Chapter 2: Saved By A Stranger

Joan’s POV

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice a fragile, broken thing.

I sounded pathetic even to my own ears. But what else was there? I was already drowning under the two-hundred-million-dollar ghost of my father’s debt, suffocating under a hundred-thousand-dollar rent due at dawn, which I had only seen five thousand dollars out of, and now? Now I had just shattered three million dollars of vintage liquid?

“You’re sorry?” Isobel let out a sharp, jagged scoff. She glanced back at her inner circle—Priya, Camille, and Lexi, who were already laughing, their amusement cutting through the club's bass like jagged ice. “Did you hear that, girls? The charity case is sorry.”

The heavy VIP curtains shifted, and my boss, Mr. McCall, stepped into the light.

I watched his face drain of color the second his eyes landed on the shimmering amber puddle and the green glass scattered across the marble. He went rigid, his eyes widening with a terror so pure it made him look ten years older. He swallowed hard, took three steps back, and bowed low—lower than I had ever seen him bow to anyone.

Because Isobel Vance wasn't just the Queen Bee of Crestwood University. Her father was one of the most ruthless Mafia lords in the United States and a titan shareholder at Crestwood. One word from her, and this entire club would be reduced to ash by morning.

“We are so deeply sorry for our incompetence, Ma’am,” Mr. McCall stammered, his head tucked down as if waiting for an executioner's blade. 

He knew my story. He had pitied me, slipped me extra cash when he could, and turned a blind eye to my exhaustion. But looking at him now, I knew his mercy had reached its limit.

“This bottle... it will be on the house,” he said, his voice trembling.

I shook, my hands vibrating so hard I had to tuck them into my apron. Hot tears trickled down my cheeks in rhythmic, agonizing intervals.

“Tobias,” Mr. McCall barked, desperation leaking into his tone. “Bring another bottle of—”

“Don't you get it?” Isobel snapped, her eyes narrowing as she fixed her gaze on me with a predatory, wicked glee.

I knew where this was coming from. It wasn't about the champagne. Two days ago, Nathan Calloway—the man she claimed as hers—had cornered me on campus. Nathan, the golden god of the lacrosse field and the rumored heir to the Moon Stone Pack. His father, Gerald, was the only man in the country with more power than Isobel’s father, the man who held the keys to the University and the very land we stood on.

Nathan had approached me with a cold, jagged arrogance. He had seen me here before, serving drinks in the dark, and he thought he could buy me. He wanted to use me, to break me, and I had done the unthinkable: I had said no.

Isobel had seen it. And since then, she has been looking for ways to make my life a living hell. Which had already started.

“Tell her to get on the glass,” Isobel commanded, her voice dropping to a deadly, silky whisper. “Tell her to grovel for it.”

Mr. McCall’s shoulders slumped. He couldn't look at me. “Joan... your work here is over. Leave. Now. And never come back.”

I didn't need to be told twice. I turned to scramble toward the exit, my heart racing with a spark of hope that I could just disappear into the snow. But I hadn't made it two steps before her guards moved, halting me in my tracks.

“Unless,” Isobel purred, standing up and smoothing her designer dress, “you’re planning to pay back the three million in your own name? But we all know your bloodline. Not in your wildest imagination would your entire generation be able to scrape together that kind of change, not even your whore mother could pay back.”

Fresh tears blurred my vision. I knew, and I was certain that one of her minions had me trip earlier. I clenched my fists as Mr. McCall was silent. Tobias, on the other side, too, was scared—his look says it all. 

No one was coming to save the scholarship girl. It was either I destroyed my dignity on the shards of that bottle, or I let everyone in this building perish with me.

A memory flashed through my mind. A few days ago, on my first morning at Crestwood, a junior had cornered me by the library stairs.

“You’re the new scholarship girl from Lux, aren’t you?” she had whispered, her eyes darting around. “Transfer. Transfer while you still can. Isobel and her circle have already made you their next target. You won’t last a semester here.”

I had ignored her warning, driven by the desperate need for my medical degree as I watched her scramble away in fear. 

“Ms. Vance—” Mr. McCall tried again, his voice weak.

“Unless you are ready to watch this club turn into a parking lot, you will stay out of this!” Isobel seethed, turning her lethal gaze toward him. My boss flinched. He looked at me, his gaze dropping to the floor in dynamic disapproval.

I already knew what that look meant before he spoke. I’m sorry, Joan. I can't save you.

“You did this intentionally, didn’t you?” I turned, looking directly into the vivid, mocking eyes of Priya, who stood right where I had tripped. She just smiled—a slow, cruel spreading of red lipstick.

Around us, the VIP lounge was alive with the glow of smartphone screens. Everyone was capturing the scholarship girl’s fall from grace. Mutters sprawled across the floor, gossip already spreading like a sickness.

“Isn’t that the bitch who turns every guy down here at Lux?” someone whispered loud enough for me to hear. “Guess she isn’t so special now,” another added with mocking laughter.

My knees wobbled beneath me. I looked at the wall of cameras, fists clenched so tight my nails cut into my cut hand. “Please,” I whispered, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Please, stop recording.”

But no one moved. They were looking at me like I was an animal on display. At this rate, Mr. McCall and Tobias had stepped away completely, leaving me entirely at Isobel's mercy.

I bit my lower lip, tears blurring my vision as I watched Isobel lift a crystal glass from the table. Before I could move, she threw the contents directly into my face.

The water was freezing. It drenched my thin cloth, causing cold to seep instantly into my bones. I shivered violently.

“You pushed me, Priya. This is all you—”

Crack.

Another slap resounded, sharp and brutal, cutting off my dynamic statement. This time it was Priya—another rich, spoiled brat in Isobel's pocket.

“Go on,” Priya raised a brow, seething while the others laughed. “You heard her,” Camille lashed. “Or do you want us to force you?”

“Go down on the broken glass and grovel,” Isobel repeated. “It’s a simple choice, charity case. Pay me my three million dollars tonight, go to jail, or grovel. Choose.”

Her mocking eyes were fixed on me. I felt blood trickling from a cut on my forehead. There was no way out. It was clear. 

I started to bend my knees, lowering myself toward the glistening shards of the broken.

Just as my knees were about to touch the glass, a deafening sound cut through the noise.

A hand hit the table across the room, the force of it causing everyone to jolt back, —Isobel and her minions included, and that was when the music died finally.

“ENOUGH!” A masculine voice echoed from behind, deep and raw.