A/N: I feel compelled to start this story by stating that I do not hate Meredith! For the purposes of the story I'm taking her lesser qualities and amplifying them. We're also going to pretend Castle is a little more famous than he is canonically. Thanks.

I hope you enjoy!


The night we met

He wasn't an A-lister. Not even close.

He knew that, he wasn't delusional. Especially when he shared a city with the likes of DiCaprio, Baldwin... Beyoncé.

But in a time when A-listers were actively hiding themselves from paparazzi the people who sat a little lower on these lists, the people like best-selling novelist Richard Castle, were finding themselves on the receiving end of this unwanted attention more often. Still only a fraction of the harassment some endured but after only a few months he was beginning to dread the spotlight he once was so fond of.

His day had been hectic, to say the least. The publicity tour for his latest release had only started three days ago and he had already done two radio interviews, three book store signings and a talk-show appearance. His publicist had him working overtime on this one, cashing in on the recent mystery bug that seemed to be sweeping that nation. His books were in high demand at the moment and, as a result, apparently so was he.

He had been out to dinner with his daughter: a much needed catch up after two busy and conflicting schedules had kept them apart for most of the week. But photographers had staked out the restaurant waiting for the perfect father/daughter shot to sell to the tabloids, and the last thing he wanted was for pictures of his adolescent daughter to be published in magazines and posted on the internet.

Dinner ended and, while he exited the restaurant via the front door, he had arranged for his daughter to be escorted out the back entrance and taken home by a trusted chauffeur.

Just a few steps out the door, his phone rang.

"Are you okay?" he quietly directed the question down the phone line as he walked purposefully down the street, ignoring the small crowd of people who had ruined his dinner plans.

"Yeah, Gregory is turning out of the alley right now," his daughter informed him.

As she did, a black town car pulled out from the alley beside the restaurant. He waved as it passed.

"I'll see you in the morning, okay? I love you."

"Love you too, Dad."

He hung up the phone and stuffed it into his pocket, continuing to ignore the bursts of light that were following his journey home.

He ducked into Illusions purely to seek refuge from this unwanted attention. This wasn't his usual scene: he was more country club than nightclub. In fact, outside of publicity events and launch parties, he hadn't stepped foot in a nightclub since before his daughter was born. However, after the long day he'd had, he figured indulging in a drink or two couldn't hurt.

He leant against the bar, ignoring the fact that his jacket seemed to stick to it. So, he might possibly ruin a Hugo Boss, who cared? He was determined to blend in, go unnoticed.

"What can I get you?" the bartender called out over the deep baseline of the music.

"Whiskey, neat."

He smiled at the petite brunette as she reached for a clean glass.

"Joe still own this place?" he asked as she poured the whiskey.

"You know Joe?" she questioned, not bothering to break her focus from her pour.

Yeah, he knew Joe, the cheap bastard.

Joe Bellario was notorious for skimming money from his tills, withholding tips from his staff, anything he could to pocket a little extra change for himself.

"Joe and I go way back," he told her.

She placed his whiskey on bar.

"I'll be paying with cash tonight," he said as he placed a twenty next to his drink. "I don't want the change."

"Thank you, sir." She smiled and rung up his drink before slipping the change into her apron pocket.

He lifted his drink to her. "Salute."

The golden liquid burned as he swallowed it, but in a familiar and oddly comforting way. His own liquor cabinet might be stocked with Glenfiddich and Macallan, but this was the slightly tangy taste that fuelled some of his best - and worst - college memories.

Just as he was losing himself on a trip down memory lane, a familiar voice called out to him.

"Ricky!"

His entire body tensed at the unmistakable sound of his ex-wife's voice. He closed his eyes as if he could will himself to evaporate into thin air. Unfortunately, when he opened his eyes again, he was still there.

The bartender smirked knowingly before moving along to serve other patrons.

He donned his best poker face before turning around.

"Meredith?"

"Fancy running into you here!" she sung cheerfully as she threw her arms out to him.

Just my luck, he thought as he stepped into her embrace.

