The Truth Sets Him Off

Neon lights bled into the night, and jazz intertwined with the scent of alcohol, drifting through the bar. I clutched a half-dry rag, standing in the corner, head bowed as I wiped the wine stains along the edge of the bar. My gaze swept over the central booth; my heart tightened abruptly, and my breath caught instantly. It was Mason Shaw. He wore a sharply tailored black suit, a smoldering cigarette pinched between his fingers, radiating a chilling aura. Flanking the booth were two black-clad bodyguards, amplifying the force of his presence. He caught my gaze and raised his eyes to meet mine; those eyes, once brimming with warmth, now seethed with biting hostility, piercing straight through me. Instinctively, I tried to turn and slip into the kitchen, but the bodyguard pacing swiftly beside him blocked my path as soon as I moved. The bodyguard stood expressionless before me, his tone cold and unyielding: "Ms. Lynn, please remain where you are." Mason Shaw strode toward me, the sharp sound of his leather shoes striking the floor ringing in my ears with every step. "Long time no see." He stood before me, his voice as cold as ice. I lowered my eyes, fixating on my canvas shoes, bleached pale from washing, not daring to meet his gaze, my voice barely a whisper: "Mr. Shaw." "What, see me and think you can run away?" He abruptly gripped my chin, forcing me to look up. "You left so decisively back then, without even a word of explanation." A sharp sting radiated from my chin. I bit my lip, swallowing the sourness in my heart, forcing myself to reply, "I do not regret it." He sneered, his fingertip tracing my jaw, his gaze lingering on my faded work uniform, his tone dripping with scorn: "No regrets? Is this really the life you want? Scraping by wiping tables in a bar?" Curious glances were cast by the surrounding guests, accompanied by whispers and the sound of covert photography. My cheeks burned as a wave of shame flooded my entire body, and I struggled desperately: "Let go of me." Mason Shaw completely ignored my struggles and turned his head to beckon the waitstaff not far away. The waitstaff hurried over briskly and asked respectfully, "Mr. Shaw, may I take your orders?" "Open ten bottles of your most expensive red wine." Mason Shaw's voice was low but carried an unquestionable command. The waitstaff was momentarily stunned, then promptly replied, "Understood, Mr. Shaw. I will attend to it immediately." I watched the waitstaff retreat hurriedly, a sharp unease rising within me. I looked up at Mason Shaw. "Mr. Shaw, you don't have to do this. It's long over between us. There's no need to make things difficult for each other." "Don't have to?" He twisted open the bottle of red wine that had just arrived and pushed the glass brimful of crimson liquid toward me. "Drink it." I averted my face, my tone resolute: "I won't drink." "Granting you courtesy?" His voice suddenly turned cold, his eyes ice-cold. "Either you drink it, or this bar shuts down tomorrow. You should know full well what I am capable of." I know he has that power. This bar is my only source of income, and my father is still waiting for money to save his life. I cannot lose this job. I drew a deep breath and took the glass. The sharp liquor burned down my throat, forcing me to cough repeatedly. "One bottle isn't enough." He picked up another bottle, pouring glasses for both of us, his eyes utterly cold. "Keep drinking." "Mason Shaw, don't go too far!" I gripped the glass, my fingers trembling slightly. "Too far?" He grasped my wrist, forcing me to lift the glass. "When you left back then, why didn't you ever consider being unfair to me?" I was forced to drink glass after glass, dizziness washing over me, my stomach churning, Mason Shaw's figure slowly blurring before my eyes. By the fifth bottle, my hand was too weak to hold steady; the glass trembled in my grip, spilling more than half of the red wine. "Enough." Mason Shaw suddenly reached out and struck the glass from my hand. The glass shattered on the floor, the scarlet wine soaking my skirt, sticky and clinging to my legs. "Don't play the victim in front of me." He tossed out the words with a tone drenched in disgust, then turned back to the booth without sparing me another glance. Leaning against the wall, I shuffled backstage and crouched down, dry heaving as tears mingled with the bitter, harsh alcohol streaming down my face.