"I'm sorry," Chase said coldly, irritation threading through his low voice.
"I'm a waiter. Not a prostitute."
The woman lounged back with her legs crossed, a slim cigarette held between her fingers. She lifted it to her lips and took a slow drag, then looked him over from head to toe through the thin veil of smoke.
Good build. Striking face. Defiant, stubborn eyes.
Young, too. That trace of youth made him look like a university student.
Not bad. Much better than the men from earlier.
"You look good," she said lazily. "Name your price. I can make you the top act here."
Xavier Morel rarely saw Madame Laurent show interest in anyone on the floor. He immediately leaned in.
"To catch Madame Laurent's eye is an honor. Do you know how many people would beg for the chance to serve her? What are you waiting for? Go over and let her take a proper look."
As he spoke, Xavier shoved Chase forward.
Chase's expression hardened. He swept a cold glance over the woman, then turned around, tray in hand, and walked straight out of the private room without looking back.
Xavier clenched his teeth as he watched him leave. When he turned back, his face instantly twisted into a servile smile.
"Madame Laurent, don't be upset. It's his first day. He's embarrassed. I'll go talk to him."
In the staff break room, Chase had just set down his tray when Xavier stormed in, his face dark.
"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped.
"You dare give a client attitude? Do you have any idea who that woman is? Do you know how much she spends here in one night?
She chose you. That's your luck. You're a grown man. Serving a woman won't kill you. Get back in there. If you make her happy tonight, I'll double your bonus."
Chase's gaze stayed steady.
"I'm sorry. I'm a waiter. I don't sell myself."
"Don't act clean," Xavier shot back, losing his patience.
"This place? It's full of prostitutes and paid companions. Nobody here is innocent. You came here for money and still want to keep your morals?
I'll ask you once. Are you doing it or not? If not, get out. Now."
Disgust rose in Chase's chest as he looked at Xavier's shameless face.
He had thought he'd found a high-paying job. Instead, he'd walked straight into filth.
Clenching his jaw, Chase tore off his uniform and threw it onto the floor.
"I'm not doing it."
Xavier froze for a second, then shouted after him.
"Chase Ford! If you walk out that door, don't ever think about coming back here!"
Outside, a heavy pressure sat in Chase's chest, refusing to fade.
The job was gone.
Five hundred euros. One day of his mother's hospital fees.
And three hundred thousand more.
A cold gust of wind swept past, tossing the loose strands of hair across his forehead. He stood there, staring blankly at the luxury cars pulling in one after another.
Any one of them could save his mother's life.
But none of them were his to sell.
Pulling himself back to reality, Chase fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. The harsh smoke immediately made him cough again.
The next second, the cigarette was taken from his fingers.
A woman's voice followed, cool and sharp, like early spring wind.
"If you don't know how to smoke, don't touch it. This world needs strength, not people pretending to be tough."
Chase turned.
The woman in front of him had sharp, commanding features. Beautiful, but intimidating. Long brows slightly raised. Eyes deep and piercing. Beneath a high, straight nose, her lips curved faintly with quiet arrogance.
He didn't recognize her. But anyone coming in and out of a place like this late at night wasn't ordinary.
Wren Mercer crushed the cigarette and tossed it into a nearby bin.
She looked at him again under the neon lights. This time, she saw him clearly.
He looked far better than in his ID photo. Sharper. More defined.
His skin was pale and luminous. His white shirt was casually undone at the collar, collarbones faintly visible. He looked restrained, expensive, and proud.
Chase didn't like being examined. He turned to leave.
"Can you drive?" Wren asked.
"I've been drinking. I need a driver. One way. Five hundred euros. You in?"
Chase stopped.
Five hundred euros was hard to ignore.
"Where to?"
"Résidence Montmartre," Wren said casually. She owned too many properties to count. This one barely registered.
"I'll take it," Chase said after a beat. It was close to his rental. On the way.
Wren was driving a Mercedes that night. It matched the low-profile residential building well enough. For now, she had no intention of revealing who she really was.
Chase drove well. He'd gotten his license at eighteen and hadn't used a family driver since starting university.
"You work at that club?" Wren leaned back, watching him through the rearview mirror.
"No," Chase answered immediately. "I'm just a driver."
Wren smiled faintly.
"You don't look like one. Your eyes carry a certain hatred for places like that."
Chase's expression tightened.
"Is filth something worth defending?"
Wren chuckled softly.
"It's just entertainment. Mutual benefit. Some people have money. Some people sell their bodies. It's an exchange. Nothing more."
The traffic light ahead turned red.
Chase braked too hard. Wren's body lurched forward.
The movement pulled at her wound. Her face paled for a brief second.
So he really was a fallen star.
No matter how long he struggled in the dirt, he couldn't get used to it.
After venting his frustration, Chase felt a flicker of guilt.
They were strangers. He was just a driver. He had no right to snap at her.
"Sorry," he said. "Someone cut in."
Wren looked at him through the mirror, her gaze unreadable, lips curving slightly.
Résidence Montmartre was about half an hour away. In the underground garage, Chase handed her the keys and took out his phone, waiting for payment.
His body felt terrible. Chills, cold sweat, dizziness, weakness. All he wanted was to go home and sleep.
If he collapsed, who would save his mother?
Wren had noticed his condition long ago. After being left in the rain most of the night, it would've been strange if he wasn't sick.
"I'm drunk," she said calmly.
"Walk me upstairs. I'll add another five hundred."
Chase's heart skipped.
Right now, every euro mattered.
