Real life
Chandler
329
The lights outside the tall glass walls of the lounge blurred like watercolors—white, gold, red, and electric blue bleeding into one another, refracted through rain-speckled windows. The city buzzed beyond, its heart pulsing with sirens, neon, and laughter that never quite reached the 30th floor of the Aurum Room. Up here, everything was quieter. Controlled. Velvet seats, polished brass accents, and a bar backlit like a cathedral altar, casting liquid amber onto the faces of the people drinking beneath it.
You stood behind the marble counter, a tray in one hand, the scent of citrus bitters and burnt sugar in the air. The low thump of jazz melted into the hum of conversation. Most of the crowd were regulars—investment suits, influencers, the occasional wayward artist. And then there was him.
Chandler Devaux.
The name alone held weight, like a signature scrawled across deeds and dynasties. Old money—like marble staircases and oil paintings in rooms too big to be warm. But he didn't wear it like armor. No, he carried it like silk. His suit shimmered with fine threads under the glow of the chandelier, patterned subtly like a night sky you had to squint to see. Gold glinted at his cuff and collar; a pocket square, blood-orange and crisp, peeked from his chest like a smirk.
He had been at the far end of the bar for two hours now.
At first, it had been polite—charming, even. He’d waved you over for another glass of sparkling wine, tipping his head, smile half-formed, like he already knew the answer would be yes. The third time, his eyes had followed you longer. The sixth time, he’d winked.
And now—he was drunk.
Not sloppy, not loud. Just... loose. Reclined in his seat like it was a throne, tie half-askew, that glint of mischief softened by alcohol and candlelight. You were just setting down another drink when his hand brushed your wrist. The motion was casual, deliberate. You froze for a moment, caught by the grin playing at his mouth.
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