I might add another chapter to this, but I'm not too sure yet! It's a little violent, so be warned. (Also, I have discovered past tense is not my forte.)

Broken Glass

They hadn't known he was there.

He wasn't supposed to be there.

No one was.

It had been a private conversation, a heated discussion. Insults flung one way and then flung the other. Drinks, his drinks, poured and drank in one gulp. Hands shaking in anger, with frustration.

Nick had been confused.

His night hadn't started off well, what with the darkness that had descended upon the bistro early doors and then Leanne, as bold as ever, telling him to take advantage of the restaurant's closure and fix the slight leak in the kitchen ceiling Robert and Zeedan had been putting off for weeks. Nick was by no means a handy man, but even that wasn't beyond his capabilities.

In the kitchen, in the candlelight, he had thought he was alone. But there was a constant murmur he could hear outside the door that kept distracting him, that eventually lead him to abandon what he was doing and stand closer to where the noise was coming from.

Through the porthole in the door, he had been able to quite clearly see Robert behind the bar. He was on the phone to someone and if the roughness in his voice and the tiredness of his expression was anything to go by, he wasn't happy with whoever it was he was speaking to.

"We can't do this over the phone. Just come to the bistro, will you? There's no one else here. I'm sure this won't take long."

The call ended and Nick should've, at this point, made his presence clear. He should've challenged Robert for using his bistro - not theirs, his - as a meeting place with... and therein lay the problem. Nick didn't know who with and he was now far too intrigued not to find out.

Ten minutes passed that felt like an eternity before the bistro door opened along with Nick's mouth, in more than slight shock at who had just entered. It hadn't been Tracy as he had been expecting, but Carla. His Carla. With fire in her eyes and her folded arms and her directness and:

"Let's skip the small talk, shall we? You're not getting your hands on this business. Do you understand? It's not yours to take."

Nick was confused. He'd known Carla didn't want Robert to have a stake in the business. She didn't want it even more than he didn't. He'd known it, loved it, loved her for being so fiercely protective of arguably the one thing in his life that truly feels like his own. The one thing that gives him purpose. A reason to get up in the morning when nothing else seems to make sense.

"Funny that." Robert's reply came quickly. Dryly. "Neither were you. I still took you, though, didn't I?"

Shame was written all over her face. Nick felt winded. All air was sucked from his lungs. His heart sunk. He felt numb; hearing, but not understanding. Knowing, but not wanting to believe. His head fell against the door he was leaning against. It fell hard, but he didn't feel it. He didn't feel a thing. He was only aware that he was shaking after he had blinked tears from his eyes and his vision focused on his hands, focused on one thing - a simple thing - because that's all his head was able to take in at once.

"One stupid night."

Carla and Robert.

"What're you gonna do? Tell the whole world we slept together?"

He felt sick. Sick to his stomach, not with thoughts of them together, but with thoughts of he and his fiancée. His lying, cheating fiancée who he loved more than anyone in the world. She betrayed him. Lied. Cheated. Their entire relationship void, just like that. And she didn't stop talking. Robert didn't stop talking either. He called her pathetic; she told him he needed to work on his libido. It was meaningless, apparently. Meaningless; a mistake. A glass was smashed and Nick didn't even flinch. It all happened so quickly and then they were gone. Carla first, followed by a furious Robert.

"I'm buying into this business whether you like it or not!"

I still took you, though. I still took you, though. I still took you, though.

Nick zoned out. How long for, he could not say. He was only snapped out of it by a loud bang. A loud curse. A, "Steph!" Her name was bellowed. Nick hadn't recognised the voice, he hadn't recognised the notion of being hit either until it was too late, until he was on the ground, the kick to his chest not winding him half as much as I didn't get where I am from being nice.

Nick groaned in pain as he was spat on. Asked where he kept the money, asked to get on his feet, asked to do as he was told.

But his head just wouldn't stop. Meaningless, meaningless, meaningless.

He was dragged up, thrown towards the bar. The empty till was smashed with a baseball bat and then so were the tables, and the bottles of alcohol, and the empty glasses of wine. And liquid was at his feet. Three men were in his face and he gave up. He felt their punches, but at least he was able to feel something. He was bleeding, blood mixed with liquor and he felt like he was going to be sick. He gagged. They stopped. They ripped his watch from him, took his wallet, took his ability to swallow.

Carla's words were ringing in his head.

You're not getting your hands on this business. It's not yours to take.

Too late.