Chapter 67
Chapter 67
Stefan Rodriguez stared into his whiskey glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim bar light. This was his fourth drink of the night, or maybe his fifth. He’d lost count somewhere between the endless news alerts about Rose’s scandal and the memories that wouldn’t stop haunting him.
The bar was nearly empty on this rainy Tuesday night. Just him, the tired–looking bartender who had stopped trying to make conversation hours ago, and a couple in the far corner who seemed too wrapped up in each other to notice anything else. Perfect. The last thing Stefan wanted right now was recognition, questions, or worse, pity. He took another long swallow, letting the burn travel down his throat. The television above the bar played footage of Rose leaving her apartment building, surrounded by reporters shouting questions about her affairs, her stolen designs, her connections to questionable money. The sound was muted, but Stefan could almost hear her practiced denials, her careful performance of wronged innocence.
“Turn that off,” he muttered to the bartender, who glanced up at the screen and reached for the remote without
comment
The sudden silence felt heavier somehow. Without the distraction of Rose’s public disgrace, Stefan was left alone with thoughts that had been circling his mind for days. How had he been so blind? So easily manipulated? completely fooled by a woman whose entire existence, it seemed, was built on calculation and lies?
The bartender set another whiskey in front of him without being asked. “On the house,” he said, his eyes reflecting something that might have been understanding. You look like you need it.”
Stefan nodded his thanks, too exhausted for words. The past week had hollowed him out. First the collapse of his family’s shipping empire, then the discovery of Rose’s deception, and now this public spectacle of her unraveling life. He should feel vindicated seeing her carefully constructed image crumble. Instead, he felt only a bone–deep weariness that no amount of alcohol seemed to touch.
His phone buzzed on the bar top. His father, again. The third call tonight. Stefan silenced it without answering. What could he possibly say to the man whose legacy he had failed to protect? Whose family name now stood tarnished by association with Rose Lewis?
The small Rodriguez Shipping operation in Seattle was still functioning, but barely. The employees who had remained loyal deserved better than a broken man drowning his failures in whiskey. They deserved a leader with focus, with drive, with some plan for rebuilding from the ashes.
Stefan ran a hand through his disheveled hair, remembering when he had been that man. When he had believed himself worthy of the Rodriguez name. When he had thought himself in love with a woman who turned out to be a stranger.
No, not a stranger. A predator.
The emails the investigator had uncovered had revealed the truth with brutal clarity. Rose wasn’t a kind and good wornan. She had been plotting, manipulating, calculating for years. The calls from London. The “chance” encounters when she returned to New York. The perfectly timed comfort offered when his marriage to Camille had struggled.
All deliberate. All strategic. All focused on achieving what she wanted, regardless of who suffered in the process. Including Camille.
Stefan closed his eyes as memories of his wife flooded back Camille, with her gentle smile and quiet determination Camille, who had loved him despite his flaws, despite his family’s cold welcome, desnit
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distance he had placed between them as Rose’s influence grew.
Camille, whose car had gone off that bridge two nights after he had asked for a divorce. The night after he had chosen Rose.
The guilt was a physical pain in his chest, sharper than any business failure, any public humiliation. The knowledge that he had thrown away something genuine for a carefully crafted illusion felt like swallowing broken glass.
“You okay, buddy?” the bartender asked, pausing in his task of wiping down glasses.
Stefan opened his eyes, surprised to find his vision blurred. “Fine,” he managed. “Just… thinking,”
“Dangerous activity after midnight,” the bartender said, not unkindly. “Especially with that much whiskey Involved”
Stefan attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Some thoughts follow you no matter how much you drink.
The bartender nodded knowingly. “Those are the ones worth listening to, usually ”
The simple wisdom hit harder than it should have. Stefan had spent nearly two years not listening to his thoughts, not about his failing marriage, not about Rose’s convenienttiming, not about the business decisions that had left Rodriguez Shipping vulnerable to hostile takeover. He had silenced every warning, ignored every red flag, dismissed every instinct that might have saved him from where he sat now.
His phone buzzed again, not a call this time, but a news alert. Stefan knew he should ignore it, spare himself whatever fresh humiliation the media had uncovered about Rose or their relationship. But some masochistic Impulse made him pick up the device and check the notification.
“ROSE LEWIS SCANDAL DEEPENS: FORMER CLASSMATE PROVIDES EVIDENCE OF DESIGN THEFT”
Accompanying the headline was a photo of Rose from her fashion school days, standing proudly beside what had been her breakthrough design, a design that, according to the article, had been stolen from a fellow student who never received credit.
