Onyx's POV
The line outside the bar stretched farther than I expected—an entire parade of confidence and loud perfume.
I stopped a few steps behind the last group, unsure what the protocol was. No one handed out manuals for entering chaos. So I did what any socially unprepared person would do—I observed.
The people ahead were laughing too loudly. Every few seconds, the door opened, and a wave of bass-heavy music punched through the air before sealing itself back inside.
At the entrance stood a staff member dressed in black, expression unreadable, asking for identification before letting anyone in.
Logical.
Legal age verification.
Although technically, if someone brought a fake ID, this system could be bypassed. Security was only as strong as human eyesight.
But that was not my concern.
This was my first and last time stepping into this kind of place anyway.
I shifted my weight and became painfully aware of the two bags in my hands—my backpack and the paper bag filled with packed dinner containers.
Around me, everyone looked curated.
Leather jackets. Crop tops. Perfume that probably cost more than my monthly allowance.
And then there was me still wearing the Harrington University uniform with my school emblem proudly over my chest like I had come here for a field trip.
I blinked.
I forgot to take it off.
If something went wrong inside, I could drag my university's reputation down with me. I imagined tomorrow's headline: "Harrington University IT Student Arrested in Bar Incident."
Unacceptable.
Without ceremony, I crouched down, placed my bags beside my feet, and pulled the uniform shirt over my head.
Now all that remained was my fitted white t-shirt.
Simple.
Plain.
Appropriate.
When I straightened, I felt it—the subtle shift in attention. Eyes flicking toward me. Conversations dipping for half a second before resuming.
It did not bother me.
They did not know me.
And I did not plan to know them.
I folded the uniform neatly, slid it into my bag, lifted everything again, and stepped forward.
That was when the girl in front of me turned around.
She was pretty. The kind of pretty that knew she was one.
"Hi," she said, giggling at her friends before looking back at me. "Are you alone?"
"No," I replied calmly. "I'm here to pick up my friend and go home."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Oh? You can hang out with us for a bit. Just a few drinks. You're cute. I don't mind dating someone younger than me."
"I don't drink," I said. "Sorry."
Her smile faltered.
It was subtle, but it was there.
She pouted.
I nodded once and tilted my head toward the entrance.
"The staff is waiting. It's your turn to go inside," I said politely.
"Hmp," she muttered before walking off with her friends.
I blinked.
What exactly was that 'Hmp' for? Declining alcohol?
I shook my head.
Human behavior remained fascinating.
Finally, it was my turn.
The staff member looked at me directly, assessing.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Twenty-two," I replied.
"You look younger. ID?"
I was unsure whether that was a compliment or a professional insult.
Either way, I handed him my national identification card.
He examined it carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to detect a lie through laminated plastic. After a moment, he returned it and nodded toward the entrance.
"You may go in," he said.
I bowed slightly out of habit.
"Thank you," I answered.
He stared at me.
Shocked.
Perhaps bowing was not common behavior at bars.
Noted.
The moment I stepped inside, the music assaulted me.
Not played.
Assaulted.
Bass vibrated through my ribs like a second heartbeat. Colored lights flickered violently against walls soaked in perfume, alcohol, sweat, and something faintly citrus.
Bodies everywhere.
Dancing.
Shouting.
Laughing.
Kissing like tomorrow's not coming.
This was chaos in architectural form.
And Jace voluntarily stayed here?
I stood frozen for a second, recalibrating my senses. Then I pulled out my phone, snapped a quick photo of the interior, and sent it.
Me:
(You sent a photo)
7:02 p.m.
Me:
I'm here at the bar. Where are you?
7:02 p.m.
I did not expect an immediate reply.
He had been ignoring me since morning.
Still, I moved carefully through the crowd, clutching my backpack and paper bag close to my chest like I was guarding national secrets.
People stared.
Maybe because I looked like I had accidentally walked into the wrong dimension.
Or maybe because I looked out of place.
It did not matter.
My phone buzzed.
I stopped walking instantly.
Finally.