Wren's apartment was on the top floor, a sprawling space close to three hundred square meters.
At the door, Chase pulled out his phone again and opened the payment screen.
"Service is finished," he said. "You can pay now."
Wren raised an eyebrow.
"Sleep with me," she said lightly.
"One time. Three hundred thousand."
"Miss, please show some respect. I'm just a driver. I don't sell myself. You've got the wrong person."
Chase already had little respect for women who came in and out of places like that. Hearing Wren's words only confirmed his belief that she wasn't decent.
Wren curled her lips slightly, clearly in a good mood.
"You look sick," she said calmly. "I have medicine upstairs."
She lifted her phone, scanned once, and transferred the money.
One thousand euros.
"Free of charge," she added.
"No, thank you. I don't need it."
Chase turned immediately and walked out of her sight.
"Stubborn," Wren murmured, her expression unreadable.
She felt a flicker of interest in the boy, but there was no rush.
He would come back on his own.
Résidence Montmartre wasn't far from Chase's rented place, but walking still took more than twenty minutes.
By the time he reached the building, his steps were unsteady. Pain and sickness tore through his nerves, every breath heavier than the last.
He didn't want to walk anymore. He wanted to take a taxi.
But when he checked his balance, he hesitated.
A taxi would cost twenty euros.
That was a full day of living expenses.
He put the phone away, clenched his jaw, and kept walking.
"Finally found you, didn't we?"
Just as Chase staggered into the courtyard, several figures emerged from the darkness. Hands grabbed his clothes and slammed him against the wall.
"Cough—cough—"
His back hit hard, knocking the air from his lungs.
"It's been two months," one of them snarled. "A father's debt is a son's responsibility. When are you paying back the three million your father owed us?"
Chase braced himself against the wall, staring coldly at the four men.
"You won't get anything from me right now. I don't have the money. But I promise, once I earn it, I'll pay back every cent."
"Who are you kidding?" another man scoffed.
"Families like yours always leave themselves a way out. You think your father didn't stash money overseas?"
They had finally tracked down the son. There was no way they were letting this chance go.
"You can check," Chase said hoarsely, coughing again as he clutched his chest.
The constant pressure had already worn him down. Now, sick and cornered by creditors, he felt like he was about to break.
"All the Ford assets are on record with the court. If you can find a single hidden cent, I'll admit defeat."
"Damn it," one of them cursed, frustration boiling over.
Everyone struggled to make money. Kids needed feeding. Families needed support. Victor Ford was dead. What were they supposed to do now?
Being buried in debt was hell. Chase knew that better than anyone. But what choice did he have?
He had no home. His mother needed surgery. Even if they killed him, he couldn't give them a cent.
"Give me some time," Chase said quietly. "I'll find a way to pay you back."
"Cut the crap," another man snapped.
"You rich people live off debt, drive luxury cars, live in mansions. When you can't pay, you declare bankruptcy and die to wipe the slate clean. Not this time."
Chase knew his words carried little weight, but all he wanted was time.
One of the men saw through him immediately.
"Boss, he's stalling. If we let him go today, who knows where we'll have to chase him tomorrow."
"So what do you suggest?" another asked impatiently.
Letting him go felt wrong. But beating money out of an empty pocket was useless.
After a moment, a balding, heavyset man spoke up.
"How about this? There's a place down south, a club like the one earlier. I've heard the male escorts there are all top-tier.
We send this kid in. If some rich woman takes a liking to him, pulling in a hundred thousand here or there won't be hard.
We won't be greedy. Just let him earn the three million. What do you say?"
The men exchanged looks, then turned to Chase.
He had to admit it.
Victor Ford's son was damn good-looking.
Stand him in a place like that, and he'd become the top attraction in no time.
Once the idea took root, it spread fast.
They didn't want to do this.
But three million wasn't a small number. Why should Victor Ford get to escape and leave them with nothing?
A father's debt is a son's burden.
Victor Ford was dead. That meant the debt fell on his son.
Chase watched them cautiously, lowering his center of gravity.
He knew it.
If they didn't get money today, they wouldn't let him go.
"Fine. We'll do it," one of them said.
"Kid, don't blame us. Blame your father for screwing us over."
The moment they reached an agreement, Chase bent down, grabbed a wooden stick over a meter long, and swung it without hesitation.
One man didn't dodge in time. The stick slammed into his ear. He screamed and cursed, clutching his head.
"You bastard! You dare hit us!"
Chase didn't hesitate. While the others flinched back, he drove his foot into the nearest man's chest, sending him stumbling.
The stick came down again, cracking hard against another man's back.
Three down.
Chase didn't linger. He turned and bolted along the wall.
He had trained in combat and fencing before. If he hadn't been sick, he wouldn't have feared them at all.
"Get back here, you little bastard!"
Footsteps thundered behind him. Chase didn't dare slow down. His legs were already weakening.
Several lights in the complex were broken. The paths were dark. He ran by memory, weaving past garden beds.
They were gaining on him.
Chase suddenly spun around and threw the stick. It smashed into one man's leg.
A heavy thud followed, then a scream.
The others snapped.
They hadn't gotten the money and were leaving injured. The rage burned hot.
"Catch him!" one roared.
"Even if the money's gone, I'll cripple that little bastard!"
The footsteps closed in. Cold sweat drenched Chase's back. He couldn't run anymore.
Then suddenly, his foot caught on something.
His legs gave out. He pitched forward, hit the ground hard, rolled several times, and slammed into a concrete planter.
The impact left his vision spinning.
Before he could recover, a thick wooden club dropped into view.