Chapitre Quatre

I followed the manager down a quiet hallway, my heels clicking against the polished floor. My stomach churned in nervous anticipation, though I tried to focus on controlling my breathing.

I assumed the guest would be an older man, someone in his forties or fifties—the kind who requested private performances in hotels like this. It made sense. Business clientele. Expensive tastes. Safe.

Until the manager stopped at the door of a private lounge. He turned to me, voice low but firm.

“Auren… I’m not allowed inside. Just do what he says. Be careful.”

I nodded, swallowing hard, my heart already picking up speed.

The door slid open, and the dim lighting of the lounge hit me. A low golden glow from a single chandelier reflected off the polished wooden floor. And then I saw him.

Sitting in the middle of a large round couch, a glass of dark liquid in hand, the man’s presence made the room feel colder. At first glance, he looked calm—almost casual—but the way he studied me made my pulse jump.

He was… young.

Way younger than I expected. Maybe late twenties, early thirties. Not at all the older man I imagined. And there was no one else in the room. Just the two of us.

I froze for a brief second before stepping forward. My heels clicked softly as I stopped not too far from the coffee table where he was drinking. I forced a polite smile, straightened my back, and spoke clearly.

“Good evening, sir,” I said. “May I know what songs would you like me to sing?”

The lounge felt smaller somehow, almost suffocating. The man’s gaze was fixed on me, and it was no longer just an assessment—it was a quiet, calculated scrutiny, the kind that made every instinct scream caution.

He set his glass down deliberately, eyes flicking over my posture, my hands, the slight tremor in my fingers. Then, his voice cut through the silence—smooth, controlled, and deliberately cold.

“You know,” he said, leaning back with a faint smirk, “most performers at this level would at least bother to introduce themselves properly. Not you, though. You just… stand there, asking what songs I want. Bold, or just… rude?”

My chest tightened, but I forced my voice steady. “I apologize, sir. I wanted to ensure I performed what you preferred first.”

He didn’t nod or acknowledge my answer. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Apologies don’t impress me. Actions do. Let’s see if your singing is worth my time… and the tip I’m risking on you.”

His words landed like a slap—not violent, but sharp enough to sting. He sipped from his glass, eyes never leaving mine, cool and piercing. The faint smirk on his lips didn’t make him look friendly. He looked like a predator sizing up a target.

I swallowed the insult, let it roll off my shoulders. There was no room to be offended. Not tonight. Not when every note, every measure could translate into the money Aisen needed for his treatment.

I began the first song.

The first note was cautious, but I gradually let my voice expand, steady and controlled. I poured everything into it—the exhaustion of the café, the weight of the hospital bills, the sleepless nights, and the fear I could never voice aloud.

The man didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t nod. He just watched, cold and unreadable. Halfway through the song, he spoke again, voice low but sharp:

“Not bad… for someone who clearly has no idea how much she’s underqualified. You’re loud enough, clear enough—but not enough to impress someone like me yet.”

I froze slightly—but only for a heartbeat. Then I continued, ignoring the jab, letting the melody carry through.

The second song began. His eyes narrowed, tracing each movement I made. He leaned forward, hands clasped, watching intently, lips pressed into a thin line. The words he muttered this time were almost for himself:

“Confident. Too confident… for someone who shouldn’t even be here.”

Every note felt heavier now, each word I sang an act of defiance. I wasn’t performing for applause. I wasn’t performing to charm him. I was performing to survive. Every lyric carried the weight of Aisen’s next treatment cycle, the mountain of bills, the sleepless nights, and the relentless exhaustion I refused to let break me.

By the third song, I was fully immersed. I didn’t see him anymore, didn’t hear the faint clicks of his glass on the table, didn’t feel the icy judgment in his gaze. All I could see was the rhythm, the melody, the urgency of my fight.

When I finished, the room fell silent. He set his glass down again, leaning back, expression calm but piercing. His voice broke the quiet:

“Interesting. Not terrible… but don’t think this earns you points for charm. You sing well, I’ll give you that—but you carry desperation like a perfume. It clings. Don’t let it ruin the next performance.”

I clenched my jaw. His words were cutting, his tone icy—but I held my posture, my professional composure intact.

He finally added, almost lazily, “If you’re lucky… I might make that tip worth it. But only if your next song convinces me you’re more than just a girl trying not to drown in her life.”

I nodded politely, swallowing the insult, gripping the microphone as if it could anchor me. He wouldn’t see my exhaustion. He wouldn’t know my fear. He would see only the performance. Only the fight.

I didn’t let him break me.

I started the next song.

Every note was precise, every phrase deliberate. I poured my entire day, my week, my life, into the melody.

Because tonight, I wasn’t singing for praise. I wasn’t singing for applause. I was singing for survival.

The last note faded into the dim air of the lounge. My chest rose and fell in controlled breaths as silence stretched between us. He didn’t clap. He didn’t nod. He simply studied me like he was dissecting something he wasn’t sure he liked.

Finally, he exhaled slowly and set his empty glass on the table.

“You have… potential,” he said, the words slow and precise. “Not remarkable. Not stunning. But… workable.”

Every syllable felt like a challenge.

His gaze dropped briefly to his wrist as he adjusted the cuff of his shirt. The small, deliberate movement made him look even more composed—almost annoyingly unbothered.

Then his eyes returned to me.

