I don't know how long I was on the ground crying, but when I sat up, my eyes drifted around, slowly taking in my surroundings. I'm in someone's compound, a big one, with a tall fence and a solid black gate. I wonder, bewildered, how I even got in here. The house, standing majestically at the far end of the yard, is unlike anything I could ever imagine owning. It has sleek glass windows, the kind I've only seen in magazines. I can't see inside, but I'm certain it's one of those one-way glass designs, where the owner can peer out but no one can look in.
The cold reality of where I am hits me. I quickly get to my feet, brushing dirt from my clothes, and then I look up. Cameras. There are cameras everywhere, blinking red, watching every move. My heart races. I am sure that the owner is looking at me right now, wondering who I am and what I'm doing here. I gulp and take a step back, muttering a quick, nervous apology. Then, driven by fear, I head for the gate.
My hands press against the cold metal as I hoist myself up, my fingers finding awkward grips on the frame. I struggle, slipping once, but I don't stop until I've managed to clamber over and drop down on the other side. Once my feet hit the ground, I pick my back from the ground and I don't even dare to look back. The place felt too clean, too quiet as if it had eyes that followed me out.
I start walking, my legs moving faster as if on their own. The street is deserted, eerily silent, like the quiet before a storm. I can't hear anything except the echo of my footsteps on the pavement, and it only makes my heart beat faster. I don't stop. My steps quicken into a trot, and then a full-out sprint, until I'm not sure if I'm running from the house or something deeper inside of me.
After what feels like an hour, the noise of life returns. I start to hear the hum of people, the clatter of carts, the shout of vendors, and I know I've reached the market. I slow down, catching my breath. I feel a momentary urge to turn back, to try to make sense of the strange compound and how I ended up there, but the thought of facing that looming house, the faceless eyes behind those cameras, chills me.
Instead, I take a deep breath, gathering myself. The sun is sinking lower, casting a golden light over the market stalls, and I realize I should go home before it gets dark. Grandma will be worried if I'm not back soon. I decide I'll head home, and reassure her that I'm okay. And later, maybe I'll go see Black.
With that plan settled in my mind, I feel a small weight lift off my shoulders. I turn toward home, weaving my way through the familiar streets.
As I near the house, the dim glow of the rechargeable lantern flickers on, casting a soft, orange hue across the walls and filling the room with stretched shadows. I smile to myself and push open the creaky door. But my smile quickly fades as I spot two imposing figures standing in the centre of the room. Black's bodyguards. Their presence here is a surprise, an unwelcome one.
"Black said we should fetch you," says the larger one, the same guy who knocked my head last night. His voice is as rough as his appearance.
I take a step back, annoyance creeping into my voice. "How did you even know where I live?"
"Your mother gave Black your address," he replies casually, as though it's the most natural thing in the world. "Now, come with us."
I turn to my grandmother, who's sitting by the window. Her face is etched with worry, and I notice the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. My heart twists at the sight. I walk over and wrap her in a hug, squeezing her tight. "I'll be fine, I promise," I whisper, forcing a smile that I hope looks more reassuring than I feel.
She clutches my arm, her voice shaky. "Don't go," she whispers, the words thick with emotion.
"I'll be fine, Grandma," I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek. I set down my bag and pulled back, giving her one last glance before following the bodyguards outside.
The car ride is silent, tension hanging heavy between us. I find myself wishing the drive would never end, that I could stay in this car and disappear into the night. Soon enough, we pull up outside, the lights glowing a cold, sterile white against the evening sky. They lead me inside.
When I enter, Black is already, dressed in an immaculate suit, his gaze icy and unforgiving. "You're an hour late," he snaps, his tone laced with irritation.
I cross my arms, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I got busy."
Without warning, his hand cuts through the air, a sharp sting spreading across my cheek as his palm connects with my face. The sound of the slap echoes in the room. I wince, but I swallow my anger, biting back any words that might make this worse.
"I like it when people keep to time," he says, a cruel smirk playing at his lips. "I'm thirty minutes late for my party because of you."
I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to snap back. Arguing would only fuel his anger, and I've learned from experience that compliance is the safest route.
"I left clothes on the bed for you," he continues, his tone dismissive. "Go freshen up and change into them. You're coming with me."
He turns away, already settling into his chair, his fingers tapping purposefully against the keyboard of his computer. I can feel the heat of humiliation burning in my cheeks, the weight of his authority pressing down on me.
Without another word, I make my way to the adjoining room. Inside, I find a neatly folded outfit lying on the bed — his choice, of course. I stare at the clothes for a long moment, feeling trapped and powerless, before finally reaching for them.
The party is a blur of lights and loud music, pulsing in sync with the bodies crammed into the small space. Laughter, slurred voices, and offbeat dancing fill the air, an intoxicating cocktail of energy that's both electric and exhausting. Drinks flow freely from person to person, and I can see a few groups huddled together, passing around things I'd rather not think about. Almost everyone's in a world of their own, lost in the haze, but honestly, I already feel out of place.
