𝒯𝓌𝑜 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒. 𝒯𝓌𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈. 𝒯𝓌𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓈.
Isabella Leighton, a 23-year-old aspiring lawyer, unexpectedly lands a job working for the most prominent CEO in New York. While she doesn't align with his lifestyle, the generous sa...
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{ a/n: i recommend listening to the song at the top and pls be aware that sensitive topics are mentioned }
ASHER
My thoughts vanished completely as I gazed ahead at the road, attempting to comprehend the recent situation. Despite my efforts to prioritize Isabella, my concentration remained fixated on the name I had unintentionally overheard.
"I don't care where we go," Isabella murmured from the passenger seat, her head resting against the window. "I just don't want to go home."
I started the car and pulled away from the parking space, not with the intention of going anywhere specific, but simply to drive and contemplate everything.
As we meandered through unfamiliar streets, making random turns and circles, my mind was flooded with overwhelming thoughts. I was at a loss on how to approach the topic with Isabella, given how deeply it had affected her.
An inner curiosity compelled me to know more about the woman who had approached Isabella. I wondered how she had found her, what had brought her to the courthouse. Had she been actively searching for Isabella, or was it merely a chance encounter?
Finally, weary of the constant whirlwind of my own thoughts, I opted to drive to my penthouse. I figured that if Isabella didn't want to return to her own place, perhaps she wouldn't object to coming to mine.
She maintained her silence as we left the car and made our way through the lobby towards the elevator. It wasn't surprising that we garnered a few stares, likely due to the memorable argument we'd had in the elevator before, during which I had walked out shirtless.
I attempted to find some humor or levity in the situation, anything to divert my mind from the relentless thoughts racing through it. Unfortunately, it didn't provide the distraction I had hoped for.
The elevator chimed, and its doors gracefully slid open, unveiling my dimly lit penthouse. The city's skyline stretched before us, a clear view framed by the long panels of floor-to-ceiling windows.
Stepping out of the elevator, Isabella turned to me, her gaze fixed on the floor. "Can I use your shower?" she asked, her voice soft, and her head suddenly dropping.
"Feel free," I replied, "there are spare clothes in the bathroom closet; they should fit you." She nodded in acknowledgment, offering a quick thank you before disappearing down the hallway.
My true purpose for coming here was singular: my alcohol cabinet. I loathed how reliant I was becoming on alcohol, but it had become my only respite, the sole distraction capable of temporarily silencing the thoughts that plagued my mind.