“How much do they pay you per night?” he asked bluntly.

The question hit me like cold water. It wasn’t curiosity—it was condescension. But I answered anyway. “₱5,000, sir.”

He smirked. “Cheap talent.”

Before I could respond, he reached for something beside him—his wallet. He opened it slowly, almost theatrically, letting the silence stretch. Then he pulled out a thick bill fold.

He placed ₱20,000 on the table.

“For the effort,” he said.

Then he added another ₱35,000.

“For the desperation you’re trying so hard to hide.”

My heart jolted painfully in my chest. Fifty five thousand pesos. That was enough to cover almost a fifth of the new hospital bill—yet still not enough to even begin Aisen’s new treatment cycle.

Then he pulled out one last bill—₱15,000—and held it between two fingers.

“This,” he said, voice dropping lower, “is for the next time I call for you. Because I will.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Something in his tone made the air feel heavier, almost suffocating.

“Take it,” he said.

My fingers closed around the bills automatically. Not because I wanted to—but because I needed to. Because Aisen needed me to.

He leaned back again, looking entirely in control. “You may go.”

That was it. Dismissed like an employee he didn’t even know.

But I bowed slightly, professional to the very end. “Thank you, sir.”

As I turned to leave, his voice cut through the quiet one more time.

“Next time,” he said, “try not to look like you’re one problem away from collapsing. It’s distracting.”

My steps faltered, but I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Not when my chest felt too tight and my throat too thick.

I pushed the door open, and the second it closed behind me, the world outside felt a little louder, a little brighter.

Arzhel was waiting right there.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight.

The moment he saw me, his expression shifted—from worry to relief to restrained anger.

“Auren,” he said, stepping closer. “Are you okay? What happened? Did he do anything—”

“No,” I said quickly, forcing a small smile. “He didn’t touch me. He just… listened.”

Arzhel frowned, studying my face. “You look pale.”

“I’m just tired.”

He wasn’t convinced. Not even close. “If he said anything that made you uncomfortable, just tell me. I swear I’ll—”

“Arzhel.” I cut him off gently. “I’m fine.”

He fell quiet, but the tension didn’t leave his eyes.

The manager approached, excitement practically vibrating off him. “Auren! He asked for you specifically. Do you know what that means? This could be huge for us—”

“For the bar,” Arzhel muttered with a glare.

“For her too,” the manager shot back defensively. “You got triple pay tonight. And if he calls again—”

“I don’t want her in that room again,” Arzhel snapped before I could speak.

I placed a hand on his arm. “Arzhel… I need the money.”

Those four words silenced him instantly.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

He knew.

He knew exactly what I meant.

Aisen.

The hospital.

The bills.

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.

We made our way to the back exit together, the night air cool on my face. I clutched the envelope of cash tightly, fingers pressing into the paper.

It was heavy—

not in weight,

but in implication.

Arzhel walked beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed.

“Auren,” he said quietly, “just… be careful. Please.”

I looked up at him, offering a small, tired smile. “I will.”

He didn’t smile back. His eyes softened, but the worry never left.

When we reached the street, he held the door open for me, voice low and careful.

“Let me walk you home.”

I wanted to refuse. I wanted to say I was fine.

But tonight, I didn’t have the strength to pretend.

“…Okay.”

And as we walked through the quiet city streets, the weight of the bills in my pocket pulsed with every step—

The city was quiet, the streets almost deserted as Arzhel and I walked home. My legs ached, my voice felt raw, and the weight of the money in my bag made my shoulders feel heavier than usual. Each step felt deliberate—slow, careful, as if moving too fast would make the exhaustion swallow me whole.

Arzhel fell into step beside me, silent at first. Finally, he spoke, low and deliberate.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and controlled.

“Auren… do you understand what you just did? That man—he could’ve done something to you. You can’t let anyone put you in a room like that alone ever again.”

I sighed, forcing my shoulders to relax. “I know. But the money… it’s for Aisen. I don’t have a choice.”

“You always think like that,” he muttered. “You always think you have to carry everything alone. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“I can’t just ask him to fight cancer for me,” I said quietly, glancing at the envelope. “I have to do it. I’ll survive, Arzhel. I have to.”

He didn’t argue, but I could see the tension in his jaw. His fists clenched at his sides as he walked beside me.

When we reached the quiet alley near my apartment, I stopped, looking at the door. My chest ached with exhaustion.

Arzhel gave me a look that was half pleading, half frustrated.

“Promise me you won’t put yourself in a situation like that again. Not for anyone.”

“I can't promise that.” I answered tiredly, not looking him directly in the eyes.

He didn’t say anything further. Instead, he walked me to my door, making sure I got inside safely before he finally left.

Once I stepped inside, I collapsed onto the couch, the envelope of cash heavy beside me. My fingers shook as I buried my face in my hands, trying to swallow back the panic clawing at my chest.

I can’t let him see how exhausted I am… I can’t let him see how scared I am…

Arzhel had been right. That lounge was dangerous. The guests, the way he looked at me… like I was prey. Every second there had been a risk. But the money—this money—was Aisen’s lifeline.

With trembling hands, I opened the envelope. Each note seemed to weigh more than the last, pressing down on me with the bitter reminder of what desperation demanded.

Arzhel’s warning echoed in my mind, sharp and clear, but the choice had already been made. There was no turning back.

To Be Continue...

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***