The only reason Dom went out was that the bar was just a few blocks from his flat, and he was feeling a bit peckish. It had nothing to do with feeling like he'd been walking around with a fishbowl for a head since he'd arrived back in London. Once the conference was over and he was stuck on a plane with no distractions left to hide behind, the memories of Clara sprung to life like an old movie reel stuck on repeat, its tail end slapping the projector over, and over, and over again as it spun in an endless loop. He wanted to take his head off, leave it on the side table, and step outside for a bit. Preferably off a ledge.

The bar itself was quite posh. Low antique lamps softened the effect of frazzled jazz that did not add up to a melody, no matter how serious the musicians looked. The space was liberally peppered with gold-digging babes dressed to the nines and plasticized to Barbie-level perfection. They were like moths drawn to the expensively-bleached dress shirts of the financiers frequenting this place. Like Dom's friend, Cary, who was unfortunately very married, unhappily so, and clearly trying to drown the pain of it. His white shirt and expensive tie were a beacon, alright, enough so that one could look past the scrawny frame and thinning hair, but when Dom spotted him, the only thing Cary was making eyes at was his bourbon.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said, tipping his glass at Dom.

"I didn't either. But here I am," Dom said, motioning the bartender for the same order.

"I'm getting divorced."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not. Bloody prenup," Cary groaned, downing the rest of his drink. He threatened divorce at least once a month, but he was married to a hedge fund heiress with some kind of distant family ties to the royal family, so he was going nowhere anytime soon. He'd never find anything better.

"I can't stop thinking about her," Dom said, staring at his glass. There was no need to explain to Cary who "her" was. He'd been there through the whole Clara ordeal, matching Dom drink for drink when he needed to go out and just forget, then scraping him off the floor and making sure he got home safe. Cary was Dom's true brother, not his real one.

"How bad is it?" Cary asked, eyebrows knotting with concern.

Dom looked up at Cary.

"That bad, huh?"

"I keep thinking, what if she comes here next? Am I going to walk into the office one day and see her there? Will I be walking down the street, and there she'll be?" said Dom. He'd had a lot of time to think about this. What if she comes back, somehow, and she brings her new whatever-he-is with her? I am liable to murder him on the spot for taking my place.

"She's not coming back into your life, first of all. Your father made sure of that. And second, you have got to stop torturing yourself with Clara." Cary knew better than to feed Dom the bullshit of finding the perfect woman, somewhere out there. They both knew Clara was it.

"I know, I just— "

"Excuse me? Is this seat taken?" A redhead with inflated double D's smiled at the both of them. She deftly scanned their ring fingers and promptly redirected the smile—and cleavage—at Dom.

He motioned with his hand that it's free and almost turned away when he spotted a slim blonde sitting down next to Double-D's. His breath caught in his throat. She turned to face them and Dom sighed with both relief and anguish when he realized she wasn't Clara. That he was again thinking every blonde was Clara was a big problem. He needed to get out of here.

"How are you gentlemen doing tonight?" Double-D's said.

"Quite lovely, my dear," said Cary, grinning like a wolf that happened upon two bunnies of his favorite breed: the Playboy sort. "I am Cary, this is Dominic. And you are?"

They introduced themselves, but Dom's ears were ringing from the near-miss and couldn't pay attention, nor did he care to. Judging by the blonde's hungry look, she thought she had an effect on him. Keep wishing, blondie.

"I have to go," Dom said, standing up abruptly. Cary shot him a worried glance.

"I got this," Cary said, motioning at the drinks. "Try to get some sleep. See you the weekend?"

"Weekend," Dom nodded and rushed out without saying goodnight to the bunnies. He only had interest in one woman, and thoughts of her were thick in his head like swamp water.

He had to remind himself to breathe again when he entered the dark loft. Lights from the Thames cast deep shadows through floor-to-ceiling windows, rendering enough visibility that he didn't need to switch on the lamp. He preferred it this way.

He made his way to his bar cart and poured himself a stiff one, skipping the rocks, and stood by the window, watching party vessels cruise along the dark surface of the river. In the distance, the Shard pierced the sky like a magnificent sword for giants. Metal and glass everywhere he looked. All of it was so fragile, so breakable. Most of all, him. He could feel his blood pressure rising, and he shouted out in anger, hurling his glass across the room where it shattered to smithereens. Some vaguely-rational part of his brain noted it was good he left his shoes on.

Why did you have to come back into my life? Why?

He slid down the window until he sat on the floor, and brought his head back on it, hitting it softly a few times, his mind turning foggy from the alcohol. "Why do you still haunt me, Clara?" he whispered to the empty room. An angry tear rolled down through his five-o'clock shadow.

He leaned his cheek on the cold window and stared at the river for a long while, reminded of another time, another boat, and a night he would never forget...