= POV Chris =
The day of the singles' night had been nothing short of nerve-wracking. Amber and I had each dropped three kilograms—partly from nerves and partly from the ridiculous crash diets we'd subjected ourselves to in the past week. To top it off, we'd deliberately skimped on water, leaving our immune systems shaky and our faces drawn, shadows hollowing out our cheeks. We wanted to look fragile, sickly even—vulnerable in all the ways that might tug at heartstrings we feared had long gone cold.
Amber had made several trips to the area around the bar in the days leading up to tonight, methodically scouting every detail like a soldier plotting an ambush. She'd charmed bartenders, waitstaff, and even loitering smokers until they handed her insights we couldn't buy—what time the regulars rolled in, the kind of crowd that lingered after happy hour, and whether the lighting leaned sultry or garish. The only person she avoided was the bar owner; she didn't want to risk tipping her hand too soon.
It wasn't like her to socialize, but it had paid off in this case. We'd scored a discreet parking spot close enough to stake out the venue but far enough to slip away unnoticed if we lost our nerve.
I got off work early, and my holiday officially started the next day. The hotel was a fifteen-minute drive from Amber's chosen rendezvous point, and my stomach churned with nerves throughout the trip.
After an hour of driving, I parked in front of a sprawling, traditional Japanese-style mansion. It's dark wooden beams and curved roof tiles loomed against the evening sky, exuding quiet authority. I sparkled further down the road to avoid blocking the entrance, then stepped out, my heels clicking softly against the pavement.
The heavy iron gate was locked, so I reached for the doorbell, my heart pounding in time with the low chime that echoed through the courtyard.
Amber emerged a few minutes later, her silhouette sharp against the warm glow of the entryway. She unlatched the gate, pulling it open just enough for me to slip inside.
"Ever been to a gangster's house before?" Amber smirked, her voice teasing but her eyes sharp as they scanned the courtyard.
I followed her past a meticulously raked gravel path and the stillness of a koi pond, its surface broken only by the occasional ripple. At the front doors, two men in black suits flanked the entrance. Their eyes swept over me, lingering long enough to make my pulse quicken.
Amber stepped in front of me. "This is my colleague. She's half-foreigner—Chris Fairfield. She's with me." Her voice was clipped, authoritative. "I'm giving her some clothes and then escorting her out."
The men exchanged glances but ultimately nodded. One of them stepped aside to pull open the heavy wooden door.
"Your father's back at three," the other one said flatly. "Be ready for the weekly meeting."
Amber didn't even break stride. "Yeah, yeah, what's new?" she muttered, kicking off her shoes as she entered into the foyer. Despite her grumbling, she knelt to arrange them neatly by the wall.
I did the same, lining mine up beside hers before following her up a flight of stairs and down a long, polished corridor. The quiet hum of the house surrounded us, broken only by the faint trickle of a water feature somewhere below.
Amber stopped at a spacious room overlooking a tranquil zen garden. The walls were lined with tatami mats, and a low wooden table sat in the center, flanked by two cushions. A tall, opal vase in the far corner held a bouquet of fresh peonies—soft pink petals against pale green stems, their fragrance light but distinct.
Amber crossed the room and knelt by a row of sliding doors, pulling one open to reveal shelves stacked with boxes. "After my older brother grew out of his punk-rock phase, he passed down a ton of clothes to me," she said, hauling a large, battered box labeled 'Jeans and Jackets.' "Problem is, he's a lot taller than I am, so most of this stuff is useless to me. But you?" She tossed me a jacket. "You'll look perfect in these."
I caught the jacket and unfolded it. The leather was cracked and tipped and smelled faintly of cigarettes and old cologne. Amber rifled through the box, pulling out jeans—some distressed, others outright shredded—before pushing them toward me.
"Try them on over your clothes," she said, sliding open another wardrobe door to reveal a full-length mirror inside.
I slipped on the jacket first. It sagged a little at the shoulders, the sleeves hanging loose, but the rugged look was undeniable. I turned, inspecting one of the larger tears near the collar, where the leather had been punctured clean through.
"Did your brother get into a lot of fights?" I asked, slipping a finger through the hole.
