Christopher's Playhouse

Chapter 4: Drunk Texts Pt. 1

Los Angeles, California:

Christopher stood rooted in place as Sloane disappeared behind the office doors, the weight of her words and the subtle defiance in her actions sinking in deeper than he expected. He hated it. He hated how easily she toyed with him, how she dismissed his demands as if he were no more than a boy craving attention. And yet, he was more drawn to her than ever.

He adjusted his tie, still feeling the warmth of her fingers on the fabric. His pulse raced, not out of anger, but something else, something unsettling and new. He had always prided himself on being in control, always getting what he wanted. But Sloane had introduced a new element into the game: a sense of unpredictability. And as much as it infuriated him, it also thrilled him.

By the time he made it back to his SUV, he had already begun formulating a new plan. His first approach had been too direct, too arrogant. He could see that now. Sloane wasn't like the others. If he wanted her in his orbit, whether as an executive assistant or something more, he'd have to be more strategic, more patient. And patience wasn't something Christopher Brown often practiced.

"Back to the office, sir?" his driver asked, noticing his boss's silent rage as he slipped into the backseat.

"No. Take me home. I need a drink," Christopher growled. His mind was still reeling from Sloane's final remark. She had called him out, on his lack of sleep, on his whiskey breath, on his disheveled appearance. It wasn't just about the job anymore. It was about regaining his footing, about showing her that no one dictated terms to him. No one.

As the car navigated the LA streets, the city's glittering lights casting a glow through the tinted windows, Christopher found himself lost in thought. The whiskey in his flask barely dulled the edge. He couldn't shake the memory of Sloane's smirk, the way her hands had tightened his tie as though she held the leash. And for once, he didn't know how to break free from the hold she was starting to have on him.

By the time they reached his mansion, the weight of the event's frustrations hung over him like a storm cloud. Lena, still lounging in his bed when he returned, didn't even look up from her phone as he entered.

"You're back early," she remarked, her voice lacking the usual seductive lilt. She barely noticed the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flexed as though wanting to hit something.

He didn't respond, his mind still preoccupied with Sloane's parting words. Instead, he headed straight to his private bar, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. He stared at the amber liquid, watching the light refract through it, before downing it in one long gulp. He welcomed the burn in his throat; it was a welcome distraction from the burn of humiliation.

But no matter how much he drank, no matter how many glasses he downed, the sting of her rejection remained.

"Baby, come to bed," Lena's voice was soft, almost pleading, but it grated against his nerves.

"Not now," he snapped, his tone sharper than intended.

Lena huffed, rolling her eyes before retreating back into the bedroom. Christopher barely noticed, his thoughts consumed by one person. Sloane.