The sun had fully set by the time I stepped out of the mansion. I hesitated at the threshold before locking the heavy door behind me. I hadn't seen Harley since morning, and I had no idea if his fever had broken or if he was feeling any better. I knew he wasn't going into work—I had overheard him earlier telling his assistant to cancel all his meetings for the day.
"Maybe I should just stay home," I muttered under my breath.
A quick glance at my watch immediately crushed that thought. Amy was already waiting for me at the lounge.
I turned back to look at the silent mansion one last time before stepping into the silver BMW that had just pulled up along the curb.
"Where to, Miss Huo?" Mr. Lu asked as I closed the door.
"Lumen Hotel, please," I replied, fastening my seatbelt.
He nodded and pulled away. The ride was quiet, though every now and then I caught him watching me attentively in the rearview mirror.
"I'll be fine, Mr. Lu," I assured him gently, catching his eye.
"Just be careful, Miss Huo," he said, genuine concern lacing his voice. "That place can get a bit out of control on Friday nights."
I offered him a small, reassuring smile, but remained silent as the city lights blurred past the dark windows.
When the car finally pulled up to the entrance of the Lumen Hotel, the modern building shimmered beneath a blanket of golden exterior lights. Pulsing music vibrated faintly through the glass, and bursts of laughter spilled out into the night every time the valet doors swung open. After thanking Mr. Lu, I stepped out and made my way inside.
The lounge was alive with energy—dim, sultry lighting, polished marble floors, and low golden lamps casting soft shadows across plush velvet seating areas. I spotted Amy seated at the high-top bar almost immediately. She was waving her arm dramatically the moment I walked into her line of sight.
"You're late," she teased as I slid onto the leather stool beside her.
"Blame Friday traffic," I replied with a faint smile.
We ordered drinks and settled into easy conversation, the rhythmic bass of the music blending with the hum of voices around us. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to unclench my shoulders and actually relax.
Then, a tall staff member in a sleek vest approached our side of the bar.
"Miss Huo?" he asked politely, bowing his head slightly.
Amy and I exchanged a confused look. How did anyone here know my name? It had barely been a month since I returned to Seoul, and I had spent almost all of my time either at the hospital or avoiding Harley.
"Yes?" I answered, setting my glass down.
"You've been requested upstairs in one of our private VIP rooms."
"Requested?" Amy repeated, her eyes widening.
I frowned slightly. "By whom?"
The staff member only offered a courteous, practiced smile. "If you would please follow me."
Amy leaned close to my ear. "Do you have any idea what this is about?"
I shook my head slowly. "No."
Still bewildered, we stood up and followed him toward the private elevator bank. The thumping music grew softer and muffled as the sleek elevator doors closed behind us.
The second floor was noticeably quieter—far more refined and exclusive. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the bustling main lounge below, offering a panoramic view of the entire club. The staff member, who introduced himself as Mike, stopped in front of a heavy, dark wooden door and pushed it open.
Amy instinctively latched onto my right arm as we walked inside, though she immediately let go when Nicholas waved at us from the couch. I caught the faint, adorable blush creeping onto her cheeks as she tried to quickly compose herself.
"Sophie," came a smooth, drawling voice. "When on earth did you get back to Seoul?"
I turned toward the sound and spotted the notorious model-turned-playboy, Dylan Hu. He was lounging casually with his arm draped around a stunning blonde who immediately shot me a cold, possessive look.
"A couple of weeks ago," I replied politely.
Amy had already darted over to join Nicholas on the two-seater sofa, laughing at something he had whispered to her. They looked effortlessly good together. Opposite them sat James Yee, looking as cool, sharp, and observant as ever. James was a brilliant defense attorney—and though I had never breathed a word of it to a single soul, he had been my very first teenage crush. I had never pursued it because I could tell from his body language back then that he strictly saw me as a younger sister.
Between the plush couches sat a low marble coffee table cluttered with top-shelf liquor bottles, ice buckets, and scattered cigarette packs.
And sitting just beyond that… was Harley.
He was lounging on the far end of the sectional sofa, looking completely at ease, watching me with cold, unreadable eyes.
My chest tightened. I rolled my eyes internally and took the only empty seat on the couch—right beside him. Reaching for an unused crystal glass on the table, I poured myself a heavy splash of bourbon and downed it in one smooth gulp. From the corner of my eye, I could feel his gaze burning into the side of my face.
How did he know I was here? Better yet, how did he even manage to spot me through the crowds downstairs?
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice cutting clearly through the room.
The casual chatter instantly died. Everyone—including Dylan's jealous blonde companion—turned their full attention to us.
I turned my head and met his sharp stare dead-on. "What are you doing here? Did you forget you were burning with a fever just last night?"
I lifted my hand to touch his forehead and check his temperature, but he violently smacked my hand away before I could even make contact. Twice. He had shoved me away twice in less than twenty-four hours.
