Chapter 12: Chapter 12
The first light of dawn had barely brushed the edges of the city skyline when the Luminous bar, a beacon of excess nestled in the heart of downtown, began to thrum with life. Its neon sign flickered, casting an opulent glow over the young heirs and heiresses who paraded through its doors, each seeking their own brand of notoriety among the night's remnants. Celebrities and models mingled with the elite progeny, laughter spilling from their lips like the expensive champagne that flowed freely within.
"Another round!" a voice called out, high-pitched and eager, hoping to catch the bartender's attention over the cacophony of clinking glasses and idle chatter.
The light at the VIP entrance dimmed as the door closed behind him, swallowing Dane whole. Inside, the cacophony of the bar faded to a distant echo, leaving only the sound of his steady heartbeat and the weight of the night's agenda heavy on his shoulders.
"Welcome, Mr. Adams," the bar manager said, his voice a low hum of deference. But Dane barely registered the greeting, his thoughts already racing ahead to what awaited him upstairs—away from the prying eyes and the hollow adulations of the masses. The game continued, and he was its master, whether he liked it or not.
The elevator's ascent was a silent one, Dane Adams' presence commanding stillness from the very air around him. He stepped out onto the top floor of Luminous bar, an oasis of calm amidst the clamor below. The manager trailed behind, a shadow to Dane's imposing form.
"Here we are, Mr. Adams," the manager murmured, gesturing expansively. The space opened up like a scene from another era — oil paintings whispered tales of grandeur on the walls; ancient vases stood as sentinels at each corner, and rows of wine bottles promised intoxication with every vintage year they bore.
"Quiet." Dane's voice was curt as he took in the semicircular bar ahead, appreciating the absence of the usual bustle. "I trust it stays that way."
"Of course, sir. Women are not—" The manager's assurance shattered as laughter pierced the tranquility. They both turned towards the source, where Arthur Riley was ensconced in conversation, his hands active and unapologetic.
"Please, Mr. Riley, you know I'm perfect for the part," a woman's voice cooed, honey-sweet but tinged with desperation. She leaned in, her body language a choreographed plea; her touch seemed casual, yet deliberate, as she brushed against Arthur's arm, angling for more than just his attention.
"Isn't that what they all say?" Arthur's reply was slick, amused. His hand moved, cupping the actress's breast with an air of ownership that made Dane's lip curl.
Dane watched, detached. He could almost hear the woman's internal cheer as she held a glass of wine to Arthur's lips. "But the director," she simpered, batting her lashes while painting a picture of injustice with her sob story, "he just doesn't see my talent."
"Doesn't he now?" Arthur's voice held a note of mock sympathy, fingers trailing with feigned comfort before seizing another opportunity for contact.
The bar manager's shoes clicked against the marble floor with a frenetic tempo, his face etched with urgency that cut through the haze of indulgence like a sobering slap. "Mr. Riley," he hissed, positioning himself as a shield between Arthur and the woman draped over him. "She needs to leave. Now."
Arthur's brow furrowed, annoyance flaring in his eyes as he peered around the human barricade. The fun was just getting started. "What the hell for?" he snapped, not bothering to mask the irritation in his voice.
"Trust me," the manager whispered, leaning in, his breath laced with fear rather than alcohol.
From across the room, a chuckle sliced through the tension—a smooth, knowing sound. "Arthur, you are surely dead."
The words hung there, ominous and heavy. Claide Benneth lounged back, his lips twisted in a sly grin, eyes glinting with mischief and malice in equal measure.
Arthur's pulse spiked. That laugh—that damn laugh—always heralded trouble. His head whipped up, a knot forming in his gut. There, standing like an omen, was Dane Adams, the man who could turn fortunes with a glance.
"Shit." The word slithered out of Arthur's mouth in a venomous whisper.
He shoved the woman aside, none too gently, as if she were the harbinger of his doom. "All go down! Who told you to come up here?" he barked, springing from his chair as if it were aflame.
The room pivoted on an axis of fear. Celebrities and models, creatures of scandal and seduction, turned their heads in unison, their expressions morphing from bemusement to alarm.
"Mr. Adams," they murmured reverentially, their voices a velvet caress against the tension-laden atmosphere. But Dane stood still as marble, his face devoid of emotion, his gaze locked onto Arthur like an anchor sinking into the abyss.
Arthur's skin crawled under that heavy scrutiny. He'd seen that look before—the calm before the storm. A shiver ran down his spine, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm. Everyone knew Dane's distaste for women, a disdain that bordered on loathing. The women around him suddenly felt like liabilities, ticking time bombs in the presence of a man known for his explosive tendencies.
