Anna's POV
The dim lighting of the upscale bar couldn't mask my misery as I signaled the bartender for another drink. My third? Fourth? I'd lost count. The smooth jazz playing in the background felt like it was mocking my inner turmoil.
"Ms. Shaw, perhaps we should consider heading back," Rachel suggested from her position beside me, her voice carefully professional despite the concern in her eyes.
I ignored her, downing the amber liquid in one swift motion. The burn in my throat was a welcome distraction from the inferno of anger and hurt blazing inside me. This wasn't my usual style Anna Shaw didn't drink herself into oblivion in public. But tonight was different.
"Another," I demanded, sliding the empty glass forward.
Rachel frowned but didn't argue. She'd been with me long enough to know when to push and when to stand back.
Tonight, her job was simple: keep the vultures away while I nursed my wounds with expensive whiskey.
