, and couldn’t stop looking.
Sharp, elegant profile. High nose bridge. He looked like a prince out of a fairytale.
Why didn’t he drink tonight? He’s never had an alcohol allergy…
Luna’s thoughts drifted, so she never noticed Victor glancing sideways at her—his eyes so full they were close to overflowing.
She fell asleep against the seat somewhere along the way, and when she hazily woke, the car was already parked in the underground garage of her apartment building.
Victor sat in the driver’s seat, watching her silently. When she opened her eyes and turned her head, she met his gaze before she could brace for it.
“We’re… here?” she asked, dazed.
“Mm. Here.”
“Was I asleep that long? Why didn’t you wake me?”
She raised her wrist to check her watch—nearly midnight.
She unclicked the seatbelt, reached for the door—and stopped dead. She turned back to Victor, pressed her lips together:
“So, um—Mr. Victor? How are you getting home?”
His fingers stilled on the steering wheel. The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely.
Then he folded his arms, tipped his head back against the seat, and let out a soft sigh. Two seconds later, he murmured:
“Why don’t I… make do in your car for the night?” He turned his head and arched a brow at her.
“You can take a cab. I’ll reimburse you…” she offered quietly.
“I don’t ride in other people’s cars.” Victor shot it down without a second’s hesitation.
Luna had no comeback. She blinked—and then it all clicked.
…She had dug her own pit. Insisted on driving her own car back, and now here he was, camped out in it and refusing to leave.
She chewed her lip, hesitated for a long moment, and finally caved. “Fine. Come up with me.”
The words were barely out before Victor sat up straight, opened his door first, and—before she’d even registered it—rounded the hood to her side and opened her door for her.
Quick. Efficient. Like he was afraid she’d change her mind…
Luna stared at him, slack-jawed—and in his eyes she could plainly read the smugness and the delight.
Too late to back out now. She looked away and stepped out; the alcohol sent the world spinning for a second.
Her hand shot out for the door—and a firm arm caught her, steady, and then she was pulled into a warm embrace.
“Really that drunk?”
“Steady—or should I carry you up?”
His face close to the top of her head, his voice pitched low.
Luna shook her head quickly. “I’m just a little dizzy. I lost my footing. I’m fine now.”
She pulled out of his arms, fussing with her hair, a little guilty about it.
She walked to the elevator first. Victor watched her back, mouth curving, hands in his pockets, and followed.
In the elevator, the numbers climbed—and so did Luna’s anxiety.
Charlotte and Lynne were both home. If Victor suddenly showed up like this, would it scare them…
…And Charlotte had reacted so strongly to him before. If they came face to face again, what then?
The elevator chimed—the twenty-eighth floor.
Luna snapped out of it and looked up—and her eyes met Lynne’s, standing right outside…
“Mom.” It slipped out of her.