"Out, get out!" Arthur hissed, his words slicing through the dense air, driving the women away with the urgency of a shepherd warding off wolves. They scurried past Dane, their earlier bravado evaporated, leaving behind a trail of perfume and regret.
Dane remained silent, his eyes never leaving Arthur, who now struggled to regain composure. When no wrath came, Arthur allowed himself to draw a deep, uneven breath. Perhaps he would live to see another dawn after all.
"Marriage, eh?" Claide chimed in, breaking the tension with a chuckle as smooth as the red wine he poured. "Heard old man Sebastian put a leash around your neck today."
Arthur chanced a smirk at Dane, emboldened by Claide's levity. "Really now, Dane? You, hitched? Can't picture it." His voice dripped with disbelief. "Sebastian might try, but we both know you're not the type to be led to the altar. Not unless it's for a funeral."
A pause, Dane just staring at his glass as if it held the secrets of the universe. The others in the room exchanged glances, uneasy laughter dying in their throats. Dane's reputation for defiance was legend; the thought of him bending to anyone's will, especially in matters of the heart, was almost farcical.
"Is it true then?" Arthur probed, unable to resist poking the bear.
Dane finally lifted the crimson liquid to his lips, a slow sip, savoring or stalling—it was hard to tell. The weight of his silence was a crushing yoke, his indifference a blade to Arthur's pride.
"Whether I marry or not," Dane said at last, each word deliberate, measured, "isn't your concern, Riley." His tone was flat, but something flickered in his eyes—a spark, a hint of warning.
"Of course," Arthur replied, the taste of his own forced joviality bitter on his tongue. "Just making conversation."
Dane's indifference was a cold front, chilling the air around Arthur as he fumbled with the gold pocket watch in his hand. The timepiece, an heirloom of intricate craftsmanship, felt heavier than usual—a leaden weight that betrayed a creeping dread.
"Where is it?" Dane's voice cut through the tension, low but sharp enough to draw blood.
"Right here," Arthur answered quickly, almost too quickly. His fingers trembled slightly as he brandished the watch like a shield. But shields could not defend against memories, and his mind raced back to a scandalous night, images flashing like lightning—a bite, a theft, a woman tempestuous enough to storm Dane's fortress heart.
"Is she...?" Arthur hesitated, his throat constricting around the words. "The one who bit you? That stole your coat and—" He swallowed hard, "—used this very watch for a taxi fare?"
"Arthur," Dane said, his voice a silken threat, "Do tread carefully."
Remembering rumors of Dane's return from Paris, Arthur's eyes widened. Everyone had heard about the mysterious woman who'd shared Dane's bed—a woman brazen enough to leave marks on his skin and take what wasn't hers. Talk had painted her bold, fearless, a spirit not unlike the devil himself.
"Couldn't believe it when I heard," Arthur mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. "You, of all people, taken by surprise. Possessed, they said."
"Rumors are the currency of fools," Dane snapped, a flicker of something dark crossing his features. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving a rigid mask of control.
"Must've been quite the woman," Arthur continued, unable to stop the words spilling out like coins from a slot machine jackpot. "To make the great Dane Adams lose his composure."
"Enough," Dane interjected, the single word a staccato note in the symphony of whispers that filled the room.
Arthur chuckled, a hollow sound, nerves strung tight as piano wire. "I mean, taking your coat, that's one thing. But the watch?" His laughter cracked. "That takes guts. Or sheer stupidity."
"Perhaps," Dane conceded, ice thawing into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "But then again, courage and foolishness often look the same in the dark."
"I thought she'd be dead for crossing you, Dane. And now... marriage?" Disbelief tinged his voice, a stark contrast to the usual reverence they all held for Dane's ironclad control.
Claide, leaning lazily against the mahogany bar, squinted at the pocket watch in Dane's grasp. His eyes, usually so quick to amusement, narrowed with recognition. "Marley, huh? She looks familiar. Something about her..."
Dane's fingers tightened around the pocket watch, the veins on his hand standing out in stark relief. He took a measured sip of his wine, letting the ruby liquid sit heavy on his tongue before swallowing. His jaw clenched, but he offered no words, no confessions.
Inside that gold case lay a frozen memory: Coline Lewis, Dane's ghost from another life. Every detail of her captured—her smile forever etched behind glass. Marley's resemblance to the late Coline wasn't just uncanny; it was a haunting echo of the past.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone