MIA
It was my third day working at The Crimson, and nothing had gotten easier.
The lights still felt too bright, the music still too loud, and the stares from the men—the ones that lingered a bit too long—were still as unsettling as they had been on the first night. But the worst part was that I was growing used to it. My shoulders stiffened with every step, my smile became automatic, and I learnt to look through the crowd instead of at it.
Ryan had insisted that I take the job here at his club, partly to pay my father's debt. I had no choice but to comply. He made it clear that I wasn't just working for the money; this was sort of... payback. A way for him to keep an eye on me. Maybe even to see if I could handle being in the same world that he moved in.
I hated it, but I needed the money. The bills stacked up at home, and every day I woke up hoping for some kind of miracle that would get me out of this situation. But miracles didn't happen. Not for people like me.
"Hey, Mia! You good?" Caroline, one of the other waitresses, called to me as I passed the bar, carrying a tray of drinks. She was a bit older than me, friendly in a way that made it easier to slip into the rhythm of the club.
"Yeah, just trying to stay on my feet," I said with a strained smile, glancing around to make sure I wasn't missing any other orders.
She chuckled. "You're doing fine. Just try not to let the regulars get to you. They can be... persistent."
That was an understatement. I'd already learnt that the men who frequented The Crimson had no shortage of boldness when it came to getting what they wanted. But I'd learnt how to deal with them. Keep the interactions brief, smile just enough to keep the tips flowing, and never, ever make eye contact for too long.
"Thanks," I muttered, moving past her toward a corner booth where two men were waving me over. I already knew what this would be—more unwanted attention, more unwanted flattery.
I dropped the drinks on the table with a little more force than necessary, avoiding looking either man in the eye.
"Anything else?" I asked, my tone flat.
One of the men, a regular I'd come to recognise, grinned at me like I was his next conquest. "Just you, sweetheart," he said, his voice oily. He leaned in too close, and I immediately stepped back, my hand gripping the edge of the table.
"I'm working," I said, my voice low, but firm.
He chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "Yeah, I can see that. But a little company wouldn't hurt, would it?"
I could feel my stomach twist. These men always pushed the boundaries, seeing how far they could go. But I wasn't going to let this guy intimidate me. I'd learnt that much already—show weakness, and they'd smell it.
"I'm busy. I have other tables to tend to." My words came out clipped, my eyes darting around the room to make sure I wasn't missing anything.
He didn't seem to take the hint. Instead, his hand shot out, grabbing my wrist in a vice grip.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. His fingers dug into my skin, and I had to fight not to panic. I didn't want to make a scene, but this was crossing the line.
"Let go of me," I snapped, tugging at my wrist, but his grip tightened, his smirk widening.
That was when I saw him.
Ryan.
His presence in the room was like a cold wind cutting through the warmth of the club. He stood by the back, observing the scene, and I could feel his eyes on me. A part of me tensed with dread, but another part—one I couldn't control—felt a strange relief at the thought of him intervening.
"You know the rules." Ryan's voice cut through the chatter, cold and direct. The man holding my wrist flinched, looking up at Ryan with a mixture of surprise and discomfort.
Ryan didn't move, but his gaze was enough to make the man release me immediately. He quickly pulled his hand back, stammering a half-hearted apology, but Ryan wasn't done.
"Touch her again," Ryan continued, his voice low and dangerous, "and you'll never set foot in this club again."
The man seemed to swallow the words, backing away from me and muttering something under his breath. But Ryan wasn't paying attention to him anymore. His eyes were on me.
"You okay?" Ryan asked, his gaze intense as he approached, now standing inches away. His tone wasn't casual—it wasn't even concerned. It was possessive, like he owned the space between us, like he had every right to be there.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. "I'm fine," I said, though my voice was shaky. I didn't look up at him, refusing to let my discomfort show. "Thank you for the... help."
Ryan studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned, heading back toward the bar.
I was left standing there, my heart hammering in my chest, the sting of his intervention lingering in the air. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was something fragile to him—something he felt the need to protect.
It didn't make sense.
He didn't care about me. He had no reason to. But in that moment, the distance between us seemed less certain. The more Ryan inserted himself into my life, the more tangled I became in his world.
Later, as my shift neared its end, I found myself walking toward the back exit, trying to avoid the lingering crowds in the main part of the club. My feet ached, my body felt drained, and I was looking forward to getting home.
But as I passed by the VIP area near the back of the club, I saw him again. Ryan.
This time, he wasn't alone.
A group of men sat around a table, all laughing and talking in hushed voices, but the moment I stepped into view, their conversation stopped.
Ryan's eyes flicked up from the table, locking onto mine. I froze for a moment, my heart skipping in my chest.
"Miss Trump", Ryan said, his voice colder than usual. He nodded toward the empty chair beside him. "Join us."
I hesitated, my mind racing. There was no way I wanted to be anywhere near this group. They looked... dangerous. But it wasn't just that. It was Ryan. Every time I was near him, something inside me twisted. I couldn't quite pinpoint it, but I felt like I was being pulled into something deeper than I could handle.
"I'm done for the night," I said, my voice coming out quieter than I intended. "I need to go."
Ryan didn't press. Instead, he just regarded me with that same unreadable expression. His eyes held me there for a moment like he was calculating something.
"Fine," he said, his tone hardening slightly. "But I expect you to be here tomorrow. No excuses."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. But as I turned to leave, I couldn't help but feel the weight of his gaze on my back. It was like an anchor, pulling me toward him even as I tried to pull away.
The door to the outside slammed shut behind me, the cold air rushing in to meet my flushed face. But as I walked into the night, the chill wasn't enough to cool the heat in my veins, the unsettling mix of tension and attraction that seemed to swirl every time I encountered Ryan.
I had taken a few strides when a Limo packs beside me the driver opened up and it was Ryan, his driver alights and helps me into the car.
Our attraction sparks with great depth, and I move away from him. Our attraction is deep.
And that terrified me more than anything else.