Third Person's POV
Club Empire One.
"Enough. Look at you. You're hitting the bottle like you've got a death wish. Give it here."
The private lounge was a graveyard of high-end labels.
Wilmot sat across from him, watching the train wreck for an hour before he finally reached out and snatched the bottle from Mortimer's hand.
Mortimer didn't fight him.
He just sank deeper into the velvet sofa, staring at nothing.
His eyes were hooded, the corners bled a jagged scarlet—maybe it was the bourbon, or maybe it was the predator in his gut starting to claw its way out.
"What's the damage? I've never seen you this trashed. Who got under your skin?" Wilmot asked, his voice dripping with curiosity. He already had a pretty good guess.
Mortimer's eyelids flickered, but he didn't give up a single
