"You've never been in love before. How would you even know what it's like?" Mira slurred, her words thick with alcohol. "Wait—oh my God—remember that pretty-faced guy you had a crush on for, like, years? Ugh, he never even looked your way. Cold as ice, that one. I still remember the way he looked at people—like they were invisible. Just thinking about it gives me chills."
She hiccupped and thumped her glass on the table dramatically.
"And that letter you gave him? He took it... but he didn't say a damn word. Didn't reject, didn't accept. Who does that? If I see him again, I swear, I'm punching him in the face for you!"
Mira was clearly drunk now, her guard down, spilling secrets she usually kept locked up. Including Ivy's long-hidden love story.
Yes, Ivy had loved someone once. For a long time. And that man—distant and unreadable—had neither crushed her hopes nor offered her a chance. He'd simply vanished into silence.
"At least I got closure," Ivy said, smiling wistfully. "But what about you? You're always chasing pretty-faced 'oppa' types. What's your poor husband going to say when he finds out his wife is thirsting after teenage-looking boys?"
"Then he can suck it," Mira declared proudly, slumping against Ivy. "I'm not a saint. If he can't handle me, I'll leave him. Simple as that. We're both cursed in love anyway."
Ivy chuckled, patting Mira's head like a patient older sister. "Don't worry. One day, we'll find our prince charming. Just... not yet. Maybe we're still sharpening our swords for battle."
Mira hugged her tightly, eyes glassy with emotion. Ivy stayed beside her, stroking her hair until Mira eventually dozed off in her seat.
Then Ivy stood up—slowly. The room spun, and her blurry vision made it hard to tell which door led to the bathroom. She stumbled, nearly tripping on a loose stool leg, and veered in the wrong direction.
But what she saw next sobered her more than cold water.
A scene was unfolding near the hallway, dramatic and tense.
"Luc, why won't you look at me?" the woman's voice trembled. "Am I not beautiful enough for you?"
She was stunning—angelic, even. Her gown shimmered like starlight, and her dewy eyes glistened with unshed tears. Yet the man standing before her remained unmoved.
"Sorry, lady," he said dryly. "I'm not interested in women. Especially not white lotuses pretending to be innocent."
The words cut like glass. Ivy blinked at the sharp-tongued stranger whose back faced her. He was dressed in a low-key suit, but Ivy recognized the designer—something only the ultra-wealthy could afford. Whoever he was, he wasn't ordinary.
The woman clutched his sleeve desperately. "At least let me try. One night—that's all I ask. You'll know we're meant to be."
His eyes darkened, but his expression remained cold, unreadable. Then, without hesitation, he turned around.
Ivy gasped, stumbling back a step.
That face...
Before she could place him, he looked straight at her and said with perfect calm:
"Sorry, Miss Rose. My girlfriend is watching. I wouldn't want her to misunderstand."
Ivy blinked, confused. Girlfriend?
She looked around—no one else was there. She pointed to herself, eyebrows raised.
"Me?"
Without warning, the man—Luc—strode toward her and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.
"Baby, don't be mad," he said in a smooth, velvet tone. "I promise I won't let any woman come near me again."
Ivy blinked, unsure if she was dreaming or blacked out. His voice was deep and oddly comforting, and even though she barely processed the words... she couldn't help but think how nice his embrace felt.
Rose stood frozen, lips parted in shock. Luca Hale—the Luca Hale—had just claimed a woman as his girlfriend. A man who hadn't touched a woman in years. A man who once flinched at physical contact.
She turned, heels clicking violently against the floor, and stormed away with fury boiling in her veins.
Luca watched her leave, his gaze ice cold. But when he looked back at Ivy, his eyes softened—just slightly. A warmth flickered in their stormy depths. A tenderness not meant to be seen.
"You can only be mine," he whispered against her ear, voice laced with seductive finality.
But Ivy was already asleep in his arms—dead to the world, and deaf to the promise.
---
In The Dark Private Room
1:15 AM
"Get rid of the body. It's ruining the decor."
The young man wiping blood from his hands wore a casual hoodie and jeans. His baby-faced charm was at odds with the ruthlessness in his eyes. His fingers moved with surgical calm, as if death were just another chore.
"Boss," his assistant said quietly, "First Young Master was spotted entering his private suite—with a woman."
The man paused. His expression didn't change, but a flicker of interest surfaced.
"With her?"
"Yes. Ivy Lennox."
The young man smirked, a devilish glint dancing in his gaze.
"Interesting," he murmured. "So the flower finally starts to bloom. I wonder if big brother will bleed or blossom first."