Bella's mind raced, flashes of her past flickering behind her eyes—her disco girl era, no thanks to Miracle's influence. The nights she spent jumping bars, chasing fleeting thrills, she almost didn't graduate because of those reckless choices. To escape Miracle's persistent invites, she enrolled in ballroom dance classes—an attempt to reclaim her dignity and avoid her evil twin sister.
Now, on the dance floor, Bella struggled to match Arisa's uninhibited energy. She swayed her hips carefully, trying to remember the graceful moves she learned. For a brief moment, it felt like old times—until a man suddenly wrapped himself around Arisa, pulling her close, and she responded eagerly, smiling flirtatiously.
But then, an abrupt rip shattered her concentration. Bella froze, her eyes widening in horror.
No way.
Her fingers instinctively reached for her side, clutching her dress desperately. The zipper had given way, leaving her side exposed, her dress hanging in shreds. Her heart pounded fiercely—she couldn't afford to be seen like this.
She quickly signaled to Arisa that she needed to go to the restroom, attempting to mask her panic. As she took a step back, a hard figure suddenly pushed into her from behind.
A cold hand gripped her almost bare side, sending panic racing through her veins. Her breath hitched, eyes darting up—and there he was: Michael, with his trademark crossed eyebrows, looking down at her with concern.
"Bella, are you okay?" His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it sent a shiver down her spine.
Her eyes pleaded silently for help, her body tense as Michael leaned in, close enough that she could feel the cold sweat on his skin.
Without warning, he gently took her arm and guided her toward the stairs leading to the VIP room.
"And where are you taking me?" Bella asked cautiously, her voice trembling.
"The restroom in the VIP area. It's much more secure—and clean," Michael replied, nodding toward the bouncer guarding the stairs.
They reached a pristine, luxurious restroom—spotless, with marble counters and soft lighting, like something out of a high-end hotel.
"What do you need?" Michael asked outside the cubicle, his tone unexpectedly gentle.
Bella's hands fumbled, feeling her torn dress and the exposed lace beneath. She knew she couldn't close it with her current state—her dress hanging open, her dignity exposed.
"Uhm, the zipper's truly gone," she admitted softly. "I can't close my dress."
He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed it over the bathroom door.
"Wear this."
She hesitated for a moment, then stepped out of her shredded dress, slipping into his oversized jacket. The fabric was thick, warm, and surprisingly soft. It draped over her like a cloak, covering most of her except for her lace bra.
"Thanks," she muttered shyly, clutching the fabric close to her chest.
Michael carefully took her earrings, pinning them in the jacket's collar to keep them safe.
"Let's hope this holds," he said quietly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Bella's cheeks burned with embarrassment—blushing all over, her mind swirling with a mix of humiliation and reluctant gratitude.
She looked at herself in the mirror—disheveled, sweaty, but strangely alluring in her makeshift attire.
Michael, standing beside her, looked less composed—his buzz cut hair, black fitted shirt, and ripped jeans giving him a rough, no-nonsense appearance.
"Do you want to go home?" he asked softly.
She hesitated, then nodded. "I want to, but I need to wait for my friend."
He nodded understandingly.
"Okay, let's just chill here while we wait," Michael said, leading her to his table in the VIP area.
They stopped at a corner guarded by two stern-looking men—probably security or bodyguards—who eyed them cautiously.
Michael took her hand gently and guided her to sit beside him. The table was dimly lit, yet not to see the faces of the people around.
Only one man sat in the center of the lounge—a figure seated on a leather sofa, legs crossed, one arm resting casually over the backrest, the other hand clasped around a glass of whiskey.
His face was partially obscured by shadows, but his posture radiated dominance and menace. An aura of ominous authority clung to him, making Bella instinctively feel wary.
She couldn't see his face clearly, but the air around him suggested he was someone not to be trifled with.
-----
Michael could feel Bella's discomfort intensify as she clung to his arm, her fingers gripping tightly around his sleeve. Her eyes darted anxiously between the towering security men—muscular, impassive—and the shadowed figure seated at the lounge sofa.
