Nikolai's eyes followed the retreating figure, the image of the fuming kitten etched in his mind, tail puffed and claws out. When the door slammed shut, silence hovered in the wake, broken only by the nervous chatter of diners and the tentative voices of employees, their concern spilling over. To their eyes, it must have looked like Nikolai had been the victim—his disheveled appearance, the red and purple blooms of bruises visible, the quiet he wore in contrast to Lucien's explosion. They misunderstood entirely.
The returning waiter arrived with his dish, tray balanced, expression stiff with unease. Nikolai accepted the plate with smooth, effortless ease, lifting a hand in a practiced wave to settle the panicked crowd. His signal worked; the room calmed, forks resumed clinking, voices dropped back to polite murmurs.
"What happens now, boss?" murmured a voice from the booth behind him.
"Nothing." Nikolai's answer was flat, matter-of-fact, as he speared a chewy rice cake from his tteokbokki and popped it into his mouth. "Why should I be responsible for his idiotic decision to shoulder the debt of imbeciles he mistook for friends?"
Munch. Munch.
"Funny thing is," he continued, voice light as though recounting a joke, "he was right. We did have them. We were going to put them down right then and there. But guess what?" His fork stabbed the plate again, this time puncturing three rice cakes at once, the clatter sharp against porcelain. "Mister Samaritan here thought puppy-dog eyes meant something. He signs the debt over, then plays the fucking victim. Don't know why he's whining now when he saw the paperwork, saw the rot Mark and his boys were in, and still signed it."
Nikolai shook his head with a low chuckle, disbelief laced with cruel amusement. "At the start, he said 'blah blah, I know them but I'm not part of this…' so yeah we were going to let him go, scot-free, nothing attached. But then he goes on about '...oh boo hoo, they're my responsibility, yada yada ya..' and signs the fucking papers. I did warn him that they were scumbags. Not my fault that he's self-absorbed and acts self-righteous. So no."
He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, finishing the last of his dish. His silver card flashed in his hand as he passed it off to the waiter with a smile as polished as glass. "We'll do nothing. He signed his name. That makes him responsible. If he wants to cry and throw a fit, he can take it up with himself."
Nikolai rose, slipping his mask back on, the fabric hiding not just the bruises but the widening grin he couldn't quite suppress. "If he wants to put up a fight, let him. But I was told not to reach out. So…" His gaze sharpened, voice dropping with a conspirator's ease. "He'll be the one to come crawling back."
As he moved past the booth, he set down a bottle with a deliberate tap, the label unmistakable to the man waiting inside. "Also—look into this. Snatched it when that stinking waitress distracted everyone. It'll give my princess one more reason to come sniffing me out. Report your findings. We'll give it a few days."
He glanced at the bottle once more, silver eyes narrowing with amusement as the grin stretched wider beneath the mask.
His bet? Less than a week.
And Nikolai was good at betting.
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Lucien slammed the door shut the second he dropped into the driver's seat. The sound echoed like a gunshot, rattling through the hollow silence of the car. His fist came down hard against the steering wheel—thud, thud, thud—knuckles throbbing, pain shooting up his arm, chest heaving like he'd sprinted from a burning building.
He tipped his head back against the seat, eyes squeezed shut, but it didn't matter. That face burned against the dark behind his eyelids. Nikolai. Calm. Infuriatingly unbothered. That smug little smile curling at the edge of his mouth as if Lucien's rage were nothing more than a toddler throwing blocks across the floor.
His jaw locked so tight it hurt. That bastard.
Debt collectors were supposed to be ruthless, weren't they? Brutal men who dragged you out by your hair, who broke fingers to make a point, who left messages carved into walls and blood drying on doorsteps. That's what he'd imagined. What he'd have to brace for.
And Nikolai?
Nikolai dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. Like Lucien's fury was irrelevant. Like his life was irrelevant.
His fingers strangled the wheel, veins rising along the backs of his hands, the leather groaning under his grip. That was when it hit him—hard. A realization crashing over him like a black tide, dragging him down until his lungs seized.
He was trapped.
Not by chains. Not by some faceless goon with a crowbar. But by himself. By his own goddamn hand. By the signature he'd scrawled across that paper.
"You say you don't enjoy these things but still indulge them with your hard-earned money. Quite the enabler, aren't you… Mr. Hale? Might not partake in the act itself, but that doesn't mean you're not involved behind the scenes. Best be mindful of intentions."
"…Seems like your friends have more to them than you thought."
"…You said these guys were your coworkers, right? I don't know about you… but it looks like your friends have been lying about what they actually do."
Nikolai's voice slithered back, sharp and cold. Those cryptic warnings, those veiled little truths, replaying in his skull until they burned. Lucien cursed under his breath, the sound rough, desperate.
If those bastards had wanted to, they could've stopped him. They could've ripped the pen straight from his fingers, shoved him out the door, saved him from himself. But why would they?
Money was money.
They didn't care whose blood it came from.
His throat tightened until he could barely breathe. He didn't have that kind of cash. Modeling had been good—very good. Enough to stack a neat savings account, enough to dream of a place of his own. Teaching brought steady pay too. Respectable. Comfortable.
But one million dollars?
That wasn't money. That was myth.
His stomach churned, bile rising bitter in the back of his throat.
The plan had been simple once—Liam and Mark. They'd share the burden, split the noose three ways. A temporary hell, survivable together. But the second ink hit paper, they evaporated. Ghosts. No calls. No texts. Nothing but silence.
And now?
Six months.
Six goddamn months to pay it all back.
Lucien dragged a hand down his face, fingers scraping rough against his lips, breath rattling out like broken glass. His chest ached.
His father's estate.
It could cover it. It could save him.
But the thought made him gag. To beg. To drain the very thing meant to keep their family name steady. To stand before his father, admit his stupidity, his recklessness—watch the disappointment harden in his eyes.
He couldn't. He wouldn't.
"Fuck…" The word cracked out of him, raw, bitten through with despair.
And then it hit again, sharp as broken bone: he'd made a second mistake. Not just signing. Not just trusting Liam and Mark.
Storming out.
Slamming the door in Nikolai's face.
He shouldn't have snapped like that. Shouldn't have cut off the one man who might actually know how to unwind this knot before it strangled him. If anyone could dissolve that contract, find a loophole, tear it apart—it'd be him.
But Lucien had spat venom instead. Burned the bridge before even setting foot on it.
His forehead pressed to the wheel, breath fogging against the leather, every inhale a knife. His mind throbbed with the same question over and over.
Why the hell do I keep doing this to myself?
Eventually, he forced the car into gear, streets bleeding past his windows in a blur he barely registered. He drove on instinct alone, body hollow, mind spinning.
The house yawned silent when he stepped inside. Empty. Too empty. His father's absence swallowed the rooms, and for once, the hollow quiet felt like both a reprieve and a wound.
He dropped into the couch, pulled his phone free, thumb flying across the screen before his brain could catch up.
[Where are you?]
The reply came minutes later: [Out getting your medication. Won't be back for a few days.]
Lucien stared at it, tension sawing at his shoulders, something inside him buckling. His thumbs hovered, useless, before he let the phone drop onto the coffee table.
Alone again.
The silence pressed closer. Heavy. Suffocating.
Six months.
One million dollars.
And the only man who might help him… was the one he'd told to go to hell.
A bitter laugh scraped his throat, torn halfway between self-loathing and hysteria. He bit his lip until he tasted copper, every word a whip crack inside his head.
And that bastard even said he had Mark and Liam's new numbers.
Lucien squeezed his eyes shut, teeth grinding until his jaw ached.
Fuck me. I am an idiot.