Charlotte Hayes leaned in playfully, her coquettish demeanor unmistakable. I thought to myself, this woman truly knows how to navigate a man's world—she's a natural at this game. "Alright, Charlotte Hayes, let go. Someone might see us, and it wouldn't look good."

"Why should I care? You're not married, and neither am I. What could anyone possibly say?"

"You're not married?" I asked, surprised. I had assumed she was.

"I was. For a year. Then I left him. Living alone isn't so bad, is it? You can do whatever you want." As she spoke, her voice grew somber, and I sensed a weight in her words.

"Ryan, I want another drink. Will you join me?" Perhaps some memory had resurfaced.

"Alright," I replied.

The night deepened, and the city's clamor seemed muted in this secluded corner. The aroma of sizzling skewers wafted through the air, mingling with the rising steam from the street vendor's grill.

The vendor soon brought over a few chilled beers. Charlotte Hayes eagerly grabbed one, biting off the cap and tilting her head back to gulp it down. The sound of her drinking echoed clearly in the quiet night.

"My so-called marriage was nothing short of a nightmare," she began, setting down the bottle and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "At first, everything seemed perfect. He brought me flowers, took me to movies, and stayed by my side when I was unwell. I thought I'd found someone to rely on for a lifetime."

Her voice trembled, and her eyes grew distant. "But it didn't take long for things to change. He began coming home late, reeking of alcohol. When I asked where he had been, he would lash out, accusing me of being too controlling. Then I discovered he was addicted to gambling."

She took another swig before continuing. "It started small—a few losses here and there—but he sank deeper and deeper. He squandered all our savings. I begged him to stop, but he wouldn't listen. Instead, he turned violent. Can you imagine? Being beaten by the person you love most? It shattered me."

Tears spilled from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and falling onto the table. "He sold everything we owned, yet it still wasn't enough to pay his debts. Then, he turned his attention to our home—the house we had worked so hard to buy together. It was our sanctuary, yet he sold it without a second thought."

I listened quietly, my heart a mix of sympathy and anger. Handing her a tissue, I watched as she wiped her tears away.

"And that wasn't even the worst of it," she said, her voice rising, laced with bitterness. "When his creditors came knocking, he suggested I sell my body to pay off his debts. How could he? I was his wife!"

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At this, Charlotte Hayes broke down completely, burying her face in her arms and sobbing uncontrollably. Curious glances from nearby patrons barely registered; I could only focus on gently patting her back, hoping to offer some solace.

After what felt like an eternity, her sobs subsided. She lifted her head, her eyes red and swollen like overripe peaches. "Ryan, thank you for listening. I've never shared this with anyone before. I've kept this pain buried for so long."

I gazed at her, my heart aching. "Don't dwell on it too much. It's all in the past now."

She gave a hollow laugh. "The past? How can these scars ever fade? They're etched into my heart forever."

We continued drinking and talking as the hours slipped by. The ground was soon littered with empty bottles. Charlotte Hayes's words grew slurred, and my own head felt heavy.

"Ryan, I can't... I can't walk anymore," she mumbled, swaying unsteadily as she tried to stand.

I quickly steadied her. "Let me take you home."

"I don't want to go back," she murmured, leaning against me. "That empty house terrifies me."

Left with no other choice, I brought her to a nearby hotel. After checking in, I helped her to the bed. The moment she lay down, she fell into a deep sleep.

Sitting by her bedside, I looked at her weary face, a face once brimming with vitality and hope, now marked by sorrow and despair. Anger and pity churned within me.

Eventually, sleep overtook me as well, and I drifted off on the nearby sofa.

The next morning, the alarm woke me, my head pounding. I glanced at the bed where Charlotte Hayes still lay asleep. Rising quietly, I drew back the curtains, letting fresh air and sunlight pour into the room.

The noise stirred her. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, looking around in confusion. "Where am I?"

"You're at a hotel," I replied. "We both had too much to drink last night."

She was silent for a moment before lowering her head. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

"Don't apologize. You were heartbroken," I said gently.

An awkward silence hung between us until she broke it. "Ryan, thank you. I feel lighter now."

"That's good to hear. I hope you can leave the pain behind," I said. "I have to go—I'm supposed to pick up Sophie."

Charlotte Hayes peeked out from beneath the covers, her voice lazy. "Go ahead. I just want to sleep a little longer."

I left the hotel and hailed a cab to Sophie's place. It was just after six, and for once, she hadn't called to hurry me. No sooner had I thought that than my phone rang. "Where are you?"

"In the parking lot!" I answered hastily.

Dressed in her usual athletic wear, Sophie stormed over, her expression stormy. "How much did you drink last night? You still reek of alcohol."

I sniffed my shirt, feigning innocence. "Really? I don't smell anything."

She leaned closer for another whiff, her frown deepening. "And why do you smell like perfume? Which woman were you with?"

"No one! I just helped someone get home. Maybe it rubbed off," I stammered, inwardly cursing my luck.

Her skeptical eyes narrowed. "Where's the sportswear I asked you to bring?"

"I drank too much and didn't go home. How could I bring it?" I scrambled for an excuse.

"And you didn't go home because you were at a hotel?" Her tone was dripping with suspicion.

"Alone," I emphasized, spreading my hands helplessly.

She wasn't convinced. "I don't believe you."

"Go for your run already," I urged, eager to change the subject.

"If you don't join me tomorrow, you're dead," she warned before jogging off.

Watching her retreating figure, I shook my head. This woman had rented an apartment with a greenway but insisted on staying at a hotel instead. Some people really had money to burn.