The Past in Neon Lights

Richard sat in his penthouse office, the glass walls giving him a panoramic view of the city's evening glow. He had just wrapped up a conference call when his phone buzzed. It was Mark Dalton, his loud-mouthed, overly dramatic best friend.

"What is it, Mark? Don't tell me you forgot you're engaged now. Shouldn't you be spoon-feeding Eliza strawberries or reading her poetry or something equally gross?"

Mark's voice blasted through the speaker. "Bro, you're one to talk! All you do is work. If there was an award for 'Man Most Likely to Marry a Spreadsheet,' you'd have five."

Richard chuckled, leaning back. "Says the man who called me mid-romance. Shouldn't you be massaging feet or planning your wedding playlist?"

"She's with her mom today," Mark grumbled. "Look, we're going out. To a club. Just us. You need fun. Remember fun? That thing you used to have before you became Batman."

Richard sighed. "Clubs? You mean loud music, fake lights, watered-down drinks, and awkward dancing? Sounds like a dream."

"Exactly! I already sent a car. Wear something expensive so you can scare the locals."

---

An hour later, they arrived at PULSE 9, an upscale club with a long line of influencers and wannabes queued outside. Mark flashed something at the bouncer — probably a bribe or his fiancée's name — and they walked right in.

The interior was everything Richard hated: strobing lights, floor vibrating bass, sweaty bodies pretending they were having the time of their lives.

"THIS PLACE IS LIT!" Mark shouted over the music, bobbing his head wildly.

Richard side-eyed him. "It's loud."

"Exactly! We're here to forget responsibilities. Come on, dance with me, man!"

"Hard pass."

"Come onnnn!"

Richard pointed toward the bar. "I'll be over there pretending I'm not here."

---

The bar counter was dimly lit, lined with glowing bottles of expensive liquor.

"Rémy Martin Louis XIII. Neat," Richard told the bartender.

The man blinked. "Good choice, sir. That's $750 a shot."

Richard slid his card across the counter. "Make it two."

He took a sip. The warmth slid down his throat like smooth fire. And then he saw her.

His breath caught.

Chelsea.

The same girl who'd kissed his brother in his room all those years ago. The same laugh. Same high heels. Different crowd. Her back was to him at first, dancing with friends, hands high, oblivious.

He froze. The music seemed to mute in his head.

Memories hit like bullets.

The laughter when he walked in.

His brother's smug face.

Her eyes that didn't even show guilt.

His suitcase on the floor.

Eleven years disappeared in a second.

She turned, approaching the bar.

"Whiskey sour," she told the bartender, then turned to the right.

Her eyes landed on him.

She blinked. Then smiled. "Hi there. Handsome."

Richard stared calmly. "You've got nerve."

She tilted her head. "Excuse me?"

"You look different when you're not in someone else's bed."

Chelsea laughed. "Wow. You've got a sharp tongue. I like that."

She squinted, leaning slightly. "Wait a second... Do I know you from somewhere?"

Richard smirked. "We met in hell. You were on top."

Chelsea froze, her drink halfway to her lips. She studied his face longer, confused. His calm stare unsettled her.

You've got some nerve, Richard thought to himself, but his expression didn't change.

He sipped his cognac and stood up slowly.

She smiled, brushing her hair back. "You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"

Richard looked at her flatly. "No."

"Oh? Well, either way… you're handsome."

He gave a brief, unreadable smirk. "You have a good night."

Before she could speak again, he turned and walked away — leaving her watching his back, wondering why her heart was beating faster.

---

Outside, Mark was dancing like a malfunctioning robot.

"Bro! You disappeared! The DJ just played our old high school anthem!"

Richard grabbed his wrist. "We're leaving."

"What? Why? Come on, man. Let's do one dance. Just one!"

"Not in the mood, Mark. Trust me."

Mark, noticing the tone shift, dropped the smile. "Alright, alright. You okay?"

In this moment, Richard's silence speaks louder than confrontation ever could. He doesn't humiliate her, doesn't gloat — and that restraint is what makes him dangerous. It's not revenge. It's power.

. Her smile slowly faded into something softer.

"Damn. He's hot. And rich, clearly. I should've gotten his number."

She turned to her friend. "I swear I know him from somewhere."

The friend shrugged. "Maybe he's famous. Or maybe your past is catching u

p to you."

Chelsea laughed, flipping her hair. "Either way, that man's going to be trouble. The kind I might like this time."