Suddenly, I feel a gentle tug on my arm. Black grins and gestures for me to sit beside him on the couch. He reaches for a nearby bottle and pours a glass of something dark and strong. The sharp, bitter smell stings my nose before I can even process what he's doing.
"Here," he says, offering the glass. I shake my head, raising a hand to refuse. "I don't drink," I tell him. He raises an eyebrow, a look of mild surprise flickering across his face.
"Never had alcohol?" he asks, the amusement in his tone hard to miss.
"Never," I reply firmly, my voice steady. "I saw what alcohol and drugs did to my mom. It took a lot from her, and I'm not going down that route."
His expression softens, and he gives a small nod. "I get it," he says quietly. There's a pause, a rare moment of calm in the middle of the chaos around us. Then, he stands up. "Wait here. I'll get you a Coke," he offers before heading toward the kitchen.
I nod, grateful. My eyes wander, taking in the changing faces around me as some people leave and others come in. For a moment, I consider joining them—leaving before the night gets messier. But I couldn't.
A group to my left laughs loudly as someone spills their drink. The liquid spreads across the floor, unnoticed in the dim light. It reminds me of a stain—something that'll leave a mark even after the party's over, a reminder of a night that got out of hand. That's the thing about these gatherings; the laughter, the music, even the reckless abandon might seem fun now, but I wonder if anyone here thinks about what they'll feel when it's all over.
Black returns, pressing a cold can of Coke into my hand. "Thanks," I say. He sits down beside me again, watching the room with a half-smirk, half-sigh.
"So," he says after a moment, "you don't do any of this? No drinking, no...?" He gestures vaguely around us.
"Nope," I say, popping open the can and taking a sip. "And honestly, it doesn't seem all that appealing."
He chuckles. "You might be the only sane person here."
"Maybe," I reply, a hint of laughter in my voice. For a second, we just sit there, two people quietly detached from the whirlwind of noise and chaos around us.
The room pulses with the beat of the music, people swaying and stumbling. And for the first time tonight, I feel a little less out of place. Because as strange as it sounds, maybe staying grounded—choosing not to give in to the chaos—is its kind of freedom.
"Please, what time is it?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"1:30 a.m.," Black replies, his tone dismissive, barely glancing at me.
My heart skips. "Oh my God, I need to go home. My grandma will be worried," I say, feeling panic swirl in my chest.
"You act like she doesn't know you're with me," he mutters, shifting back into his chair, arms crossed.
My fingers play with the hem of my shirt. "She might know that, but you don't get it. Grandma doesn't just know—she worries."
"1:30 isn't that late," he says, his voice flat, almost mocking.
"For you maybe." I frown.
Black lets out a long, frustrated sigh. "Fine. If that's what you need to do." He gets up, shoulders tense, his silhouette cast long by the single lamp flickering in the corner. "I'll drop you."
Black pulls me into the back seat beside him, his grip firm. I glance at the two men up front—both are silent, one focused on the road, the other scanning his phone with a frown.
As the car hums along the quiet streets, the city lights blur into the dark night. Black wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer. His cologne mingles with the faint scent of leather, a smell that lingers in the backseat. I shift uncomfortably, trying to create a bit of space between us. Outside the tinted windows, the city lights blur as we speed through the streets. My mind drifts to my grandmother, likely waiting up by the window, worrying about me.
"Relax," he murmurs, his voice low. "You're too tense."
My stomach rumbles, loud enough that it catches his attention. Black glances at me with a raised eyebrow. "Didn't you eat?" he asks, a hint of something like concern in his eyes.
"Not since breakfast," I mutter.
He pulls a small snack bar from his pocket and hands it to me. "Here. It's not much, but it'll keep you from fainting on me."
I take it reluctantly, peeling back the wrapper. The taste is a mix of chocolate and something I can't quite place, and though it's not exactly satisfying, it's enough to quiet my stomach for now.
"Why didn't you just tell me you were hungry?" Black asks, his voice softer now placing his hand on my shoulder.
"Would it have mattered?" I shoot back, more bitterly than I intended. His hand falls away from my shoulder, and he stares ahead, his expression unreadable.
After a moment, he speaks, his voice low. "You think I don't care, don't you?"
I don't respond. I'm not sure what he wants me to say. "Why are you always like this?" I ask, frustration bubbling up. "Acting like everyone around you owes you something."
"Maybe they do," he replies, his voice calm, yet there's a coldness in his gaze as he studies me. "Or maybe I'm just used to getting what I want."
"And what exactly is it that you want, Black?" I challenge, meeting his gaze.
He smirks, leaning in close enough that I can feel his breath against my cheek. "If you don't know by now, maybe you're not as smart as I thought," he says putting his hand in my trouser.