"Producer, are you mad because of what I said before?" Athen's voice trembled, but she tried to sound steady. "You're really a righteous person. Look at the CCTV—please. I came alone. Call Mr. Darcy, he's the one who said you were waiting for me."
The bodyguard didn't respond. His boots echoed as he approached her, slow and unhurried. Behind him, the waiter and Stacy were already showing the drug's effect, their faces red and swollen, bodies twitching. Their eyes rolled like they couldn't focus on anything. The smell of spilt champagne mixed with fear in the air.
"Wait! I'm innocent, I swear!" Athen stepped back until her heel hit the edge of the low table. The bodyguard caught her by the hair and tilted her head back sharply. Her breath hitched.
"You're not a good person either," he said, voice flat and cold. "What are you doing here? There are drugs in play, and if you knew how delicate or powerful they were, you wouldn't be planning meetings in a club."
Malachi, who had been silent all this while, raised his hand slightly. The room froze again. The bodyguard immediately released Athen's head and took a step back.
She blinked up at Malachi, her heart thudding so loud she could hear it. His gaze lingered on her face, a strange calm behind his eyes.
It seemed she had mistaken him for someone else. Normally, he wouldn't have cared who was guilty or innocent. He would've punished them all and walked out without a word. But there was something about this woman, her eyes, the way she spoke even while terrified—that made him pause.
He wanted to find out more about her. But she looked trouble.
Malachi stood up without a word. The air seemed to shift as he buttoned his jacket, his expression unreadable. With a flick of his fingers, the bodyguards stepped aside, clearing his path. He didn't spare anyone a glance, not the trembling waiter, not the pale-faced Stacy, not even Athen who was still catching her breath.
He just walked out.
The silence that followed was deafening. Athen blinked, her scalp still stinging where her hair had been pulled. Her pulse hadn't yet slowed, and her knees felt weak, but beneath the fear was anger.
They had humiliated her.
As she made it to the door, one of the bodyguards moved to block her way, but a man in a sleek gray suit stepped in between them. "It's fine," he said sharply. "She can go."
He turned to Athen. "Miss, my apologies. Things got… heated."
"Heated? That was harassment," she snapped before she could stop herself. Her voice came out sharper than intended, and the man froze for a moment.
He adjusted his glasses calmly. "I understand. My name is Felix Quinn, Master Yates' assistant." He reached into his pocket and handed her a card. "If you want to settle this formally, call this number. We'll handle it properly."
He began to turn away, already following Malachi's retreating figure, but Athen grabbed his sleeve.
"What about that producer?" she demanded. "He's the one who's supposed to apologize, not you."
Felix hesitated, then gave a small, knowing smile, the kind that said 'you have no idea who you just talked to.'
He gently freed his sleeve from her grip and walked off, leaving Athen standing there with the card still warm in her hand and a storm of emotions swirling in her chest.
Felix paused mid-step, as if remembering something. "Oh, Miss," he said, turning slightly, his expression unreadable. "You've got it wrong. He's not a producer."
Athen blinked. "What?"
Before she could ask more, Felix reached into his inner pocket and pulled out another card. This one wasn't like the others; it was matte black, thick, and edged with gold. The name embossed on it shimmered faintly under the dim lights.
It wasn't just a card. It was a statement. Whoever it belonged to had power, taste and money. Lots of it.
He handed it to her with both hands, like it was something sacred. "That is his name." he said, his tone almost teasing. Then he offered a polite half-smile. "Have a good night, Miss."
Before she could respond, he turned and walked off, his footsteps fading into the echo of the hallway.
Athen stared at the card, her reflection catching on the golden lettering. "Good night?" she muttered under her breath. "What's good about it?"
When she glanced back toward the room, the hallway was empty. The bodyguards were gone. The door had been slammed shut, locked tight.
Inside, that woman and the waiter were still in there.
Athen shivered. She didn't know what would happen next, but she knew one thing for sure, whoever that man was, he wasn't just someone she could lecture.
She glanced back at the door one last time, and froze. Something about it sent a chill down her spine, as if at any moment, those men in black would burst through and drag her back inside. She could almost see it: their gloved hands gripping her arms, forcing that drink down her throat before locking her in that room.
Her stomach turned.
Tonight wasn't just a bad night, it was the kind of night that wrecked you.
She exhaled shakily, tucking the card into her pocket. "I'm done," she whispered to herself. "I'm really done."
That sealed it. She was quitting the music industry.
She wasn't even doing great in it anyway, lowest among everyone she debuted with, barely getting gigs, and she was the oldest. No songs with her name. No one knew her. Maybe it was because she still had morals, and morals didn't get you far in that world. But at least she could look in the mirror without hating herself.
She'd seen what happened to the ones who didn't. Once your backer had enough of you, you were finished, discarded like yesterday's trend.
Athen crossed the street, her heels clicking against the pavement, her heart still racing. The night felt heavier than ever, and for the first time, she wished she had never pursued music in her life and just went to college and studied Law like she had planned.
Athen slipped the black card into her bag without a second glance.
She just wanted to go home and To her house she went.