Stefan scrolled through the story, a strange numbness spreading through him. Every new revelation about Rose should have shocked him, but instead, each one simply confirmed what he now understood. The woman he had believed himself in love with, the woman he had been prepared to marry, had never actually existed. She had been a character played by a skilled manipulator who saw people as stepping stones to what she wanted.
And what was most disturbing wasn’t how thoroughly she had fooled him, but how easily he had allowed himself to be fooled
When had he become this man? This gullible, shallow person who had discarded a genuine wife for the flashier, more calculated attention of her sister? When had ambition and appearance begun to matter more than substance
and truth?
The questions burned through the alcohol haze, demanding answers he wasn’t ready to face.
Stefan signaled for another drink, needing to dull the sharp edges of his self–recrimination. The bartender hesitated, clearly weighing his professional responsibility against the desperation in Stefan’s eyes.
“Lasi one,” he said firmly, pouring a smaller measure than before. “Then I’m calling you a car.”
Stefan didn’t argue. He had lost the right to make good decisions for himself somewhere between signing divorce papers on his anniversary and watching Kane Industries systematically dismantle his family company.
Kane Industries. The name triggered something in his fog mind. A connection he had been trying to make for
days now. Victoria Kane had no history in shipping, no previous interest in Rodriguez Shipping assets. Yet her company had moved with surgical precision to acquire their debt, seize their assets, and block every attempt at
recovery.
Why? What had prompted such targeted destruction?
And more puzzling was her daughter, Camille Kane. The mysterious heiress who had appeared less than two years ago, with no background information beyond vague references to a European education. The woman whose dark eyes had seemed almost familiar when they had briefly meat that charity function months ago.
There was something there, some connection he couldn’t quite grasp through the whiskey fog. Some explanation for why bane Industries had singled out Rodriguez Shipping for such complete destruction
“Time to go, Mr. Rodriguez.”
Stefan looked up, surprised to find the bartender standing before him with his coat. The bar was empty now, the couple in the corner long gone, the night pressing dark against the windows.
“What time is it?” Stefan asked, voice rough from whiskey and silence.
“Nearly two. And you’ve had enough.”
Stefan nodded, not trusting himself to stand without assistance. The bartender’s steady hand helped him to his feet, guided him into his coat, and steered him toward the door.
“Your car’s outside. Already paid for.”
“Thanks,” Stefan managed, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet. “Let me….”
“It’s covered.” The bartender waved away his attempt to pay. “Someone called. Said to put it on their account.” Stefan frowned, confused. “Who?”
“Didn’t say. Just that you shouldn’t be driving”
The mystery benefactor was probably his father, still monitoring him despite being ignored all evening. The thought should have annoyed him, but instead, it simply added to the weight of failure pressing down on his shoulders. Even now, Eduardo Rodriguez was taking care of problems his son couldn’t handle alone.
Outside, rain fell steadily, turning the city streets into rivers of reflected light. A black town car waited at the curb, driver standing patiently beside the open rear door. Not his father’s usual service, Stefan noted distantly. Something more expensive. More discreet.
“Mr. Rodriguez,” the driver said with a slight nod. “Where can I take you tonight?”
Stefan hesitated. Not back to the empty penthouse he had shared with Rose, still filled with her things despite her hasty departure days ago. Not to the family estate that now belonged to Kane Industries. Not to the Seattle offices where his presence would only remind everyone of how far the mighty Rodriguez Shipping had fallen,
“Just drive,” he said finally, sliding into the car’s leather interior. “Anywhere.”
The driver nodded again, closing the door and returning to the wheel without further questions. The car pulled smoothly into the rain–slicked street, wipers creating a hypnotic rhythm against the windshield.
Stefan leaned back against the seat, letting exhaustion and alcohol pull him toward unconsciousness. The car moved smoothly through nearly empty streets, wipers still keeping their steady beat. Stefan felt consciousness slipping away despite his attempt to understand the strange events of recent weeks.
s sleep fing
As sleep finally claimed him, his mind still wrestled with unanswered questions. Why had Kane Industries targeted him so precisely? What had triggered such a thorough destruction of everything he valued? And why did
he still
el there was something important he was missing some connection just beyond his grasp?
The car continued its journey through the rain–washed city, carrying its unconscious passenger toward a destination neither of them yet knew.
