A SECOND CHANCE AT FOREVER Chapter 38: CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ASHLEY

I’ll have two bottles of neat whiskey, please,” I giggled, the sound slightly slurred, even though I’d barely had a sip.

The bartender shot me a look, somewhere between amusement and concern, but didn’t question it. He had probably seen enough lost souls tonight to know better than to pry.

I just wanted to forget.

Forget the past. Forget the ache lodged so deeply in my chest that it felt like a permanent part of me. Forget him.

Kyle.

I clenched my jaw, shaking my head as if I could physically dislodge his name from my mind. It had been two years. I should have been over this. Over him. Over everything. But tonight, it felt like the memories were clawing their way back, dragging me under, drowning me in things I didn’t want to feel.

I spend the day, planning my business,then binge watch a series,then played with Mochi and then spent the rest of the day moping around, thinking about what I shouldn't be.

So I was here. In a bar that smelled like regret and broken promises, where no one knew me, where I could drink until the past blurred into nothingness.

The bartender placed the bottles in front of me, and I wasted no time pouring myself a glass. The first sip burned, sliding down my throat like liquid fire. The second was smoother. The third? Blissfully numbing.

I exhaled, leaning back against the stool, closing my eyes for just a second. Maybe if I drank enough, I could finally silence the voice in my head that still whispered his name like a prayer.

Maybe, just for tonight, I could pretend Kyle had never existed.

"You’re beautiful."

The deep voice cut through the fog of whiskey, drawing my attention to the man beside me. I turned my head, studying him through the haze of alcohol and dim bar lighting. Mid-twenties, floppy hair, sharp designer suit—he had the polished, preppy look of a fresh Ivy League grad turned investment banker.

Kyle would chew him up and spit him out for breakfast.

I smirked, twirling my glass between my fingers. How predictable.

"Thank you," I said, offering a small, polite smile. His pickup line wasn’t groundbreaking, but at least it was better than the previous drunk idiots who had complimented my “great tits” or offered to show me a “night I’d never forget.”

He extended a hand. "I’m Logan."

"Ashley," I replied, shaking it briefly.

I wasn’t interested in him—not romantically, not sexually. But I wanted this night. I wanted to feel something other than longing and regret. I wanted to be reckless, to let go, to exist outside the weight of my past.

"So, Ashley," Logan leaned in, a cocky grin on his face, "what brings you here tonight?"

I shrugged, lifting my glass to my lips. "Whiskey."

He chuckled. "Fair enough. Mind if I keep you company?"

I eyed him for a moment. He wasn’t threatening. He wasn’t Kyle. And maybe that was exactly what I needed.

"Sure," I said.

The night blurred into laughter, whiskey, and easy conversation. Logan was charming in the way rich boys always were—too confident, too entitled, too sure of himself. But I didn’t mind. I let myself enjoy the moment, the mindless flirting, the way he leaned in just a little too close, his fingers ghosting over mine as he poured another drink.

“So, uh, are you free this weekend? I have tickets to the New York Warriors game.” A hint of braggadocio entered his tone, his smirk practically daring me to be impressed.

I wasn’t. I wrinkled my nose. I’ve never really understood the fascination with basketball. I can’t even see the ball half the time.”

I opened my mouth to soften the rejection, but before I could get another word out, an icy voice cut through the air.

“She’s not.”

The deep baritone sent a shiver down my spine, followed by the unmistakable scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne—so achingly familiar it made my stomach clench.

“She has plans.”

My entire body went rigid.

Logan scrambled off his stool so fast he nearly tripped, his face flushing red as he turned toward the newcomer. His reaction confirmed what I already knew before I even looked.

Kyle.

"Mr. Blackwood," Logan breathed, wide-eyed, like he was in the presence of royalty. "Wow, I am a huge fan. I’m Logan Rule. We actually learned about you in my finance class—your acquisitions strategy is legendary—”

I stifled a groan. Of course, he recognized Kyle on sight. Everyone loved a self-made billionaire story—the man who built an empire from ashes. Everyone adored Kyle Blackwood.

Everyone except me.

Kyle, however, looked less than impressed by Logan’s fanboying. In fact, he looked bored. His sharp, ice-blue eyes flicked over Logan with a detached sort of disinterest before landing on me.

My breath caught.

I hadn't seen him since we returned from Germany but he looked... good.

Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, with the top button of his shirt undone, Kyle exuded an effortless dominance that made the air crackle with tension. His dark hair now curled slightly at the ends, giving him an almost careless edge, but there was nothing careless about the way he watched me.His gaze pinned me in place, assessing, searing, owning.

“I didn’t know you knew her.” Logan’s voice broke the moment, his curiosity laced with intrigue. “Is she your wife?”

Three pairs of eyes instantly flickered to my bare ring finger.

Kyle’s expression darkened, his entire demeanor shifting. The temperature between us seemed to plummet.

“No,” I said quickly, before Logan could get any ideas.

Kyle said nothing at first, but something about the tightness of his jaw, the barely restrained tension in his shoulders, told me he didn’t appreciate the clarification.

Then, in a voice as smooth as steel-wrapped silk, he turned to Logan.

“I believe you have somewhere else to be. Don’t you, Logan?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a dismissal.

And Logan, to his credit, knew it.

The calm acknowledgment of his name carried more menace than any direct threat ever could. Kyle didn’t need to be aggressive to command a room—his presence alone was enough.

Logan swallowed, darting a glance between the two of us before giving me a hesitant nod. “Uh, yeah. I should—um—go.”

And just like that, he fled.

Leaving me alone.

With him.

With my pissed-off ex-husband and the embers of anger glowing hot in my stomach.

I spun to face him, fury crackling through me like static electricity.

"Seriously? What is wrong with you? You scared that poor boy half to death!"

Kyle’s gaze remained steady, unreadable, but there was an unmistakable flicker of amusement in the depths of his icy blue eyes.

"He was annoying me."

I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Annoying you? Kyle, he was talking to me. That’s not a crime."

His jaw clenched. "He wasn’t talking to you. He was looking at you like he wanted to strip you right there at the bar."

I crossed my arms. "And? That’s none of your damn business."

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

Kyle’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—something dark and possessive that sent a shiver down my spine.

He took another step closer, the space between us shrinking until I could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Did you get my gifts?” His voice was low, smooth, but there was an edge to it. A quiet demand beneath the question.

I stiffened. My heart gave a traitorous lurch.

His gifts.

The ones I had shoved into the back of my closet after opening. The ones I had pretended didn’t exist, just like I pretended he didn’t still haunt my thoughts late at night.

I lifted my chin, forcing a casual shrug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kyle’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. He wasn’t buying it.

“Ashley,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “Don’t lie to me.”

I swallowed hard, but I refused to let him see how much he still affected me.

“Why do you even care?” I shot back, folding my arms tightly across my chest. “Why are you still sending me things like I’m—”

“Like you’re mine?” he cut in smoothly, tilting his head as he studied me.

I hated that he knew exactly what to say to get under my skin.

I huffed out a breath, shaking my head. “I don’t want your damn gifts, Kyle. Whatever guilt trip you’re on, you can stop. It’s been two years.”

Something flickered in his eyes—something dark and dangerous.

“You think this is about guilt?” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before pinning me with a heated stare. “You think I send you gifts because I regret letting you go?”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.

“Don’t I?” I whispered.

Kyle took another step forward, until there was barely a breath of space between us.

“I don’t regret letting you go, Ashley,” he said, his voice like silk and steel. “I regret that I ever had to in the first place.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I hated him.  More I hated how easily he could unravel me.