Jace:
WHAT THE? WHY ARE YOU HERE?
7:04 p.m.
I exhaled slowly.
Me:
I told you I can't go home unless
you come with me. I'm here to
pick you up. Where are you?
7:04 p.m.
Before he could reply, my phone rang.
I answered immediately.
"Hello?"
"Who told you to go here?" he demanded.
Even through the pounding music, I could hear the irritation in his voice.
"Myself," I replied evenly. "I didn't want to come. I was forced."
"You could've told me you were coming!" he said sharply.
"I tried calling and messaging. You weren't answering," I said. "Let's go home. Pa is waiting for us."
There was a brief silence.
Then I heard him click his tongue.
"Where are you?" he asked. "I'll come get you."
"I'm not entirely sure," I admitted, scanning the room. "There's a sign above me. Men's toilet."
"Don't move," he said instantly.
There was something different in his tone now—not irritation, but urgency.
"Stay there."
The line went dead before I could respond.
I lowered the phone slowly as the music continued to pound around me, the crowd pressing in from every direction. And for the first time since stepping inside, I felt it—not discomfort, not embarrassment, but something sharper, more precise. It was like standing in the center of a battlefield without knowing where the enemy was.
Or worse—like being seen.
My grip tightened around the paper bag containing lunchboxes, the thin handles digging into my fingers. I wasn't here for drinks. I wasn't here for attention.
I was here for him.
And for some reason, that felt far more dangerous than anything this bar could offer.
Then an arm dropped over my shoulder—casual, and just possessive enough to make my pulse stutter.
For half a second, I assumed it was Jace. Who else would invade my personal space like that without warning?
I turned.
It was not Jace.
It was a stranger.
A tall man, broad-shouldered, older—late twenties, maybe. The scent of cigarettes clung to him like a second jacket. I hated it instantly. The smoke crawled into my lungs and made me want to scrub my skin raw.
"Hey," he said, leaning in close because the music was deafening. His lips nearly brushed my ear. "You alone? You look like you're in the wrong place. University boys shouldn't wander into bars after class."
He was smirking.
I frowned at him.
"How did you know I'm a student?" I asked.
"I saw you at the entrance earlier," he said, eyes dragging over me in a way that made my stomach tighten. "You're hot. Come with me. I'll get you a drink."
I slowly turned my head toward him properly this time. Up close, he was definitely older. Confident in that careless way people get when they are used to being entertained.
"I have someone waiting," I said, keeping my tone polite, controlled. "Please step away."
"A girl?" he asked. Then he tilted his head. "Or a guy?"
I glanced around the flashing lights, searching for Jace in the chaos of bodies and neon. I could not see him.
"A guy," I answered without looking back at the stranger.
"Oh." His grin sharpened. "Your boyfriend?"
That made me look at him.
Really look at him.
My expression flattened.
"Relax," he said, a low chuckle brushing against my ear. "I'm kidding."
His fingers squeezed my shoulder like we were already familiar.
"Are you open-minded?" he murmured. "That's usually how they start. Specially the university boys."
I didn't answer him.
A smirk curved his lips. "I have a thing for straight-looking ones. They're always the most curious. Want to have some fun?" he murmured. "I can make you feel really good."
He tilted his chin toward the back hallway, where a flickering restroom sign glowed in neon red.
"There's a cubicle inside. Quiet. Private." His thumb traced lazily along my collarbone. "We won't take long."
He started to guide me away from my spot, fingers tightening on my shoulder.
I did not know what exactly he intended.
But I knew this would not end well.
"Let go of me," I said, this time without politeness. I met his eyes directly.
"How can I?" he replied. "You're exactly my type."
He leaned closer again, his breath warm against my ear.
I stilled—not out of fear, but to think.
Without turning my head, I let my gaze move just enough to register the space around us. The entrance was too far—blocked by bodies and shifting movement. The hallway behind him was narrower, poorly lit, and currently occupied. The only viable exit was to my left, past the bar counter.
Three seconds, if unobstructed.
Unlikely.
