The girl is up immediately, scrambling to gather the spilled menus with trembling hands. I get to their table, my shadow falling over Kyle just as he looks up, his bravado cracking into a stutter. "Professor Maddox?"
"What is going on here?" My voice is low and stern, carrying through the sudden quiet. I glance around at the other students at the table, their smirks frozen. I find it more disgusting that no one in the entire restaurant—not a single diner, not the manager who is now hovering nervously by the kitchen door—bothered to intervene. There's an unspoken rule in service: the customer's whims, no matter how vile, come before your own decency. I've lived that rule. I know its cost. But this has crossed a line.
"It's nothing, Professor," one of the girls chirps, forcing a light chuckle, hoping I'll play along with the farce. "The waitress just slipped. It was an accident."
"And you found her accident interesting enough to film, hm?" I slip my hands into my pockets, balling them into tight fists. The leather of my gloves creaks softly with the pressure. I need the restraint.
"We didn't film anything," she lies, the words smooth and practiced. A perfect, polished falsehood.
The manager chooses that moment to make his belated appearance, wringing his hands. "Excuse me, sir? Is there a problem?"
"Great, you're here," I say, rolling my eyes at the man with the affected French accent. "Is this how you treat your staff? You stand by while they're assaulted for entertainment?"
"The girl fucking slipped! Deal with it!" Kyle grits out through his teeth, his fear morphing back into defiance as he senses an audience. He glares up at me, a challenge in his bloodshot eyes.
I turn to him slowly, my neck cracking with the deliberate movement. "What did you say?"
"You heard me. We're not scared of you. Oh, so just because Darcy Grey is dead, you think you're a hero now? All cleared, all innocent. You—"
My fist meets his jaw with a sickening crack. The impact isn't a calculated strike; it's pure, kinetic release. He flies sideways out of his chair, collapsing to the floor in a tangle of limbs. A collective gasp ripples through the restaurant. He groans, clutching his face, tears of shock and pain pricking his eyes as he coughs, a spatter of blood hitting the pristine floor tiles. One of the girls shrieks and rushes to kneel beside him.
I'm ready to lunge, to drag him up and give him the beating he deserves, to end him right here if I have to. But a small, firm hand grabs my arm, pulling me back.
"Please stop... Mr. Maddox." It's Mary Jane. Her voice is a strained whisper, thick with unshed tears.
"Stop? He did it on purpose. You saw it. Everyone saw it."
She avoids my gaze, swiping hastily at her cheeks with the back of her hand. The manager stares at her, his expression stern, waiting. She swallows hard, the fight draining out of her. "I... I tripped. It's okay. It was my fault."
I suddenly feel sick. Not angry anymore, but profoundly, deeply sick. It's the sound of her voice; so pathetic, so miserable, so utterly defeated. She knows the truth doesn't matter. Even with someone willing to fight for her, her job, her fragile stability, hangs in the balance. The truth is a luxury she can't afford.
I yank my arm from her grip, the motion rougher than I intend. Without another word, I turn and stride away from the scene, the weight of every eye in the room following me. I go straight to the reception desk, my footsteps echoing in the stunned silence, and pay the bill with a black card, not bothering to wait for the receipt.
As I'm shrugging into my coat at the stand, the system's voice buzzes in my head, cool and analytical.
[Seduction Quota Updated!]
[10 souls required to unlock Tier One!]
[Base Attributes Updated:
Charm: 67 / 100
Deception: 72 / 100 (+20)
Control (Emotional Influence): 86 / 100 (+37)
Combat Instinct: 50 / 100 (+9)
Lust Energy: 73 / 100
Corruption Rate: 21% (+17.5)]
I don't want the information. I'm still seething, the metallic taste of rage still coating my tongue.
Samael materializes beside me as I push through the restaurant's doors into the chilly evening air. "Such an... interesting method for improving your combat instinct stat," he remarks, his tone dry.
"I'm not in the mood."
"Oh, I can see that," he says, a smirk playing on his lips. "I'll see you around, then. It was enlightening talking to you today, Aaron."
I give a terse nod, not trusting myself to speak, and pull my car keys from my pocket. The drive home is a blur of angry acceleration and sharp turns. The engine's roar does nothing to quiet the noise in my head. It's almost 4 PM. As Kairos, I would have taken the hit. I would have hoped, uselessly, that someone might one day avenge me. She had her avenger, and she threw it away. Why? She's a student at the most expensive university in England. What could this shitty job possibly mean to her?
