CHAPTER 8: The Party and the Storm

​Charlie eventually caved to Aiden’s pouting and dragged him to one of Tokyo’s most exclusive underground parties. The atmosphere was a chaotic symphony of neon lights, pulsing bass, and expensive perfume. They danced until their limbs felt heavy, but as the night wore on, the sensory overload became too much for Aiden. He slipped away from the center of the room to a velvet-lined corner.

​He sat there, sipping a colorful cocktail and scrolling through his phone, replying to worried texts from Ken about the café, when a voice cut through the music.

​“Hey,” a low, smooth voice said.

​Aiden looked up lazily, expecting a random club-goer. “Hi.”

​The man smiled, sliding into the seat beside him. Aiden frowned slightly—the face was striking, with sharp features and a confident grin that felt oddly familiar, but the pieces wouldn't click together.

​“Do I know you?” Aiden asked, tilting his head.

​“Yeah, I think so. I tried getting your number that night at the bar in Monaco, remember? You vanished before I could get a word in. Seeing you here... you’re even more stunning under these lights.”

​“Oh…” Aiden chuckled softly, the memory of his brief trip to Monaco flickering in his mind. “I see. Small world.”

​The conversation flowed with surprising ease. They laughed over stories of travel and terrible club music, and for a moment, Aiden forgot he was supposed to be "abducted" by the Smith family. But across the room, Charlie’s eyes were scanning the crowd. He saw the stranger leaning into Aiden’s space, saw Aiden’s genuine smile, and his playful demeanor evaporated instantly.

​Charlie pushed through the crowd, his face a mask of cold fury.

“Aiden. Let’s go. Now.”

​Aiden blinked, startled by the sudden shift in Charlie's tone. “Why? We just started having fun.”

​“It’s late,” Charlie replied sharply, his eyes burning as they fixed on the stranger. “We're leaving for the hotel.”

​“But—”

​“I said let’s go.” Charlie grabbed Aiden’s wrist, pulling him firmly away from the booth.

​Aiden stumbled after him, quickly waving over his shoulder. “Bye, Mike! See you around!”

​Outside, the cool night air hit them, but it didn't do much to lower the temperature of Charlie's anger. He stopped by the car, his jaw tight enough to snap.

“You even know his name? Mike?”

​“Yeah,” Aiden replied, rubbing his wrist and looking confused. “We met when I was in Monaco. He’s fun to talk to. Why are you acting like this?” He paused, noticing the tension in Charlie's shoulders. “Do you two know each other?”

​“Not really,” Charlie muttered, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. “But he’s trouble. Stay away from him, Aiden. I mean it.”

​The ride back to the lodge was thick with an uncomfortable silence.

​The next morning, the storm finally broke. Aiden was still in bed when his door was practically kicked open. Damien was back, and he looked like he hadn't slept a wink.

​"Get up," Damien commanded, his voice like cracking ice.

​Aiden sat up, rubbing his eyes. "You're back early. What's wrong?"

​"What's wrong?" Damien walked over and threw a tablet onto the bed. It was a tabloid site with a blurry but recognizable photo of Aiden and Mike talking in the corner of the club. "Who is he, Aiden?"

​"He's just a guy I met in Monaco! His name is Mike," Aiden said, his own temper beginning to flare. "We were just talking!"

​"Talking?" Damien leaned down, his face inches from Aiden's. "Do you have any idea who that 'guy' is?"

​Aiden went pale. "What? No... he was just nice."

​"In my world, 'nice' is a weapon," Damien snapped. He turned to the door where Charlie was standing, looking guilty. "And you. I told you to keep him safe, not take him to a shark tank."

​"I thought it would be fine—" Charlie started.

​"You thought wrong. Pack your things," Damien said, looking back at Aiden. "No more clubs. No more 'Mike'."

​Aiden felt a surge of defiance. "You can't just move me around like a piece of furniture! I didn't do anything wrong!"

​Damien grabbed Aiden's chin, his gaze softening just a fraction but remaining intensely possessive. "You're not furniture, Aiden. You're a target. And until I say otherwise, you stay where I can see you."