My husband is a bartender

That evening, Jackson returned to the bar. Carl, his friend and colleague, couldn't wait to dig into what had transpired earlier in the day. However, Jackson's vague responses left Carl unsatisfied, so he let the matter drop.

Jackson sat at the counter, idly fiddling with his phone. For some reason, he found himself wanting to call her—to check how she was doing. But then it hit him: he didn't have her number.

The thought startled him. Why would I even think of calling her? We're just strangers. He tried to brush it off. I'd have done the same for anyone in her position.

Placing the phone down, Jackson leaned against the counter, but his thoughts wandered back to her. He couldn't help but smile, recalling her authoritative tone when she'd insisted he drive her to work. Oddly enough, he hadn't felt offended—instead, he had enjoyed doing it.

It was ridiculous, really. He shook his head. We're worlds apart. She's a powerful CEO, and I'm just an orphan adopted by poor parents living in the countryside.

The thought of his adoptive parents brought a pang of guilt. How are they doing? He sighed deeply, his mood shifting. Carl, noticing Jackson's restlessness, tried to cheer him up.

Despite only working at the bar for four months, Carl had come to understand Jackson well. Beneath his tough exterior, Jackson was soft-hearted. In that short time, his presence had transformed the bar.

With his special knack for handling wine and his calm yet engaging demeanor, Jackson had won over the customers effortlessly. It was a skill he had discovered as a child in the orphanage—a gift he had nurtured over the years and had also used in developing himself.

Speaking of the orphanage, Jackson made a mental note to visit it soon. He needed answers—answers about how he had ended up there. This lingering question was one of the reasons he had taken the job at the bar in the first place not that he didn't have other things.

Lost in thought, a charming voice interrupted him. "Whiskey, please."

Jackson looked up, and his breath hitched. Sitting before him was Stella, dressed in a fiery red dress that hugged her figure and radiated confidence. The dress was undeniably seductive, drawing attention from all corners of the room.

Jackson's brows furrowed. He didn't like it. "You're here," he said, his voice calm but betraying his struggle to maintain composure.

"Just checking on you," she replied softly, sliding her phone across the counter toward him.

Jackson glanced at her, puzzled. "What's this?"

"Your number," she clipped, her tone leaving no room for argument.

A flicker of happiness crossed his mind, but his stoic expression masked it well. He pushed the whiskey toward her but hesitated, holding back the glass.

"Miss Stallion," he said firmly, "from now on, I decide how much you drink in this bar. Is that okay?"

Stella was taken aback. She hadn't expected such audacity. Her temper flared. "Who do you think you are to dictate to me?" she snapped.

Without a word, Jackson calmly withdrew the drink he had prepared, placing it back on the counter.

Carl watched the exchange with keen interest, unable to shake the feeling that something unspoken was brewing between the two. Stella, meanwhile, pouted in defiance, her lips pressed into a thin line. Yet, despite her fiery temper, she didn't push further.

Something in Jackson's quiet authority left her unsure how to respond.

Jackson keyed his number into Stella's phone and slid it back to her. She reached for her drink, but he held it firmly in place.

"Have you agreed to my terms?" he asked, his voice calm yet insistent.

Stella couldn't believe what was happening. Stella blinked in disbelief. Was this bartender seriously negotiating with her? How dare a mere bartender question her, dictating terms. She turned to Carl, the only other person nearby.

"Can you make me a drink instead?" she asked, her voice clipped with irritation.

Carl gave her a sympathetic shrug, glancing at Jackson he raised his hands in surrender "Sorry, Miss Stallion, I'm staying out of this one,"he said, stepping back.

Stella's frustration simmered. She was a CEO, used to being obeyed without question, yet this man was testing her patience.

While Stella pondered her next move, Jackson leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. "Why did you choose this dress out of all the dresses you own?"he asked with anger subtly laced in his voice while his eyes briefly flickered to the red, form-fitting gown.

Her eyes widened in shock. Of all the questions, she hadn't expected that one. The audacity of this man! Yet, to her surprise, she couldn't come up with an immediate retort. She looked at him, startled, her usual composure faltering.

His calm yet piercing gaze seemed to strip away her usual defense and coldness.

Jackson pressed further, his tone unwavering. "Miss Stallion, are you ready to accept my terms for your drink?"

With no other choice, Stella reluctantly nodded. "Fine," she muttered, clearly annoyed.

Carl, watching the exchange, let out a deep sigh. He couldn't believe what he was witnessing. The commanding and authoritative Stella Stallion—someone who commanded respect wherever she went—was being controlled by a bartender. There was definitely more to the story of last night than Jackson was letting on, and Carl silently promised himself he'd find out.

Jackson prepared her drink with care, reducing the alcoholic content and ensuring she wouldn't overindulge.

To his surprise, Stella didn't resist further. Resting her head on the counter, she silently watched him work.

As the hours passed and the bar emptied, Stella's exhaustion became evident. Her eyelids drooped, and she barely moved as she was growing sleepy.

Jackson disappeared into the changing room and returned with a blanket, gently draping it over her, it was so natural that it seems he had done this several time.

Carl, observing the scene, shook his head. He is tired of them both "You're going soft, man. You should take her home. The bar's almost empty, and it's already past 11."

Jackson didn't argue but just nodded. He walked over, scooped her into his arms with practiced ease.

Looking down at her peaceful face, he murmured, "I wonder if you even understand what you're doing."

He searched her bag for the car keys, found them, and carried her to the car. Placing her gently in the passenger seat, he got behind the wheel and drove her home.