I glance at my phone, noting the name of the restaurant: Eleganza. I'm definitely never going back.
I drive home, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I pull into the penthouse garage, the tires screeching a little too sharply against the concrete, and kill the ignition. The sudden silence is heavier than the anger.
I shove the car door open and step into the house, the cool, sterile air hitting my heated skin. That's when I see her. Betty. Startled in the middle of the living room, caught in a private moment. She's taken off her maid's dress. For a suspended second, her full, heavy breasts are fully in view before she swiftly yanks the wool cardigan in her hands over herself. She pulls it tight, fumbling with the buttons, her eyes wide and unsure as they meet mine.
"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Maddox. I didn't know you'd be home so early… I'm so sorry," she stammers, her voice a shaky whisper in the vast, quiet room.
I just nod, the motion stiff. My mind is a blur of failed escapes; the whiskey that didn't numb, the drive that didn't clear anything, the work that just piled higher. Every possible means of shutting it all out, and none of it worked. It all just led back here, to this tightness in my chest and this tempting, terrible silence she offers.
I'm left with no other options. Selfish ones, maybe. The only ones I have left.
I close the distance between us in three long strides. She doesn't look startled anymore. She looks… convinced. Like this is the inevitable culmination of months of lingering touches, lowered gazes, and accidentally brushed hands. There's a fearful sort of triumph in her eyes.
I pull her to me, my hands rough on her arms, and crush my mouth to hers.
She complies immediately. No pretense, no hesitation. Her plump lips part and she's not just accepting the kiss; she's ravaging me back, her hands coming up to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer like she's been starving for it.
The cardigan gaps open between us. The taste of her is sharp, like mint and the faint, floral trace of her perfume. It's nothing like I wanted but exactly what I need—a sensation so strong it might just blot out everything else.
My thoughts scramble, trying to focus only on this, on the physicality of it. Just feel this. Just this. Nothing else. I kiss her deeper, my tongue sliding against hers, the kiss messy and utterly devoid of tenderness. It's a transaction. Her need for my oblivion.
I break the kiss, breathing heavily. Her eyes are glazed, her lips swollen. Without a word, I reach into my trouser pocket, my fingers closing around the foil square I'd tucked there this morning. I tear the condom packet open with my teeth, the sound stark in the quiet room.
My other hand goes to the waistband of her plain black skirt. I yank it down over her hips in one impatient motion, letting it pool at her feet. She's wearing nothing underneath.
I turn her, my hands firm on her hips, and bend her over the low, polished glass coffee table. A stray architectural magazine slips to the floor. She lets out a sharp gasp as her palms flatten against the cool surface, but she arches her back, presenting herself to me, completely compliant and eager.
There's no more preamble. I free myself, roll the condom on, and push into her in one rough, decisive stroke. She's tight and wet, and she cries out, a sound that's part shock and pure gratification. Just this, I think again, a desperate mantra. Just the friction, the heat, the forgetting.
"You feel so good," she hisses, the words muffled against her arm.
I set a punishing pace from the start, my hips slamming against hers, the table rattling slightly with each thrust. It's fast. It's rough. It's everything I wanted it to be: mindless. Her moans are continuous now, rising in pitch. I focus on the slap of skin, the grip of her muscles, the sheer, brutal rhythm of it. I'm trying to outrun my own head, to pound every other thought into dust.
Her body begins to tighten around me, her cries becoming sharp, broken gasps. "Oh, gosh… Mr. Maddox, please…" she whimpers, and the sound of my name on her lips in this context finally does it.
It shatters the last of my distance. Her climax hits her hard; I feel her convulse around me, her whole body shuddering, a long, low sob of release tearing from her throat.
The sight of her coming apart, the intense, rhythmic clenching, tips me over the edge mere seconds later. My own finish is a blunt, mechanical wave of pleasure, a physical release that leaves my mind empty for one, two, three glorious seconds. I groan, deep and guttural, spending myself into the condom as I press deep and still.
Then, it's over.
The silence rushes back in, heavier than before, now filled with the sound of our ragged breathing. The anger is gone, but in its place is a hollow, echoing cold.
I pull out, the reality of the room; the displaced magazine, the dim lamplight, the cloying scent of sex and her perfume crashing down with a sudden, brutal clarity.
I look down at her, still bent over the table, spent and trembling.
And I feel nothing at all.