Pennueng sank onto the dark leather stool at the private bar, the weight of the day pressing between his shoulders.
A silent signal to the bartender was all it took—within seconds, his favorite drink appeared before him.
"Would you like your usual private room, Khun Pennueng?" the bartender asked politely.
He shook his head. "Here's fine."
He downed the first glass in a single swallow and lifted it again. The bartender understood immediately, refilling it without a word.
As the second drink arrived, someone claimed the seat beside him—a tall, silver-edged man in his fifties who carried himself with easy grace.
The streaks of white in his black hair didn't age him; they only added character.
"Still trying to look like George Clooney, I see," Pennueng muttered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Didn't think you'd be here tonight, Poj."
"Of course I'm here," the man replied smoothly. "Would've been a shame to miss the show."
Pennueng raised a brow. "What show?"
Before answering, Poj waited for his drink to arrive, then turned with a teasing grin.
"The one where Pennueng, the great businessman, managed to make two women cry in a single afternoon."
Pennueng scoffed, bringing his glass to his lips. "I didn't make anyone cry."
Poj chuckled. "Maybe not directly. But this afternoon, a rather pretty woman was seen wiping her tears in my lounge—with your secretary consoling her while crying herself."
Pennueng sighed, exasperated.
"Relax," Poj said easily. "I know the economy's rough. You could replace assistants as often as you change your watch if you wanted—but firing three secretaries in a year? That's excessive, even for you."
"So you're calling me heartless?" Pennueng asked dryly.
"If you wanted to hear sweet lies, you wouldn't be drinking here."
They both laughed lightly, though only Poj's laughter reached his eyes. Pennueng's remained flat, distant.
After a pause, Poj's voice softened.
"You've come far, Pennueng. I still remember when things were falling apart for you—when everyone walked away, even the one you loved."
Pennueng's jaw tightened. The glass stopped halfway to his lips.
"You still haven't let it go, have you?" Poj murmured. "The past hurts. But it's meant to be forgotten, not carried."
Pennueng set his glass down carefully.
"Pain teaches me," he said quietly. "Some people forget to survive. I remember to win."
Poj sighed. "You should enjoy what you've built. You have everything—success, money, power."
"I am happy," Pennueng replied with steady confidence. "Completely satisfied. But I'm not done yet."
He leaned back, eyes cold but alive. "Money, Poj… money is the truest power there is. It buys everything—respect, loyalty, forgiveness."
He smirked faintly. "Even love. You'd be surprised how many women come to me for exactly that reason."
"Not every woman," Poj said quietly.
Pennueng didn't respond. He only stared into his glass, the amber liquid catching the low light like fire.
For a moment, the reflection in that fire wasn't his own.
It was hers.
Kwan Khao.
Her eyes flashing with defiance. Her voice trembling between fear and fury.
That single heartbeat of contact—her wrist beneath his hand—had burned through the armor he'd spent years building.
He drained the glass, jaw set.
He'd thought he was long past caring.
But tonight proved otherwise.