He hadn't even known she was back in the city. The last he had heard, she had landed a role in some abstract project and was staying in LA. If their daughter had known her mother was back in town, she hadn't mentioned it. Quickly, he buried the anger that was sparked by the likely scenario that their daughter didn't know her mother was in town: he needed to believe that wasn't the case.

He pulled himself from her arms and hoped for this interaction to be as brief as possible.

"Mister big shot, now!" she joked as she poked her finger into his bicep. "I see your face everywhere."

She was trying to play it off as playful commentary - congratulatory, even - but he heard it: the jealousy behind her words. She craved the spotlight even more than he once did. He knew it must be killing her to see his picture popping up in magazines. Her magazines.

"You should totally come sit with us!" she declared.

He opened his mouth to protest, but he knew he wasn't actually being given a choice. She linked her arm through his and led him toward a private booth in the corner of the club. A small group of people were already gathered there.

He recognised one face - Nathaniel Miller, Meredith's long-time best friend.

She sat in the booth, pulling him down beside her. His drink sloshed, spilling over the edge of the glass and onto his pants. He rolled his eyes and took a deep breath.

This was his night now. Meredith had a way of... of sinking her claws into him. Whatever she wanted, he would inevitably do. It had been that way since the day they met (almost twenty years ago, now). Their dynamic was forged by his naïve love: his younger-self being too eager to please, too desperate for her to reciprocate. He had set a high standard - one that neither of them could uphold - and to this day he still wasn't able to fully break that bond. Even without the life they had created together, he felt as though they might be tied to one another forever.

One day he would be able to cut that cord, he hoped.

"Nate, baby," Meredith beckoned her friend's attention across the small table that centred the booth. "You remember Ricky, don't you?"

Nathaniel reached across the table and shook Rick's hand. Rick had no doubt that the man remembered him. Nathaniel had never been a fan of his, and Meredith was well aware of that fact.

She was probably enjoying this: some sick part of her relishing in the fact that both men would sit, silently suffering, knowing that they wouldn't say anything, that they wouldn't want to risk upsetting her.

She didn't bother introducing him to anyone else, not that he cared. Her friends were all like her and one Meredith in his life was more than enough.

The group returned to conversing - as if he wasn't even there - and he opted to spend his time people-watching to spare himself from having to pretend to listen to the insufferable stories of how wonderful life as a Meredith groupie was.

His attention drifted from group to group, studying. The wallflowers that stood; waiting. The socialites that gravitated toward each other; deep in conversation. The melomaniacs that lost themselves; immersed in the sounds.

His focus moved to the dance floor. Laser lights beamed an assortment of colour across the crowd of dancers as they moved to the music.

Before long, a woman in the very centre of the dancefloor caught his eye, her every move simply demanding attention.

She was beautiful - deep, golden brown skin bedazzled by glitter, red dress clinging to the curves of her body, dark curls bouncing at her shoulders as she danced - so lost in herself and in the music to care about anything else. She looked like she was genuinely having fun, living in the moment: something he was notably lacking in this moment.

He continued to watch the woman as she held her hands out, theatrically singing the lyrics of the song that boomed through the speakers to someone who was hidden among the crowd. Hands reached out, fingers intertwined with hers and she pulled her friend closer to her.

Her friend was tall - possibly even taller than he was, he couldn't quite tell - with legs like skyscrapers. The sequinned detailing of her dark-coloured dress caught the light and each movement she made had her shining like a mirror ball. The woman turned in his direction, gifting him with an unobstructed view as she combed her fingers through her hair, brushing it back off her face.

The way she moved, the way she held herself: she was ethereal. Elegance and beauty in human form.

The woman in the red dress stepped closer and whispered something in her friend's ear. The unfiltered joy that brightened her smile and projected from her was captivating; he couldn't look away.

Dark eyes locked onto his and his heart skipped a beat.

The brief second seemed to last forever, like time had slowed as the stranger studied him. Logic told him he should look away, show some inkling of shame having been caught staring, but his eyes stayed locked on hers.

Infatuated.