Danger in Sight

(Nightclub, downtown São Paulo – Friday, 11:47 p.m)

Angel

The loud music pounded in my ears, and the spilled tequila was running down my wrist, mixing with sweat. I had no idea how many shots I’d taken—I just knew each one drowned a little more of that truth poisoning me from the inside.

“Get up there, Angel!” Marcela shouted, laughing and clapping.

I was already on the table before I could think twice. Thinking twice wasn’t something I’d been doing much of lately. Not even once, to be honest.

The wooden table trembled under my high heels, and I swayed my hips, letting the tiny dress ride up even higher. A few guys around me whistled; others raised their glasses in my direction.

“That’s it, girl! Let that bottled-up energy out!” Joana cheered, of course filming everything on her phone.

I spun, I laughed, and I forgot.

I forgot my mom had died without ever telling me who my real father was. I forgot that the man who raised me could barely look me in the eyes after finding out the truth.

It was liberating. For a few minutes, at least. Until the mood shifted.

The air got heavy, and the laughter around me fell silent. Someone had cut through the crowd with authority. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

“Enough.”

His voice was low, firm, and laced with that barely-contained irritation I loved to provoke.

I turned slowly, defiant. And there he was—Lucas.

Flawless black suit, even at eleven at night. Posture like someone who’s never relaxed a single day in his life. And that dark, dangerous stare locked on me like I was a problem he had to fix.

I kept dancing. Because I’m stubborn. And because anger made me want to provoke anyone who represented the old order choking me.

“Get down. Now.”

I laughed, tossing my hair back.

“I’m not bothering anyone, Lucas. Mind your own business.”

He didn’t move. Just clenched his jaw, and I saw the muscle twitch. Danger sign.

My friends tried to step in.

“She’s fine. We were taking her home,” Joana said, but Lucas didn’t even glance at them.

“You should’ve stopped her from getting on that table.”

His tone left no room for argument. They backed off. He didn’t look at them. His eyes were on me. Focused. Heated. Annoyed.

“You don’t have a choice, Angel. Either you come down, or I’ll take you down.”

That’s when I did what I shouldn’t have: I downed the rest of my drink, threw my arms up, and shouted:

“I’M DOING GREAT!”

He didn’t answer. He just acted.

He came to the table, grabbed me firmly by the waist, and pulled me down in one swift move. It wasn’t aggressive, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was... non-negotiable. And my body recognized that. In a way, I hated to admit.

“Let go!” I yelled, squirming, but he was already dragging me toward the exit.

“You’re drunk. And tomorrow you’re going to hate the videos of you dancing on a table like a teenager.”

“I don’t give a fuck!”

He stopped suddenly, turning me to face him. His fingers gripped my arm—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep me from slipping away.

“Well, you should. Because while you’re making a scene, your father is at home, worried.”

The mention of my dad—the man who raised me, who loved me, even without sharing my blood—hit me like a punch.

For a second, I almost gave in. Almost let him take me home.

But then the anger came back.

“You’re such a damn control freak,” I muttered, stumbling over my own feet as he held me up.

“And you’re drunk,” he shot back, grabbing my purse with one hand and steadying me with the other. “And completely out of your mind.”

“You don’t get to boss me around, you know?”

“No. But someone has to take care of you. Since you clearly won’t do it yourself.”

The way he said that... it hurt more than I wanted to admit. And it affected me more than I expected. And before I could answer, he threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried my drunk, rebellious ass straight to the car.

And the worst part?

I hated how much it turned me on.

Until he dropped me into the passenger seat, walked around the car, and got behind the wheel.

After starting the engine and merging into the quiet late-night traffic, the silence in the car grew heavy, broken only by Lucas’s frustrated breathing as he drove one-handed—fingers tight on the leather steering wheel, the other arm resting against the window, knuckles white from the grip.

I knew he was boiling inside. And that, at least, gave me some twisted sense of satisfaction.

“You gonna say something? Or are you planning to keep that judgmental face on the whole ride?” I taunted, turning to look at him.

Lucas didn’t even blink.

“I have nothing to say that you’d actually listen to.”

Lucas never let my words get to him, and that wasn’t a surprise. I closed my eyes, trying to hold back the bitterness rising inside me. Or maybe it was just the nausea from all the booze.

“Have you always been like this?” I asked, eyes still closed. “All perfect and ‘I’ll fix everything’... boring?”

“And have you always been this reckless? Or is that a new thing?”

I opened one eye and saw his jaw clenched tight.

“The reckless one was my mom, you know that,” I snapped, pure venom. “But lucky me, I get to pay the price.”

Silence.

More silence.

A moment later, we turned the corner to the mansion. That flawless, classical façade, lit up like a movie set. My grandmother’s house. The prison with room service.

The security guards waved as soon as they recognized Lucas’s car, and within seconds, we were driving up the stone-paved lane, surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens.

The house was lit. Someone was awake.

My heart sped up.

“Is my dad still up?” I asked, my voice higher than I wanted it to be.

Lucas turned off the engine and finally looked at me.

“He always waits for you, Angel.”

That was a low blow. I knew my dad stayed up whenever I went out, even if he never said anything. Even after everything—even after finding out I wasn’t his—he still cared.

I clenched my fists.

“Don’t make me face that.”

Lucas let out a dry laugh.

“You should’ve thought about that before you got up on that table.”

He got out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened my door. Of course he did. Always the gentleman. Always in control.

“Come on. Before I decide to carry you again.”

I looked up at the marble staircase leading to the front door. Someone had left the porch light on. An invitation. Or a trap.

I took a deep breath and stepped out, my legs still shaky, my dress wrinkled, my lipstick smeared. I probably looked like a total mess.

Lucas shut the door with a dull thunk and walked up beside me, but this time he didn’t touch me. He just stood there, next to me, and instantly I remembered the bar. The way he held me—so firm, so effortless. His scent.

We climbed the stairs together. Each step felt lighter, like the alcohol was wearing off, making room for something else.

We stopped in front of my bedroom door.

“You can go,” I said, turning away. “Mission accomplished. The delinquent is safe.”

“Angel…”

I turned back. He was looking at me like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Like he was tired of me, but stuck with me at the same time.

“You’re hurting yourself,” he said. Just like that. No drama.

“I’m surviving,” I corrected, almost smiling. “Everyone does it their own way.”

Without waiting for a response, I walked down the hall—not ready, but willing to face whatever was waiting for me inside.