Irritation boiled over inside me. I stood up abruptly, turning my back on him to look at Amy. "Come on, Amy. We're going downstairs to dance."
Dylan brushed the clingy blonde off his arm and stood up, casually adjusting the collar of his shirt. "I'll join you ladies," he offered with a wicked smirk. "Can never be too careful with lurking perverts down on the main floor."
Beside me, Harley's hand tightened furiously around his half-empty tumbler.
CRASH.
The heavy glass shattered completely in his grip.
Everyone in the room flinched as the suffocating tension in the air exploded. Amy gasped loudly, pressing her hands to her mouth. "Oh my God! Harley, your hand is bleeding!"
A mixture of bourbon and dark blood dripped onto the white marble table, pooling on the floor. It took every single ounce of my willpower not to instantly fall to my knees and inspect the wounds. I was so exhausted by his hostility, so tired of his constant push and pull. I desperately needed to dance off the anger suffocating my chest.
My heart skipped a violent beat when Harley stood up and snatched my wrist—using his injured, blood-stained hand—and began forcefully yanking me toward the exit.
I glanced back helplessly at the stunned faces of our friends as the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind us.
"Let go!" I demanded the second we hit the carpeted hallway, yanking my arm free and rubbing the sore red skin on my wrist. "What the hell is wrong with you, Harley?"
"Follow me," he said, his tone sharp, icy, and commanding.
Before my brain could logically protest, my body obeyed. I muttered a string of bitter curse words under my breath as I trailed a few steps behind his towering frame, following him all the way down to the underground parking garage, where rows of multi-million-dollar vehicles gleamed beneath dim fluorescent lights.
He stopped in front of his deep red Rolls-Royce La Rose Noire Droptail. He yanked the passenger door open and glared at me. "Get in."
I hesitated for half a second before climbing into the leather seat and pulling the seatbelt across my chest. He slammed the door shut with terrifying force and marched around to the driver's side.
The moment he clicked his seatbelt in, the engine let out a guttural roar that vibrated straight through the floorboards. The digital dashboard illuminated the dark interior, the sleek startup animation glowing brightly despite the lethal tension sitting between us.
"Where are we going?" I asked, looking straight ahead.
Silence stretched tight between us.
Without answering, Harley slammed his foot onto the accelerator. A violent surge of speed pinned me flat against the leather headrest. A sharp shriek escaped my lips as the garage lights and concrete pillars blurred into a streak of gray. I grabbed onto the door handle for dear life as he tore out onto the main road.
"Are you completely crazy?!" I shouted over the hum of the engine.
A small, dark chuckle escaped his throat—brief, humorless, and entirely unhinged—before vanishing just as quickly as it came.
A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the cabin once more. Realizing I wasn't going to get a single word out of him, I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers and sent Amy a quick, apologetic text. I really just wanted to dance.
Harley made a sharp, aggressive right turn, merging seamlessly into late-night traffic. Within minutes, the towering skyscraper of the Huang Group headquarters came into view—imposing, dark, and monolithic against the night sky.
"Why are we coming to your company at this hour?" I asked, watching him pull into the private executive driveway.
He ignored me completely, bringing the vehicle to a smooth stop right at the grand entrance.
"Let's go," was all he muttered, stepping out into the night air.
I scrambled out and followed close behind him as we entered the massive corporate building. The interior was pitch black, saved only by the faint, eerie glow of red emergency lights spaced far apart along the high walls. The bustling energy of the daytime was completely gone; everyone had long since gone home.
The shadows seemed to stretch toward us from every corner.
"H-Harley… can I hold your hand?" I asked softly, my voice echoing faintly in the empty lobby. I reached a hesitant hand toward his side, though one of his hands remained firmly tucked into his coat pocket.
He stopped abruptly. I was moving too fast to check my momentum, and my shoulder bumped straight into his rigid back. He slowly turned his head, glancing over his broad shoulder at me.
"When are you going to stop being afraid of the dark, Sophie?"
I planted my hands firmly on my hips, my fear instantly morphing into frustration. "When are you going to stop giving me the damn cold shoulder?"
Our eyes locked in the dim, red-tinted light, and neither of us dared to move a single inch. The silence between us stretched paper-thin—fragile, trembling, and so dangerously taut that one wrong breath would shatter whatever fragile piece of us remained.
His sharp jaw tightened. But for a fleeting fraction of a second, the ice in his blue eyes melted. They didn't look angry anymore. They looked exhausted. Hurt. Raw.
Something deep inside my chest ached in direct response to that look.
I wanted to say something—anything to fix it, to apologize, to explain—but the words remained painfully lodged in my throat. We just stood there in the quiet shadows of the empty building: two stubborn, broken hearts steadfastly refusing to be the first to bend.
And for the very first time that night, the anger between us didn't feel loud or chaotic anymore.
It felt unbearably, tragically quiet.