Chapter Two: The City

Chapter Two 

Someone shouted my name.

“Norah!”

I froze. The platform was all noise and bodies pushing past, but that voice cut straight through. I knew it.

Then I saw her—Kim.

Of course it was Kim.

She was waving like a maniac, pushing through people like the crowd was just air. Taller than I remembered. Or maybe she just stood taller now, like the ground was hers. Black ponytail yanked high, bouncing behind her head, not even a strand slipping. The kind of thing that would look messy on me, but on her? Perfect. Show-off perfect.

The yellow top she had on nearly burned my eyes—it was that bright. Tight, too. And the jeans? Ripped at the knees, hugging every inch like they were made for her. Definitely city clothes. Nobody back home would wear that without aunties whispering. But Kim—she didn’t care. She never did.

She didn’t even give me a second. One moment I was standing there, the next she slammed into me, arms tight around my shoulders. My bag slipped, almost fell. My ribs squeaked under the squeeze. And then—bam—the smell of her perfume hit. Sweet at first, then sharp, almost burning, and strong enough to cling to my nose.

“Look at you!” she pulled back, eyes darting all over me like she was scanning for damage. “Same eyes. I knew it. If it weren’t for those, I’d have walked straight past you.”

Her words tumbled out fast, no pause, no breath. I just blinked at her.She didn’t leave any silence for me to fill. Words poured out of her mouth before I even found mine.

She clutched my arms, stepped back, tipped her head like she was checking if I’d changed too much since last time. “Still quiet, huh? Chestnut hair, still hiding half your face with it. And hello curves! Finally, Praise God. You’re hotter, I’ll give you that. Still shy, though. I swear, you’re allergic to talking.”

I almost smiled. Almost.I lifted one eyebrow. That was it. Nothing else. Somehow she caught it and burst out laughing, head thrown back like I’d just delivered a full comedy act.

“Still you,” she said between laughs. “That eyebrow does all your talking.”

Before I could say anything, she grabbed my bag right out of my hands. Nearly toppled sideways with it. “Good Lord, Norah! What did you pack, bricks? Don’t worry, I’ll manage. Been training these arms.” She flexed dramatically, then rolled her eyes at herself. “Okay, not really. But still.”

She hooked her arm through mine and started dragging me toward the exit, already talking about everything under the sun—the apartment, school, weekends, malls, clubs, all the rules I didn’t know yet. Words spilled like she hadn’t seen me in years and needed to make up for lost time all in one walk.

And me? I just let her pull me, half drowning in her chatter, half… relieved.Since stepping off the train, I’d felt tight, wound up like a rope pulled too far. But with her beside me, tugging me along, I felt some of it finally ease. Not gone, but lighter.

Kim always had that effect.

~~~~~

Somewhere in the city 

The club stank—cheap perfume mixed with smoke, the kind that stuck in your clothes even after a wash. Red lights bled over everything, making skin look raw, shadows thicker than they were. The bass wasn’t music. It was just a thud, steady, crawling through the floor until it got under your ribs.

Ivan Thomas sat in the corner booth like it was made for him. Didn’t slouch, didn’t perch. Just spread out, arm stretched over the backrest, claiming space without saying a word. His eyes were the kind that made people look twice—grey, stormy, never giving anything away. Smoke curled in the air, but he still cut through it, sharp, steady. The lashes around them were too dark for a man who fought as much as he did, almost unfair.

His jaw was all angles, clean and sharp, and his mouth always carried that curve—half a smirk, half a warning. You couldn’t tell if he was about to kiss someone or break them. That was Ivan. No one ever felt safe guessing.

He stood taller than most—six-two, built like he’d been carved for fights. The height wasn’t just there; he used it, carried it like a weapon. Hard lines everywhere, though somehow it all held a kind of pull, the sort of beauty that made people lean closer even when they knew better.

Ink wound its way down his arms, curling under his shirt. Every mark on his skin was a story, stamped there for good. When he leaned forward, the silver chain around his neck caught the light, just a flicker of shine—but enough. People went quiet without meaning to.

Outside this place, he was just another student at Elmwood University—popular, untouchable, the one people pointed at, the one girls cut rules for. But here, under red light and smoke, the mask slipped. Here he wasn’t the golden boy. He was what Roman had built out of broken pieces: not just a son, but a weapon. 

Caffrey, the man opposite him, didn’t share that calm. Sweat crawled down his temple, collar damp and sticking. He kept talking too fast, voice cracking under the bass. “I just need more time. That’s all. The project’s fine, Ivan, I swear. It just needs—time.”

Ivan tapped his finger against the rim of his glass. Once. Twice. The ice clinked. “Funny thing,” he said, voice low, smooth as smoke. “You weren’t putting the money where you said you were. You were gambling. With mine.”

His men shifted, chairs scraping like the start of something. Ivan didn’t move. He never had to.

Jay, grinning on Ivan’s right, leaned forward, humor gone from his tone. “Bad night to play dumb, man.”

On the other side, Liam rose slow, no words, no show. Just stood. And somehow that was worse than any threat.

Caffrey’s hand twitched like he might reach for something, but Ivan leaned in first. His grey eyes locked him down where he sat.

“You stole from me,” he said, voice low. “That makes you either brave… or very, very stupid.”

The bass hit hard, the whole room thudding like a war drum. Then it broke. Caffrey’s men jumped first, and everything exploded. Jay was already laughing, swinging with wild speed. Liam didn’t laugh—he didn’t need to. He moved like a shadow turned sharp, breaking bone with quiet precision.

Ivan didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. He just watched, calm as a predator letting the others do the tearing.

When the last man hit the floor, Ivan finally stood. Taller. Straighter. He adjusted his shirt like it was dust he was brushing off, not blood. He looked down at Caffrey slumped in the booth, fear dripping off him.

“I’ll still come for my money,” Ivan said, voice flat, final. “And when I do, pray you’ve found it.”

Then he turned, walking through smoke and neon like a king leaving court. His boys fell in step behind him without needing to be told.

Outside, the night air was sharp, clean compared to the heat inside. Ivan pulled out his phone, thumb sliding across the screen. The glow caught the edge of his jaw, softened him for half a second.

The call connected. His voice dropped, not sharp now but easy, almost lazy.

“Rose,” he said, lips curling into something warmer. “Come over.”