How could Isabella not regret it?
Every step she took away from Victor Steele's car felt heavier, as if her own foolishness had tied weights to her ankles.
She knew exactly what that agreement had meant. Steve hadn't bothered to sugarcoat it—she would have gained far more than she lost. Protection. Stability. Medical fees. A roof over her head. Even the possibility of reclaiming her florist shop.
And Victor Steele… well, he was handsome enough to make both mortals and gods cry out in outrage.
If she had treated him like nothing more than a human-shaped stress pillow, she would still have come out richer than before.
So why had she thrown the contract at Fate's face in a fiery outburst?
Pride? Shame? Or Stupidity?
She didn't know anymore.
"Hey, why are you sighing like an abandoned widow?" Emily's bright voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "Here. This is the amount you asked for."
She pressed a bank card into Isabella's hand. "The password is my birthday. Go pay back that jerk, Brandon. And if Auntie needs more money later, just come to me. Seriously. I'm living off my brother anyway. He's basically made of money. You called him 'husband' for years—if he knew, he'd throw cash at your feet."
For a moment, Isabella couldn't speak.
The warmth that spread through her chest was so sudden it almost hurt.
"Thank you," she whispered, fingers tightening around the card. "But I don't want to burden you. And definitely not Damien. You both worked hard to be independent—you didn't want to rely on your family's shadow. If I make trouble for you…"
"You're family," Emily said immediately, as if the words were obvious. "Your mother's business is my business too."
Her smile softened. "But seriously, you look awful. Did something else happen today?"
Isabella froze for half a second.
Of course, Emily didn't know that her florist shop had been quietly eaten up by Steele's Group hours ago.
The news wasn't public. And if Damien discovered Victor Steele's involvement, he would start a war without hesitation.
She couldn't drag them into that.
So she forced a smile. "What could happen? Just the usual. Brandon took Vanessa to wedding dress shopping. When I get home, everyone will probably spit in my face. But it's fine. Mom's in the hospital now, so I'll move there too. I'll find a job soon. Once she's better, we'll rent a little place together."
"Good. At least you won't have to see those animals every day." Emily nodded firmly. "Just take care of yourself, okay?"
Isabella nodded. "Actually… is Damien still hiring people?"
Emily blinked twice before bursting into laughter.
"You? Work here? You got drunk after one glass last night. Then you got lost on the way to the bathroom, wandered into the Hilton Hotel, and slept there! And you want to work at Night's End, the busiest bar in the city? Are you kidding me, Isabella? If word gets out that you're working here—"
She broke off, wheezing with laughter, while Isabella wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole.
She had only told Emily the sanitized version of what happened last night. She hadn't told her about the man. The hotel suite. The shower. The nurses. The contract.
Emily believed her easily, and that was enough.
"If it gets out, let it get out," Isabella muttered. "I've already lost my reputation. A little more won't kill me."
"Please. You'd collapse after one shot of tequila. This job requires drinking with clients. You'd pass out before your shift even started.
She opened her mouth, ready to argue anyway—but she stopped.
*
After a while;
"It doesn't matter," Damien drawled from behind the counter, his long fingers tapping lazily against the polished wood. "If Isabella wants to try working here, who am I to object? With me watching your back, no one will dare force you to drink."
He lifted his chin and smiled at her— that infuriating, smug, foxlike smile that always made her break out in a cold sweat.
Was he helping her?
Or bullying her in disguise?
Either way, she didn't have the luxury of refusing.
She owed a mountain of debt, had no job, and her mother's hospital bills were only going to grow. Even working in Damien's territory—dangerous as that sounded—was still a job, and she needed one desperately.
The foreman took her straight to the back to change.
When she stepped out again, the night had fully fallen.
Her heart felt tight, but she forced herself to take a deep breath.
This was her first night of work.
At first, the staff didn't dare bother her—not with Damien whispering threats behind the counter like an overprotective godfather.
But she insisted.
She refused to be protected like a fragile ornament.
She needed to earn money, and she needed it now.
So she asked to be assigned to the private room area on the second floor—the busiest section of the entire nightclub.
Damien nearly had a stroke when she requested it, but in the end, he gave in.
"Miss—Miss Cruz!" a young waiter whispered frantically now. "Room 303 called the bell! They're asking for service!"
She picked up a tray. "Got it. I'm going."
But the moment she pushed open the door—
She almost turned right back around.
Room 303 was too bright. Too loud. Too full of impossibly handsome faces.
And in the middle of them, holding a glass of wine and smiling like sin in a suit— was Victor Steele.
Of all the rooms.
Of all the nights.
Of all the rotten, cursed coincidences the heavens could conjure, it happened to him again.
Her face darkened instantly, almost comically—like ink spreading through water.
Inside, laughter filled the spacious room.
"It's been too long since you took us out. What new cases have been keeping you so busy lately?"
Half the people present looked like models who had wandered off a runway. The other half looked like royalty slumming it for fun. Even as someone who once ruled Averton's social circles, Isabella felt insignificant among them.
She recognized several faces. These weren't simply rich families—they were super-rich, the kind that owned districts, not houses.
"We weren't slacking," another man said. "We were working on that nightmare of a resort case. As soon as we finished, we called everyone out for drinks. Isn't that enough of an apology?"
"Enough?" a man in a black suit scoffed, sprawled arrogantly across the sofa with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. "Dream on."
His cold voice sent ripples of laughter through the room.
"Haha! You heard the ten-thousand-year-old iceberg. You're doomed tonight!"
Victor Steele only smiled faintly, loosening his tie with lazy ease. "Fine, fine. I surrender. What do you want to drink? Order whatever you want—I'll treat tonight."
He reached for the wine, and as he did, his gaze drifted over her.
It was a soft, indifferent sweep like wind brushing past a leaf.
Her heart jolted violently—but his expression didn't change.
No surprise or recognition was seen on his face.
It was as if he truly didn't remember her existence at all.
Something in her chest twisted painfully.
But she forced a smile, the kind she'd practiced a thousand times in her socialite years.
"Sir," she said to the nearest young man, "what would you like to order?"
The boy reached for the menu, casual and bored—until he looked up and saw her face.
He froze.
Then his jaw dropped.
"Wait—hey—aren't you… Aren't you the number one socialite of Averton City?"