Both of these guys were friends of Enoch, one of them owning the bar they were currently lounging in. This man, Douglas, sported a buzz cut and a single earring, a look that screamed alternative if not for his sharply chiseled features that somehow made him blend in.
Leaning over to Enoch, Douglas teased, “Another round, Mr. Taylor? What’s gotten into you today? Finding yourself drowning your sorrows in my bar, did the stock market take a hit or something?”
Douglas had known Enoch and Serge for ages, well aware that both were workaholics. They’d often end up here after a bad day at the office, Enoch usually the one lamenting his losses. Losing money was about the only thing that could sour Enoch’s mood.
“You’re too loud,” Enoch grumbled.
Douglas chuckled, glancing at the girl he’d just called over. “Take good care of Mr. Taylor here.”
Then he sighed, “It’s just money, why sweat it?”
The girl sat down beside Enoch, raising her glass to him, “Here’s to you, Mr. Taylor.”
She was new, summoned by Douglas to keep Enoch company, but… sitting next to him felt like being beside a walking freezer; she hardly dared to speak.
Oberon, witnessing the scene, suggested to Drusilla, “Maybe you should head back first, ma’am?”
Douglas, ever the instigator, had even brought a woman over to Enoch.
Without a word, Drusilla marched up, snatched the drink from Enoch’s hand, and the girl on the sofa jumped in surprise, “And you are?”
“I’m his wife.” Drusilla glared at the girl, “Leave!”
Douglas, who’d been slouched on a nearby couch, perked up at Drusilla’s entrance and her swift commandeering of Enoch’s drink and sending his girl away.
A bit tipsy himself, he perked up, “Oh, who’s this? Your wife?”
He teased Enoch with a grin.
Enoch stared at Drusilla, his voice low, “What are you doing here?”

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