Chapter Two: Red Flags

Kier POV

The ceiling of my apartment was stained in a dozen places, the kind of watermarks that made you wonder if they were just from leaks or something worse.

The air smelled faintly of damp concrete and last night’s rain. I sat up on the thin mattress, stretching until my joints popped. The morning light through my single narrow window came in fractured—half blocked by the fire escape and the neon sign of the pawn shop across the street.

The pawn shop’s sign blinked erratic red.

If that wasn’t the biggest sign of something terrible to come I wouldn’t have known.

I rubbed my face, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and crossed to the mirror bolted above the sink.

Same reflection as always: inky black hair falling into my eyes, skin pale enough to make the green of my irises look almost unnatural, violet specks catching in the light. The piercings glinted faintly when I tilted my head.

I didn’t linger on my tattoos—there wasn’t time.

I brushed my hair back into place, buttoned a clean shirt, and shrugged into my jacket. The apartment door’s lock stuck unless I pulled it up at just the right angle—old habit now. I double-checked the window latch, slid my satchel over my shoulder, and stepped out into Isla Estrellas.

The city was waking.

It was a blend of contradictions—narrow cobblestone streets that twisted like something out of an old European quarter, high-rise glass towers catching the sun, and lanterns swaying from lacquered wooden posts. The scents mixed too: espresso from corner cafés, grilled fish from a Spanish market stall, cherry blossom incense curling from an alley shrine.

My bike waited. I pedaled toward the flower shop, wind cutting through my sleeves, slicing through thoughts I didn’t want to think. The wind carrying the hum of early traffic and the occasional chime of temple bells.

The bell above the shop door tinkled softly when I pushed inside. The air smelled of lilies and fresh-cut stems.

It was mid-shift when I saw him.

Tall. Light brown hair that caught the sun through the shop window. Hazel eyes. Recognition flared in my gut before I could stop it.

Julian.

The man who’d stood behind the silver-haired stranger when my debt collector was being… corrected. The man whose name I learned later.

He stepped up like any customer — expensive coat, careful gaze.

“A rose bouquet,” he said. “Black paper. Gold detailing.”

Deliberate. Luxurious.

I kept my face neutral, hands moving with practiced calm. I trimmed the stems, wrapped the bouquet, and folded the ribbon.

But my fingers were colder than usual. My chest was tighter.

“Here,” I said, holding it out.

I handed it over.

He didn’t smirk. Just paid in cash and left, the doorbell chiming behind him like punctuation.

For a second, I wondered if I imagined it.

Then I didn’t.

After the shift, I headed to the café. The mid-afternoon crowd was its usual mix—students hunched over laptops, office workers on break, and a group of old men debating politics in Slavic by the window.

I moved between tables easily, setting down drinks, switching languages without thinking. A customer in the corner ordered in my mother’s tongue, and I slipped into it naturally, the syllables smooth and familiar.

The bell over the door chimed.

Julian again.

He approached the counter. “Double ristretto. Ethiopian beans. 19 grams. No sugar.”

Too specific to be anything but intentional.

As I pulled the shot, I could feel him watching — not cruel, not warm. Calculating.

I felt my jaw tighten. Once could be a coincidence. Twice? Not a chance.

He took the espresso, nodded once, and left the same way he had before.

My shift ended an hour later.

Static clung to me as I walked to Luna Roja. Like the whole day was holding its breath.

The gut-deep feeling that something was coming as I walked.

Luna Roja was a different world entirely.

The interior was all lacquered black wood, velvet curtains, and warm amber light. The air hummed with low jazz and the faint scent of expensive perfume.

I slipped into my tailored vest, adjusted the hang of my cross earring, and stepped onto the floor.

Syble was nowhere to be found.

Instead—

Lavender.

Perched at the bar like sin incarnate.

Silver hair catching the dim light like it had been poured from glass. That same cocky grin curling at the edges of his mouth.

“You’re early,” I said flatly, scanning the room for Syble.

“She’s not here.” His voice was smooth, deliberate.

“You’re looking at your new soon to be boss.”

My stomach flipped.

“What the hell are you trying to do?”

Lavender leaned in. “That money your parents took? Came from me. Your debt collector skimmed interest and undercharged. He owed me.”

“I know,” I said tightly. “He was scamming you. I’m still paying off what’s left.”

“You were paying the wrong amount.”

Julian stepped up behind him. Voice precise.

“How much of a difference?” I asked.

I tried to look steady. But I knew my face had gone pale.

Lavender stepped closer, and I caught the scent again — citrus, smoke, leather, expensive threat.

“One hundred million.”

My breath caught. The number hit harder than any punch. I gripped the counter to keep my knees from buckling knuckles turning white.

“That’s not debt,” I said, voice tight. That’s a coffin with numbers etched on the lid. Extortion dressed up in silk and smoke.

“I don’t have—”

“That’s why you’ll work for me.” His voice was low. Final.

I shook my head. “I just want to pay what I owe and move on.”

“That’s not an option, Key.”

He said the nickname like a promise. Like possession.

“Not anymore.”

He reached for me and I turned away, anger and fear curdling hot in my gut. I don’t even remember what excuse I muttered, but I wrenched myself free and stumbled into the hostess locker room.

Empty. Thank God.

The silence buzzed, broken only by the faint thrum of bass leaking through the walls. It smelled of hairspray, powder, and the sharp tang of cologne. Most of the hosts were out on the floor doing what they did best.

