The CEO's Regret: You made me your lie, I become your Loss-Chapter 88: Dive bar

Amira let the moment linger, the faintest curve of real amusement touching her lips, rare, unguarded, and gone almost as quickly as it appeared. She swirled the ice in her glass, the soft clink a quiet rhythm against the low hum of the room. The emerald sleeves of her suit caught the light with every subtle movement, sharp and deliberate like everything about her.

"A dive bar?" she echoed, one brow lifting ever so slightly as her gaze slid back to him. "In this outfit?" Her lips curved, just enough to suggest she was entertained. "That’s a bold assumption, Mr. Vance."

He didn’t miss a beat.

"It’s Leo," he corrected easily, leaning back against the polished mahogany bar as he belonged there just as much as she did, maybe more. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes... his eyes were anything but casual. They tracked, noted, and understood.

"And I noticed you’ve checked the exit signs four times in the last ten minutes."

Amira stilled. Not visibly. Not in any way most people would catch. But something in her sharpened. Leo’s gaze didn’t waver.

"You’re calculating the shortest path out of here," he went on, his tone calm, almost conversational, but there was precision in it. Intention. "Mapping the room. Measuring risk."

A pause. Then, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I respect that."

The noise of the room swelled around them, laughter, glasses clinking, voices overlapping in shallow conversations that meant nothing and went nowhere.

Leo tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking briefly across the crowd before returning to her.

"Most people here," he added, quieter now, "are just calculating how to get into the next photo op."

The words settled between them. An observation. A challenge. And maybe... a recognition.

Amira found herself doing something she hadn’t done in years: she stayed. For the next hour, they didn’t talk about the Pedro family scandals. They talked about brutalist architecture, the best places to get street food in the city, and the peculiar freedom that comes with being the black sheep of a wealthy family.

"You’re surprisingly normal for someone the tabloids called a ’femme fatale’ six months ago," Leo remarked, a playful glint in his eyes. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Amira tilted her head, her red bob framing her face perfectly. "The tabloids like a story. I just like the truth. And the truth is, I’m much better at being myself than I ever was at being my sister."

"I can see that," Leo said softly. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers on the bar, waiting for her silent permission. When she didn’t pull away, he lightly brushed his fingers against her knuckles. "So, when do I get to see the ’real’ Amira? The one who doesn’t have to wear an emerald suit to prove she’s a boss?"

Amira looked across the ballroom. She saw Amara and Julian lost in their own world, the picture of elegant stability. She felt a surge of pride for her sister, but for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to join them. She had her own path now.

"How about now?" Amira asked, a daring smile spreading across her lips.

Leo’s eyebrows shot up. "Now? The gala isn’t even over. Your mother will have my head if I spirit you away before the main course."

"My mother is currently busy trying to convince a Senator to fund our new youth wing," Amira whispered, grabbing her clutch. "She won’t notice I’m gone for at least twenty minutes. That’s enough time for a head start."

As they slipped out the side exit, past the heavy velvet curtains and into the cool night air, Amira felt a rush of adrenaline that had nothing to do with fear. For the first time, she wasn’t running from something; she was running toward it.

The cool night air was a sharp contrast to the stifling perfume and jazz of the ballroom. Amira felt a thrill she hadn’t felt in years, one that didn’t involve a scheme or a lie. Leo led her to a rugged, vintage motorcycle parked just outside the valet line.

"In an emerald suit?" Amira raised an eyebrow, looking at the bike.

"It’s a bold look for a passenger," Leo grinned, tossing her a spare helmet. "But I have a feeling you aren’t the type to worry about a few wrinkles in the fabric."

Amira hiked up her trousers and swung her leg over the seat, her arms wrapping around Leo’s waist. As the engine roared to life, she felt the vibration through her chest. They tore away from the gala, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon.

Leo didn’t take her to a five-star lounge. He took her to the roof of an unfinished skyscraper he was designing. They sat on the edge of a concrete ledge, legs dangling over the sprawling skyline of the city.