His grip tightened slightly on my shoulder.
Distance: less than a foot.
Posture: relaxed, but intrusive.
Intoxication level: moderate—judgment impaired.
Risk escalating.
My right hand curled at my side, fingers tightening slowly as I calculated the angle. Upward strike to the jaw—enough to disorient. Step back. Disengage immediately. Do not prolong contact.
Only if necessary.
"Hey," he murmured again, leaning even closer. "You listening?"
The smell of cigarettes clung to him, sharp and invasive. Close proximity. Reduced personal space.
Boundary violation confirmed.
I lifted my gaze to meet his directly.
My fist tightened at my side, instinct coiling through me, ready to land a punch the moment he crossed the line. If he moved even an inch closer—
A hand suddenly came between us, pressing flat against the side of his face. Not a slap. Not violent. Just firm, controlled—enough to push him away.
The stranger stumbled half a step back.
I turned.
Jace.
He didn't look at me. He didn't say a word.
His gaze was fixed on the man in front of him—and there was nothing subtle about it.
He was not pleased.
The music was loud. Lights were flashing. People were laughing and shouting, glasses clinking, bass vibrating through the floor.
But around the three of us—
It felt strangely still.
The stranger slowly removed his arm from my shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he looked Jace up and down.
"And you must be the boyfriend," he said with a half-smirk.
Jace stepped forward.
Not aggressively.
Not hurriedly.
Just closer.
Close enough that the air between them thinned.
He tilted his head slightly, as if evaluating whether this man was worth the effort of speaking to.
"Is there a problem?" Jace asked.
His voice wasn't raised, and there was no obvious threat in it—just calm, flat, and controlled in a way that made it far worse.
The stranger's smirk flickered.
"No problem," he said quickly, raising both hands in mock surrender. "I just thought he was alone. I was being friendly."
Jace did not blink.
Did not move.
Did not soften.
The stranger clicked his tongue.
"Relax. I'm leaving."
And this time—
He was the one who stepped back first.
He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Only then did the noise of the bar crash back into existence all at once.
Jace finally looked at me.
His jaw was tight.
"You really shouldn't be here," he said quietly.
Not scolding.
Not angry.
Just certain.
And somehow that certainty felt more dangerous than if he had shouted.
"This isn't a place for someone like you," he added. "Look what almost happened. That guy was about to..." He stopped himself. "Never mind."
I opened my mouth, suddenly aware of the paper bag still hanging from my fingers like an afterthought.
"Here," I said automatically. "This is the lunch Pa wanted you to have. Take it. This is already too cold."
He stared at the bag, then at me, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as if he was trying very hard not to laugh at the absurdity of it.
He took it.
But he was not done.
His expression shifted again. His eyes dropped to my chest. My arms. My waist.
"What?" I asked.
He frowned. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Like what?"
"Fitted white T-shirt," he said. "You came here wearing that? Are you trying to seduce someone knowing this is a bar?"
"Seduce?" I repeated, completely confused. "I came straight from university. I was wearing my uniform earlier. I just took it off."
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Hold this," he said, handing me back the paper bag.
As soon as I took it, he shrugged off his black leather jacket.
The movement was smooth, practiced.
Underneath, the bar lights caught the shape of his shoulders, the clean lines of muscle beneath his shirt, and the ink that traced down his arms—dark, deliberate, impossible not to notice.
For one brief, traitorous second—
I forgot to breathe.
"Here," he said, holding the jacket out to me. "Wear this."
"What for?" I asked.
"To stop people staring at you and your body." he replied.
I looked around.
They were staring.
A group of girls at a nearby table were whispering and giggling. One of them even waved at me, bold and inviting.
I did not like it.
Not the attention.
Not the way my skin felt exposed.
I sighed.
Without another word, I handed him the paper bag again. He took it easily, as if this exchange had always been the plan.
I slipped my arms into his jacket.
It was warm.
Still carrying his body heat.
And his scent.
Not cigarette smoke.
Something cleaner. Subtle. Expensive.
The leather settled over my shoulders, just enough, protective.