Amber snorted. "Always. He's a corporate enslaved person now, though, so this life's far behind him." She leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed. "If Sarah sees you in that, she'll think you've completely given up on yourself."
I laughed despite myself. "Mission accomplished, then."
Next, we sorted through the jeans, settling on the most shredded pair, which looked like it had survived a knife fight but lost. By the time we were done, the room was as pristine as we'd found it, and the box had been sealed up and returned to its place.
As we headed back down the hall, the tension I'd been holding in my shoulders started to fade. But only slightly. This was just step one. The real challenge was still ahead.
+++
Amber walked me back to my car, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her leather jacket. It wasn't for show—she didn't want any of her men mistaking me for an intruder and jumping me in a gated community like this. The air felt heavier outside, the stillness of the courtyard replaced by the low hum of distant traffic and the occasional creak of tree branches swaying in the wind.
As we reached the curb, I glanced at her sideways. "Have you given any thought to introducing Heather to your family?" The words felt heavier than I'd intended. "From what I've seen, your life outside the café isn't exactly...ordinary."
Amber paused, fishing out a box of cigarettes. She flicked the lighter open, the small flame reflecting in her eyes before she took a slow drag. Smoke curled from her lips as she exhaled, her gaze distant.
"Yeah, I've thought about it." Her voice came out low, almost resigned. "And no, I don't plan to get her involved."
She turned to me, her eyes sharp beneath the haze of smoke. "Heather doesn't know this side of me. And if she ever did…" Amber trailed off, letting the weight of her words hang in the air. "Then there'd be no going back for her. Once my family knows about someone, they don't let go. Ever."
She took another drag, the cherry at the tip flaring red against the dimming sky. Must get her to fall for me first—hook, line, and sinker. And once I do?" Amber smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "I'll take her to the point of no return."
We stopped beside my car, and Amber flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it out under the heel of her boot. The sharp smell of burnt tobacco lingered as she stepped back.
I loaded the back seat with the borrowed clothes, giving her one last look. "Good luck," I said, though I wasn't sure whether I meant it for her—or Heather.
Amber didn't reply. She gave me that same sharp-edged grin before turning on her heel and walking back toward the looming gates.
The drive home felt longer than it should have, the glow of streetlights casting shifting shadows across the dashboard. Even after I'd cleared the winding country roads and merged onto the expressway, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. I kept glancing at the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see dark SUVs tailing me, but there was nothing—just an empty road.
That should've calmed me. It didn't.
Instead, the realization hit me somewhere between one exit and the next—Amber had taken me, someone she barely trusted, into her family home. After that little introduction with her bodyguards, I was probably on file somewhere—a name, a face, a car model.
In this ridiculous plan's haze, I'd made a dangerous friend. The kind of friend who smiled while spinning knives behind her back. Amber was a warning and a blessing all wrapped in one, and now she was tangled up in this mess with me.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Could I pull this off, or was I just riding the coattails of Amber's confidence?
That gnawing question was still circling in my head when I made it home. But there was no time for doubts. Not tonight.
The apartment still looked like a crime scene. Broken furniture, shattered dishes, and the jagged edges of picture frames littered the floor—a carefully staged disaster. My full-length mirror, tucked behind the closet door, had survived the destruction. I'd intentionally left it intact, but it wouldn't stay that way. Not for long.
I dropped the clothes onto the couch and faced the mirror, shrugging on the torn leather jacket. My reflection stared back at me, tired and sharp-eyed. I looked rough, sure, but not enough. Not yet.
Pulling my hair from its tie, I let it fall around my shoulders. It was still soft, still clean—too clean. My hands shook as I reached for one of the kitchen knives scattered across the floor. I tested the blade against my thumb before lifting it to the ends of my hair.
The first cut was the hardest. The strands fell in uneven chunks, pooling at my feet like discarded pieces of myself. The second cut was easier. Then, the third.
By the time I finished, my hair hung ragged around my face, shy of a disaster. Perfect.
I ran a hand through the mess, watching the stray strands stick out at odd angles. For the first time, I saw what I needed Sarah to see—someone broken, someone pathetic. Someone who needed saving.
I had her are - hook, line, and sinker.
And when the mirror finally shattered under the weight of my fist, I didn't even flinch.
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