What I was supposed to be doing right now—except after that interaction with Lavender—

One hundred million.

What had my father been thinking?

He’d signed interest that high, like it was a casual bet. And the worst part was, it made sense.

⸻ Flashback ⸻

I still saw it sometimes. Coming home in my uniform, tie tugged loose, satchel strap digging into my shoulder. The house reeked of stale beer and cigarette ash.

“Where is it?” My father’s voice cracked, slurred, furious. He tore through drawers, papers scattering across the floor, a storm of receipts and betting slips.

“Dad?”

He whipped around, eyes bloodshot, hair sticking to his damp forehead. “The ticket—my winning ticket. Where’d you put it?”

“I didn’t—”

The slap came before I could finish. My head snapped sideways, jaw stinging, the copper taste of blood blooming in my mouth. My satchel hit the floor with a dull thud.

His breath came ragged, desperate, as he tore back into the mess. As if the house itself would cough up salvation.

I touched my cheek, skin hot and swelling, the world tilting on its axis. That was the day I learned debt wasn’t just numbers. It was a noose you wore around your throat—and sometimes, it was a fist.

⸻ End of Flashback ⸻

Back in the locker room, I pressed my palms to the cool metal of the lockers, trying to steady my breathing. But Lavender’s words still rang in my ears.

That’s not an option, Key, he’d said.

The memory of my farther dug in like glass under the skin. My chest felt tight, my eyes burning before I could stop them. I drove my fist into the locker, the hollow clang echoing back, leaving a dent and a dull throb in my knuckles.

It didn’t help.

I pressed my forehead against the cold steel, willing the sting in my hand to drown out the ache that had never really left.

I clenched my jaw.

My father had been a coward. And I was the one still carrying it.

I didn’t have time for this.

I’d figure it out the way I always had—doing what I was good at.

So I straightened, dragging my palms down my shirt, fixing the collar, tugging the faintly rumpled fabric into place. A breath. A mask. And then I pushed through the door and let the noise of the club swallow me whole.

The floor glittered. Crystal glasses, velvet booths, the hum of conversation layered with laughter and music. I slipped into it like a current.

“Bonsoir, madame,” I said smoothly to a table of visiting women, switching to French when one’s eyes lit up. Their giggles rolled together, soft and sharp, and I let the sound tug me along, smiling, leaning close, pouring another round.

A man in the corner perked up at my accent—Parisian, sharp-eyed. He asked something in clipped French, and I volleyed it back with a grin that made him laugh, made the whole table lean toward me as though I’d pulled them into orbit.

At the bar, a pair of businessmen barked in Russian, frustration thick in their voices. I answered in kind, low and steady, their surprise snapping into approval. One clapped me on the back, pressing a glass into my hand. I drank, easy, smooth.

Another group called me over. I slipped into their banter without missing a beat, shifting languages like it was nothing. My laugh came on cue, the alcohol warming me into the role.

It was like slipping into another skin—flirtation, languages, the heady rush of attention spinning around me. The perfect host. The perfect distraction.

And then I felt it.

Eyes on me.

Lavender sat half-shadowed at his usual corner, drink in hand, posture deceptively casual. But his gaze never wavered. He watched the way I laughed, the way I touched someone’s arm to emphasize a joke, the way I moved. Like he was cataloguing it. Claiming it.

My throat went dry, but my grin didn’t falter.

When the bartender slid another glass my way, I picked it up, twirling the stem between my fingers. I glanced across the room—just long enough for the line to catch—and then sent it. A simple gesture: the bartender set the glass in front of Lavender.

He lifted it without hesitation, eyes still on me as he took a slow sip. No smile. Just that same steady burn.

I let out a low chuckle at something one of the businessmen said, but it rang hollow in my ears. My skin felt too tight, the ache in my hand flaring when I flexed it around the stem of my glass.

The game was back on.

The glass was still in his hand when I passed near his table, trailing perfume and laughter from the women I’d just left behind. I didn’t mean to look—didn’t mean to meet his eyes—but I did.

Lavender’s gaze caught me, steady and unflinching, the kind of look that pinned a person in place. He didn’t move at first. Then, as I angled past, his voice cut through the music—low, meant only for me.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words. Soft. Dangerous.

They hung there for a heartbeat, suspended in the space between us, before the swell of music swallowed them whole.

For a moment I almost stopped. Almost. But I didn’t. My smile stayed fixed as I slipped back into the current of guests, though the sound of him clung to me like smoke.

I’m sorry.

Sorry for what? For the debt? For pulling me under with him? Or for saying “Key” like it wasn’t just a nickname, but a claim?

The bass thudded beneath my feet, glasses clinked, laughter swelled around me. I leaned into it, mask flawless, gestures smooth. But underneath, my chest ached with something sharp, confusing.

Because part of me wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe there was something real in that apology, something just for me.

And that terrified me more than the debt ever could.

By the time the lights dimmed and the crowd thinned, the taste of alcohol was gone from my mouth. All I carried home was the echo of his voice and the hollow ache it left behind.

The streets outside were slick with rain, neon bleeding across puddles. I walked fast, jacket pulled tight, the night air cold against the heat still burning in my chest.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That it was just another trick, another move on the board.

But the truth followed me step for step, carried on the hiss of rain and the taste of copper at the back of my throat:

I wasn’t sure if I hated him for saying it—

or if I hated myself for wanting it to mean something.

And that uncertainty was exactly where he wanted me.

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