"It fits you perfectly," he said, giving me a slow, assessing nod.
I adjusted the jacket around my shoulders. It swallowed me just slightly, the leather warm from his body. "It's a bit warm," I said, tugging at the collar.
"Good," he replied. "Let's go."
And then he took my wrist.
Not harsh.
Not possessive in the obvious way.
Just firm enough that I did not argue.
His fingers wrapped around me like a quiet decision already made. Before I could process it, he was walking—and I was following.
"Where are we going?" I asked, trying not to notice how easily my pace matched his.
"I'm introducing you to my friends," he said.
"And then we leave?" I asked quickly. "Pa is waiting."
"Yeah."
I nodded.
He did not let go of my wrist.
Not even once.
It was as if he thought that if he released me for a second, someone might grab me and I would disappear into the sea of flashing lights, perfume, alcohol, and bad decisions. Around us, bodies moved like waves—laughing, stumbling, shouting over music that shook the floor. But his grip stayed steady.
After weaving through the crowd, we stopped at a corner section slightly elevated from the rest of the bar. VIP, judging from the velvet rope and the bored-looking security guard nearby.
Three people were seated there.
And all three of them turned their attention to me.
I felt like a transfer student being presented on the first day of school.
"Well, finally," a girl said, leaning back in her chair with a bottle of beer dangling lazily from her fingers.
Her eyes were sharp — the kind that missed nothing. Her smile was sharper.
"So you're the one," she continued, tilting her head slightly, studying me without shame. "The one Jace keeps talking about every time we go out."
For a brief moment, the noise of the bar seemed to dull, as if everything around me had been pulled underwater.
Her voice.
It was familiar—I had heard it before.
And then it clicked.
She was the girl Jace had talked to last time.
Something tightened in my chest.
So this was his girlfriend?
She was beautiful — dangerously so. Not the soft kind. Not delicate. She carried herself like she owned whatever room she walked into. Like she would start a fight just to see if she could win it.
Confident. Unruly. Fearless.
The kind of girl who didn't ask for attention.
She took it.
Maybe this was his type. Something like him.
"Huh?" I said, immediately turning to Jace. "What exactly have you been telling them about me?"
"Don't mind her," Jace said, shrugging. "That's Samantha."
"Call me Sam," she said, tilting her bottle toward me before taking another long drink. "Shorter. Cleaner."
"And that's Lloyd," Jace added, nodding toward the guy beside her.
Lloyd leaned forward slightly and studied me with interest. "Ah," he said. "Nice to finally meet you up close, 'Boss.'"
He nodded once, smiling like he had just confirmed a theory.
Boss?
My eyes slid to Jace.
Did he really tell them that?
Across from them, a guy with glasses pushed them up his nose and waved enthusiastically. "I'm Howard, good to see you, Boss." he said, grinning.
I nodded politely, trying to look composed while internally replaying the phrase 'the one Jace keeps talking about' on a loop.
What is Jace feeding them?
"Your name is Onyx, right?" Sam asked.
Her eyes were sharp — amused.
"Yes," I said. Then before I could lose my nerve, I added, "I just wanted to confirm... are you Jace's girlfriend?"
Silence.
The entire table turned to Sam as if I had just accused her of something outrageous.
Then I glanced at Jace.
He was biting the inside of his cheek.
Trying not to laugh.
What—
Lloyd suddenly choked on his drink.
Howard leaned back and burst out laughing.
"God, no!" Sam exclaimed, raising both hands. "Please. Me? His girlfriend?" She looked at Jace. "Did you tell him that?"
I blinked.
My ears felt hot.
Sam shook her head, still laughing.
Then she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying me like I was the real entertainment of the night.
"But he talks about you," she said, her smile turning knowing, "more than he's ever talked about a girlfriend."
The laughter around the table faded into a low hum.
I didn't look at Jace.
I couldn't.
Because suddenly—
I wasn't sure if I had just embarrassed myself.
Or uncovered something I wasn't ready to hear.
End of Chapter 15