The same stale ritual played out once more as Cade settled into the corner of the high-end bar, the weight of another tedious Friday night pressing down on his shoulders. Around him, the usual crowd from work jabbered and laughed, their shallow enthusiasm grating against his patience like nails on a chalkboard.
He sipped his malt whisky slowly, tasting the burn as a dull comfort, his mind simmering with an irritation that only grew deeper the longer he remained in their company. Why did he subject himself to these people, week after week, year after year? Their sycophantic company was a constant reminder of the prison his name had built around him.
Every single Friday, without fail, the same charade unfolded. Men and women alike fawned over him, not for who he was, but because of the Lapley legacy that preceded him. It was this illusion of prestige that drew them in, a status they clung to like lifelines, hoping to bask in reflected glory.
“Another courtroom triumph for the infamous Cade Lapley,” slurred a slick-haired man, his grin plastered on with the desperation of a man eager to climb social ladders. His hand landed heavily on Cade’s shoulder, an intrusion Cade tolerantly endured, hiding his cringe behind a smirk that was more mask than amusement.
“The defense didn't stand a chance when I brought that witness forward,” Cade replied, his voice low and void of warmth. The words felt mechanical, rehearsed for an audience that only saw the spectacle, not the man beneath.
The group erupted in exaggerated laughter, one colleague dramatically slapping his knee. “You should have seen their faces when the witness spilled the truth. Priceless.”
Cade’s gaze sharpened, narrowing in on the faces before him, the hollow flattery making his chest tighten. “I’m relieved she testified,” he said quietly. “Without her, that monster could have hurt more women.”
“But wasn’t it an open-and-shut case?” another piped up, as if questioning Cade’s expertise.
He frowned, not hiding his skepticism. “Not quite. The victim returned to his flat willingly, which the defense twisted to suggest consent. Our witness dismantled that narrative entirely.”
“Indeed,” chimed a third, sidling closer with a slick grin, his fingers curling possessively around Cade’s shoulder. “To celebrate your courtroom victory, what’ll it be? On me.”
Cade met the touch with a sharp, warning glare. The hand retreated swiftly, and he ordered, “Same again.”
Left alone with the remnants of his company, Cade allowed himself a moment to breathe. The flattery ceased, replaced by a quiet that was both a relief and a reminder of the chasm between him and those around him.
One of the men scrolled aimlessly through his phone, bored and detached, while another seemed to shrink under the weight of Cade’s presence, as if sharing air with him was an ordeal.
Ordinarily, Cade might have forced brief conversations, polite exchanges to maintain appearances. Tonight, he was too drained, too indifferent to feign interest.
He leaned back into the sumptuous leather chair, the coolness seeping through his tailored suit, and let his thoughts drift toward the cold reality of his existence. From childhood, he’d known the price of his name—a currency that bought him popularity but cost him genuine connection.
Popularity had never felt like acceptance. It was a hollow pedestal built on admiration for a name, not for the man himself. Cade realized he had taken from others without giving in return, a selfishness bred from necessity and survival.
The power his money and status afforded him was a double-edged sword. People were drawn to it, yet he found no solace in their company. Socializing felt like a performance, a chore he loathed but endured to meet expectations.
Women were particularly captivated by the aura around him, their interest often reducing to fleeting encounters where emotions were carefully barricaded out. He was a man who gave nothing beyond a night of physical connection, a transaction devoid of tenderness.
No kisses, no cuddles, no whispered promises. Just the mechanics of desire, followed by a swift retreat into solitude. Intimacy was foreign territory, an uncharted map he refused to explore.
He had mastered detachment, wielding sarcasm and coldness as shields. Avoidant Attachment Disorder, a clinical phrase that barely scratched the surface of his guarded soul, was a legacy passed down from a mother whose love was as cold as the diamonds she wore.
This emotional armor protected him from pain but also from connection, forging a man who inflicted hurt to avoid being hurt, a solitary figure in a crowded room.
The whisky’s warmth spread slowly through him, a faint comfort against the chill of his internal isolation. Outside, the bar’s ambient noise continued, but inside, Cade remained an island, a fortress of cynicism and weary detachment.
Tonight, like every Friday, he survived the obligatory gathering, but underneath the bravado and dismissiveness, a quiet yearning flickered—a desperate hope for something real, something beyond the burning boundaries he had built around his heart.
And as the night wore on, the thought lingered, elusive and fragile, that maybe one day, those walls might fall.