His own stomach clenched. It was uncomfortable for him too—her body pressed against his, her soft curves almost pressed into him in a way that made him acutely aware of her vulnerability. Her exposed legs and thighs brushed lightly against his, and the thick fabric of his jacket felt like a flimsy shield against her nearly-naked state.
He fought to keep his composure, to resist the urge to linger or make any wrong move. He knew the man in the lounge—Josef—was her husband. Or at least, that's what everyone thought. But Josef's invitation tonight had been casual, almost careless, and Michael knew better than to assume anything.
Thankfully, the dim lighting cloaked most of their interaction, and Josef, lost in his own drunken haze, probably wouldn't recognize Bella's face clearly.
Although, if Josef did realize she was with Michael—
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when Bella leaned into him, whispering softly, "I wanna go home."
His eyes softened, and he gently nodded, pressing a reassuring hand to her knee.
"I'll handle it," he murmured under his breath.
He turned to Josef, who was now slurring slightly, eyes glassy but still holding a hint of suspicion.
"We should head out. You good?" Michael said casually, trying to keep his tone even.
Josef looked them over, a flicker of rage or perhaps confusion flashing in his eyes. "You're leaving? Just like that?"
Michael gave a nonchalant shrug. "Yeah, man. It's getting late. Plus, Bella's got an early day tomorrow."
As they stood to leave, a sudden blackout plunged the entire club into darkness.
The music stopped abruptly, replaced by a wave of panicked voices and shouts.
A heartbeat of silence stretched long before the emergency lights flickered on, casting an eerie glow over the chaos.
The room was in disarray—people shouting, stumbling, trying to find their friends or escape. Chairs scraped across the floor, glasses shattered, and the air thick with confusion and fear.
Bella instinctively pressed close to Michael, her hands clutching his arm as if anchoring herself.
In the flickering light, their eyes were drawn to the lounge sofa—the mysterious man sitting there, unmoved amidst the chaos. His silhouette seemed almost larger, more ominous in the sudden chaos.
And then, Bella's gasp cut through the noise like a shard of glass.
Whiskey's harsh burn lingered on Josef's tongue, but it couldn't dull the storm raging inside him. Despite the alcohol, his mind was clear—an unforgiving whirlwind of betrayal and fury.
Mirabella, his wife, was clinging to Michael—his best friend and lawyer—as if her life depended on him. The sight ignited a savage rage that threatened to consume him.
"What the hell are you doing here, Bella?" Josef's voice was low, venomous, eyes narrowing sharply. "And, Michael… why is she with you?"
Bella's fear suddenly twisted into something sharper—vindictive, defiant. Her eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, her voice trembling but fierce. "So what if I am here?"
Michael, standing tall and unflinching, took a step toward Josef, who was now rising to his full height, his jaw clenched.
"I found her here," Michael explained coolly, almost dismissively, "She had an emergency. That's all."
Josef's gaze drifted lazily to the oversized pocket jacket Bella wore—its thick fabric revealing a sliver of her chest, her long legs exposed in the chaos. Her smoky eyes, defiant and fearless, met his without a flicker of shame.
For a fleeting moment, Josef's smirk concealed his disappointment—his pride hurt but his mind calculating.
"You can't get me, now, you targeted Michael?" Josef sneered, voice dripping with contempt.
Bella's eyes suddenly turned red, her jaw clenched tightly. Without thinking, she snatched a half-full whiskey glass from the table and hurled it at him with feral rage.
"Fuck you!" she shouted, voice cracking with fury as the glass shattered against the wall, whiskey splashing across the floor.
Without hesitation, she bolted toward the stairs, her figure trembling with adrenaline and humiliation.
The cold whiskey sprayed across Josef's face, momentarily shocking him from his spiraling rage. His eyes widened in disbelief, then darkened with fury again.
Michael stepped closer, his tone disappointed but steady. "I just helped her out, Josef."
Josef's jaw tightened as he wiped whiskey from his face, the smirk gone, replaced by a dark, simmering anger.