"Why here?" Amira asked, the wind tossing her red hair.

"Because from up here, the city looks like a blueprint," Leo said, looking at her instead of the view. "And you look like the only person who actually knows how to build something new from it."

For the first time, Amira didn’t feel the need to perform. She sat in the silence, watching the world move below her, feeling like she finally had a view that was entirely her own.

Meanwhile, the gala was reaching its peak. Madam Pedro was mid-sentence, charmed by a donor, when she paused and scanned the room. Her internal "mother-radar" went off.

"Julian," she murmured, catching him as he and Amara stepped off the dance floor. "Where is your sister? She was by the bar five minutes ago."

Amara looked around, her brow furrowing. "She was talking to Leo Vance. I thought they were just discussing the foundation’s architecture."

Julian checked his watch, then looked toward the side exit where a velvet curtain was still slightly fluttering. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. "I think the ’architecture’ discussion moved to a more private venue."

"She ditched the gala?" Madam Pedro’s voice rose an octave, her hand flying to her throat. "The press! The donors! Amara, she was supposed to give the closing toast!"

Amara didn’t look worried. In fact, she let out a soft, delighted laugh, leaning her head against Julian’s shoulder. "Let her go, Mama. For years, Amira has been forced to be exactly where we wanted her to be. If she’s ’escaping’ with a handsome architect, it’s the most normal thing she’s ever done."

Madam Pedro huffed, but the fire in her eyes softened. She looked at the empty spot at the bar and then back at her happy daughter. "I suppose... if she isn’t causing a scandal, she’s allowed to cause a little mystery."

"She’s fine, Mama," Amara whispered. "She’s finally living her own story."

The gala was in full swing, lights glittering, laughter floating, glasses clinking like nothing in the world could go wrong.

And then, suddenly... Amara swayed.

At first, it was subtle. A slight stumble. A blink too slow. "Amara?" Julian’s voice sharpened instantly, his hand already at her waist.

"I’m fine," she murmured, but her grip on him tightened just a little too much. That was all it took.

Without a second thought, Julian guided her away from the crowd, his calm mask slipping just enough to reveal the urgency beneath. He pushed open the door to a private room, the noise of the gala fading behind them. "Sit," he said softly, but firmly.

Amara barely made it to the chair before her vision blurred. And then Darkness.

"Amara!" Julian caught her just before she hit the floor, panic crashing through him. "Amara, wake up, hey, stay with me." He laid her down carefully, his hands trembling just slightly as he reached for a glass, sprinkling water across her face.

"Come on... open your eyes." A few seconds felt like hours. Then, finally, her lashes fluttered.

"I’m fine..." she whispered weakly, her voice barely there. Julian froze. Fine? No. Not even close.

His jaw tightened, his eyes scanning her face like he could force the truth out of it. Pale skin. Unsteady breathing. Something was wrong; he could feel it.

"Yeah," he said quietly, though nothing in him believed it. "You’re fine." But his mind was already made up. No scene. No panic. No questions. Just action.

Within minutes, he had her out of the gala, quietly, carefully, one arm around her as if nothing was wrong, as if this was just another exit. But the moment they were out of sight. Everything changed.

He didn’t wait.

Not for words. Not for hesitation. Not for anything.

His hands gripped her arm with just enough force to guide her, and every movement was sharp, controlled, urgent, precise like a man trained to act in emergencies, like a man who refused to waste a single second.

Her heels clicked against the pavement, uneven and panicked, as he ushered her forward. She stumbled once, and his hand shot out, steadying her instantly. No words. No excuses. Just movement.

The car door slammed behind them. The engine roared to life. And suddenly, the world outside fell away.

The streets blurred past, lights smeared into lines of white and amber, but none of it mattered. Only the road. Only the car. Only the hospital ahead.

Everything else, the fear, the chaos, the memory of what had just happened, shrunk to the edges of her mind.

All that existed now was forward. Fast. Urgent. Survival.