Chapter 3

We made our way to the bar section — it was dimly lit but calmer than the rest of the chaos, though still humming with low bass and bursts of drunken laughter. Neon lights bounced off the black-and-gold marble countertop like restless sparks, and people pressed in on both sides, some talking too loud, others just staring into their drinks like they were waiting to forget something, I pulled myself onto one of the stools and let out a slow breath.

The bartender — a woman with thick eyeliner and an undercut that suited her, raised her chin toward me in greeting.

"Something strong. but not stupid," I said.

She nodded like she knew exactly what that meant.

I glanced at Lucian beside me, who had taken his seat like he didn’t belong anywhere but somehow still owned the room. "And what about you?"

He gave a soft shake of his head, almost like he was declining an invitation to something sacred. His pale fingers rested calmly on the bar, his posture easy but still rigid, like someone who’d spent too many years waiting.

I looked at him again, raised a brow. "Really?"

He didn’t answer, didn’t blink. Just stared at me.

I turned back to the bartender, a quiet smile tugging at my lips. "He’ll have the same as mine.

She smirked, nodded, and started mixing.

Lucian didn’t argue, he just kept staring. Not in that drunk, clumsy, you’re-pretty kind of way. Not like a man planning something, either. His gaze didn’t hold malice. It didn’t even hold curiosity. It was… calm, quiet, and yet it pressed into me like it was looking for something behind my skin — maybe it was.

I knew I shouldn’t feel comfortable, this was the part where I was supposed to roll my eyes and move to the other side of the bar. Or maybe pretend Precious had just texted me and sprint into the crowd. But I didn’t do any of that.

I sat there, lifted my glass when it arrived, the soft chill of it seeping into my fingertips, and of course, he was still watching me.

I could feel it, like his gaze was warming my collarbone, sliding across the parts of me I wasn’t thinking about until now. And then my hand moved, slow, lifting the glass to my lips like I’d seen women do in movies. I took a sip like it meant something....Wait. am I flirting?

The music in the background faded, not literally, but like it dropped a layer, and for a moment it felt like the entire club had been pushed away. It was just us, him and me, in this strange space carved between drinks and silence.

His eyes didn’t flicker. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say a thing.

But something about the stillness made my chest feel too tight for this dress. I tried to tell myself he was probably one of the Giordanos — maybe someone trying to get back at my dad through me. Or maybe not. Maybe he really didn’t know who I was.

But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

His gaze was a language I didn’t understand but felt like I used to speak.

"I have a place upstairs," he said, voice like the hum of something low and ancient. "It’s a bit more quiet."

He didn’t say it like an invitation, he said it like a fact.

I finally broke from his gaze, rolled my eyes, and let out a sigh.

"I'm sure you can do better than that, mister." I said, sliding the second glass toward him.

"I don't drink," he said plainly, nudging it right back.

His fingers didn’t even curl around it—just a gentle push.

"I brought you here to drink, not me."

"Yeah, I’m sure there’s plenty to drink in that place of yours too" I muttered, tipping the glass back to my side of the counter.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

I tilted my head, staring him down like he was some puzzle that made no sense.

"So… you don’t drink, and from what I can tell, you don’t party… what exactly are you doing here?"

"My friend lives upstairs."

I squinted.

"So the place you were just bragging about, isn't even yours?"

He didn’t reply, no nod, no gesture. He Just looked.

I scoffed. "You’ve got to stop doing that thing with your face. The blank thing. It’s creepy."

Still no reaction.

It was starting to feel like a game—one I didn’t know the rules to, but still wanted to win.

"So... nothing? Not even a smirk?" I teased, drumming my nails on the counter. "Do you come with a user manual?"

Still nothing.

I leaned my elbow on the bar, propped my chin in my palm and squinted at him. "Are you mute?"

He exhaled softly through his nose. Barely noticeable. But then—then—I saw it.

The smallest flicker.

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A breath through his nose—like he was holding in the start of a laugh.

I leaned back on my stool and smiled smugly.

"Was that… a smile? Was that a snuffle? Did I just break the cold statue?"

He blinked, slow, like I was the one being ridiculous.

“I swear, you’re like… a wall of ice. But hey”—I shrugged off my jacket and tossed it over the back of my stool—“I’m guessing you don’t dance either.”

He didn’t answer. Of course, but I didn’t need one.

"I’ll take this." I downed his glass without flinching, slammed it on the counter, then stood and tugged at his sleeve.

"Come on, Count Broodula. I’m not letting you sit here and stare at me all night like I’m a steak dinner."

His body was firm under the fabric, cold too, but he didn’t resist. I dragged him from the bar like we were sneaking out of some high-security compound. The music hit us harder now—deep and visceral, like thunder in a bottle—and the crowd was a sea of bodies, each wave pulling me in.

I moved like a drop in that current. Not too fast, not too slow. Maybe I am drunk.

Yeah… I was drunk.

I laughed to myself.

I was definitely drunk.

But who cared?

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