"You think I don't know what's really going on?" he spat. "You're just like her—playing your games, hiding things."
Michael shook his head slowly, eyes cold. "No, Josef. I'm only doing what's right. You're drunk, and you're wrong."
Without another word, Michael turned and hurried after Bella, disappearing down the stairs into the chaos outside.
Josef stood frozen for a moment, fists clenched, anger simmering beneath his skin. The club's chaos roared on around him, but all he could see was Bella—her fearless gaze, her fiery spirit—fueling a rage that wouldn't be extinguished easily.
---
Despite the club gradually returning to its frenetic rhythm—music pounding, bodies moving, laughter and shouts filling the air—the weight of the night pressed heavily on Bella. She couldn't stay there any longer. Her heart pounded with a mixture of adrenaline, fear, and a strange sense of relief.
She looked around desperately for Arisa—her friend, her chaos partner—and found her already slumped at the bar, visibly drunk. Arisa, sensing Bella's presence, immediately straightened, her eyes sharp and alert, as if she'd never been intoxicated.
"And how...?" Arisa started, but Bella cut her off sharply.
"I really have to go," Bella said, voice trembling with urgency.
Arisa grinned cheerfully, as if there was no problem at all. "Well, if you go, I go," she replied, without hesitation, and in a swift, playful move, she leaned in to kiss a stranger on the cheek, murmuring a quick thanks before turning back to Bella.
With wobbling steps, Arisa was barely able to walk, and Bella instinctively held her up, supporting her as they made their way out of the chaos and into the cool night air.
Suddenly, a sleek black Ferrari 812 GTS appeared before them, its polished surface gleaming ominously under the streetlights. The windows rolled down smoothly, and Michael's calm voice cut through the night.
"Get in," he commanded, eyes steady and unwavering.
Bella felt so awkward as Arisa was seating on her lap during the whole drive to her place. They safely dropped her home.
The drive was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the distant city sounds. Bella, exhausted and emotionally drained, closed her eyes and let herself relax—her head leaning against the cool glass of the car window.
Michael watched Bella through the dim glow of the flickering streetlamp, her face illuminated by the yellow light—soft, fragile, and betraying a deep well of pain. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
"Hey, I'm sorry. Josef's drunk and he didn't know what he was talking about," Michael said, his tone gentle, trying to bridge the widening gap between them.
Bella's response was cold, dismissive. "Sure." Her voice carried a weight of sarcasm, a barrier she couldn't quite break through.
"You're his lawyer, and you're expected to defend him." Hurt seeped into her words, and Michael felt it—an ache in his chest that he couldn't ignore.
He had once loved Mirabella—something she had never known—and now, standing here, watching her so broken and guarded, he wished things could be different.
He never imagined he'd find himself in this position—reunited with Bella, not as a lover, but as her confidant, her protector. Yet broken trust and past betrayals held him back, a tangled web of guilt and regret.
Her eyes flickered with a mixture of defiance and despair. She had stolen from his best friend and left him just seconds after their wedding—her departure cutting deeper than any knife. His heart swayed, uncertain of its place, torn between loyalty and longing.
After dropping her off at a dilapidated hotel downtown, Michael hesitated, then softly spoke.
"You stay here?" His voice was firm but caring. "I'm not gonna leave you here. Get your things. You're coming with me."
But Bella, silent and resigned, stepped out of the car without a word. He followed her, desperate to hold onto some fragment of connection.
"I don't know what you want from me, Michael," Bella said, her voice hollow, as if her soul had already left her body. "But thanks for helping me out a while ago. But that doesn't change the fact that you're on Josef's side. I hope we won't see each other again."
She turned sharply, her figure fading into the shadows of the night, leaving Michael standing alone in the cold.
A pang of pain shot through his chest—an ache of regret, of missed chances, of trust broken beyond repair.
He watched her go, feeling the weight of unspoken words and unhealed wounds, knowing that their paths might never cross again—yet wishing, somehow, that things could be different.