Chapter 303: Still loud.

KATYA POV

The music didn’t follow us.

Not fully.

It faded the moment we stepped past the edge of the floor, swallowed by walls and distance until it became something dull and distant—like a heartbeat I wasn’t part of anymore.

But the noise in my head didn’t quiet. If anything, it got louder.

My fingers tightened slightly around the glass in my hand as we moved down the hallway, the liquid inside shifting with each step. The scent hit me again—sharp, unfamiliar, almost offensive.

Bitter. I hadn’t expected that. I hadn’t expected any of it. The first sip had been a mistake.

The second had been worse. And yet, I hadn’t stopped.

I didn’t plan to now either.

My grip adjusted unconsciously, holding the glass a little higher, a little closer, like someone might try to take it if I wasn’t careful.

Someone already had.

Michael.

The memory of it flickered back—his hand reaching, controlled, measured, like he had every right to decide what I should or shouldn’t be doing.

Like I wouldn’t notice. Like I would just… let him. My jaw tightened faintly.

No. My fingers curled more firmly around the glass. Not happening. Not tonight.

“Careful.” His voice cut through my thoughts, quieter now without the music swallowing it whole. Close. Too close. I didn’t turn my head. Didn’t slow down. But I felt the shift beside me. The way his attention dropped again, not to my face this time, but to my hand.

To the glass. “I’m fine,” I said, before he could say anything else. My voice came out steadier than I felt.

Good. I kept my gaze forward, fixed on the hallway ahead, on the dark wood paneling and soft lighting that replaced the chaos of the club.

Controlled. Contained. Unlike five minutes ago. A flicker of heat rose in my chest at the thought, sharp and immediate.

Romeo.

I didn’t need to look back to know.I could still feel it. That stare. It had followed me all the way to the edge of the floor, pressed against my back like something physical. Even when I turned away. Even when I walked.

Even when I told myself not to think about it.

It stayed. Until the moment we turned the corner. Only then had it faded—slowly, reluctantly, like it didn’t want to let go.

My fingers tightened again. Annoying. Ridiculous. I shouldn’t still be thinking about it. About him.

About the way he had just sat there—calm, unmoved, like nothing I said had mattered. Like I hadn’t just stood in front of him demanding answers he refused to give.

A drink? I almost scoffed again at the memory. That was his response. Not denial. Not explanation. Not even irritation.

Just…Do you want a drink?

My grip on the glass shifted slightly.

Well. Now I had one. And it tasted terrible. The bitterness lingered on my tongue, sharp and unfamiliar, nothing like anything I had ever had before. It burned differently than I expected—not like fire, not dramatic—just slow, unpleasant, crawling down my throat and settling somewhere heavy in my stomach.

I swallowed against it, resisting the urge to make a face again. I wasn’t giving it that satisfaction. Or him. Especially not him. “You don’t have to drink that.”

Michael again. Closer this time. I felt the slight brush of his hand near my arm—not touching, but near enough that the intention was clear.

I stopped. Just for a second. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough for my fingers to tighten again around the glass before I lifted it slightly.

“I know.” Then I took another sip. The reaction hit again—less violent this time, but still there. A faint tightening in my throat, a subtle twist in my stomach.

God, it was awful. Why did people like this? I lowered the glass slowly, exhaling through my nose as I forced the expression off my face. I wasn’t stopping.

Not now. Not after that. A soft sound came from my left—half laugh, half disbelief.

“Okay—what is going on with you tonight?” Chiara.

Of course.

I didn’t look at her immediately, but I could already picture the expression on her face—curious, amused, slightly suspicious.

“Nothing,” I said.

Too quickly. I knew it the moment the word left my mouth. Chiara did too.

“Mm-hm,” she hummed, unconvinced. “You freeze in the middle of the dance floor, disappear into some intense staring contest with a guy you definitely know and didn’t tell me about, come back, and now you’re drinking like you’ve got something to prove.”

I finally glanced at her. Her brows were raised, her mouth tilted in that familiar half-smile she wore when she thought she had figured something out.

She hadn’t. Not even close. “It’s nothing,” I repeated, quieter this time.

More controlled. Her eyes narrowed slightly, like she was deciding whether to push it further.

For once, she didn’t. “Right,” she said instead, dragging the word out just enough to make it clear she didn’t believe me. “We’ll come back to that.”

No, we wouldn’t. I looked forward again. The hallway stretched ahead, quieter, more private, the noise of the club reduced to a distant thrum behind us. The air felt different here—cooler, steadier, easier to breathe.

Or it should have been. My chest still felt tight. Not from the crowd. Not from the music. From something else entirely. I lifted the glass again, hesitating just a fraction this time before taking another sip.

Still awful. Still bitter. Still not helping. If anything, it made everything sharper. The memory of his expression. The way he had looked at me.

Just… watching. Like I was something he had already figured out. My jaw clenched. I hated that. Hated how easily he got under my skin. Hated how he didn’t even try.

“Katya.”

Michael’s voice again. I slowed slightly this time, just enough to acknowledge it without stopping completely.

“Yeah?” “You don’t have to keep drinking that,” he said, more firmly now. I glanced at him. Really looked this time.

His expression was controlled, but there was something else there now—something tighter around the edges. Not just concern. Something closer to irritation. “I know,” I said again.

Then, before he could reach for it this time, I lifted the glass and took another sip.

Deliberate. Holding his gaze just long enough to make the point clear. His jaw tightened slightly. Not much. But enough.

Good.

I looked away first—not because I had to, but because I chose to—and continued walking. No one said anything for a few seconds after that. The silence stretched just long enough to settle. To breathe. To think.

Unfortunately. My thoughts went right back where I didn’t want them.

Back to the corner of the club. Back to him. To the way he had lifted his glass—slow, controlled, like everything else he did—and tilted it slightly in that silent, mocking gesture.

A toast. To me. Like this was some kind of game. And then he drank. Like he had been waiting for a reason to. Like I had just given him one. Heat flared in my chest again, sharper this time.

I took another sip just to drown it out.

It didn’t work.

“Alright,” Chiara said suddenly, breaking the silence again. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I feel like I’m missing a very important part of this story.”

“You are,” I muttered under my breath.

She heard it. Of course she did. “Oh, even better,” she said, brightening immediately. “So there is a story.”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t give her anything to work with. That didn’t stop her.

“It’s the guy, isn’t it?” she continued, leaning slightly closer as we walked. “The one you were staring at. Tall, dark, very ‘I’m standing in the corner judging everyone’ energy—”

“Chiara.”

“—because if that’s the case, I completely understand—”

“Chiara.”

“What? I’m just saying—”

“We’re here.”

Michael’s voice cut cleanly through the conversation, sharper than before.

The interruption was intentional. Chiara stopped mid-sentence, blinking once as she looked up. I followed her gaze. The door stood in front of us—dark wood, polished, solid, set slightly apart from the rest of the hallway.

Private.

Michael reached for the handle without hesitation, pushing it open and stepping aside just enough to let us pass first. Chiara went in immediately, curiosity already pulling her forward. I didn’t move right away. Just stood there for a second.

The glass still in my hand. The taste still lingering. The thoughts still… loud. Then I stepped inside.