I clutch the strap of my bag until my knuckles ache, already shaking my head when Alex puts the car in park. His eyes shift to me, steady, unbothered, like he knew I’d react this way.
“We’ll be in a private area,” he says, voice low, deliberate. “Quiet. Almost no one there.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, the taste of metal blooming where I’ve bitten too hard. I don’t want this. Not the stares, not the reminders of how I don’t fit into this kind of world. But I can’t just bolt. I don’t even know where we are.
With a reluctant exhale, I open my book and scribble:Why are we here?
Alex barely glances at the words before answering.
“Because you have questions. I’d rather eat while you ask them. And you’re hungry.”
The way he says it, so certain and casual, makes heat creep up the back of my neck. I want to deny it, but my empty stomach betrays me. I haven’t eaten since morning, and it had already been twisting in protest back at the clinic.
I glance at the glass entrance, at the staff in tailored uniforms, at the people stepping inside with their perfect hair and expensive shoes. They belong here. Alex does too; he wears confidence like a second skin, like every space he walks into was built for him.
I don’t. I never will.
But when he opens his door, stepping out with the kind of finality that leaves no room for argument, I know I don’t have a choice, and with a quiet sigh, I follow.
The moment we enter, a host is already waiting. She’s beautiful in that sharp, effortless way—hair twisted into something flawless, dress simple but expensive. Her smile blooms the instant she sees Alex.
“Mr. Petrov, welcome. Everything is ready.”
Her eyes flick over me only for a breath, an afterthought, before she gestures for us to follow.
“Your space in the VIP is ready for you, sir.”
We’re led past the main dining hall, where polished silverware glints under warm light, where soft laughter and clinking glasses echo like a reminder: you don’t belong here. My chest tightens, and I rub at my wrist, trying to ground myself as the host ushers us toward a private elevator.
As the doors close and the elevator begins to ascend, I stare at my reflection in the mirrored wall. I’m dressed in my usual soft boy style— Tyler calls it that, but whatever. We both love thrifting, so I get a lot of pants, cardigans, and hoodies for cheap prices.
This place is too polished, too expensive, too not me. I press myself back against the wall, wishing I could shrink. Alex, though, stands tall beside me, his hands tucked in his coat pocket, radiating calm authority. He looks carved from a different world entirely—effortless, untouchable.
And somehow, the closer I stand to him, the smaller I feel… and yet, the harder it is to pull away.
The elevator doors glide open, and we step into a dining room that looks like it belongs in a dream or a nightmare, depending on how you see it. Glass walls stretch floor to ceiling, gilded in the soft wash of golden light. The city sprawls below us, glittering like it exists only to be consumed.
The air itself feels expensive: polished leather, aged wine, something faintly spiced. Money has a scent. And here, it’s thick enough to choke on.
The host leads us to a corner table pressed against the window. The kind of seat meant for privacy. My chest tightens, but as I sit, I can’t deny the relief of being shielded from curiouseyes. The second the hostess leaves, I yank out my book and pen and my hand moves before my nerves can stop it.
I saw the news.
I push the notebook across the table. Alex doesn’t react right away. His expression doesn’t shift, not even a flicker. He just reads, then lifts his gaze back to me, one brow raised.
I wait.
And wait.
But he says nothing.
My grip on the pen tightens. My jaw aches. I scrawl again:
You’re not gonna reply?
Finally, he speaks, his voice calm and casual, almost bored. “You’re not asking anything, Lucas.”
I stare at him.
