Chapter 8
1087 Words
"What's wrong with you, little girl? Didn't you hear me calling you over to serve your uncle?"
At the front of the bar, a sleazy middle-aged man wrapped an arm around Abigail, his voice dripping with innuendo.
"My clothes are soaked. I need to change," she muttered, struggling out of his grip.
A moment earlier, the man had dumped his entire drink onto her. Now the thin fabric of her dress clung to her skin, turning every line of her body faintly visible.
"Change? What for? Isn't this better?"
He leaned in close, inhaling near her cheek. "What perfume is that... you smell amazing."
"Sir, let me pour you another drink," Abigail said through clenched teeth, trying once more to free herself.
But the man only tightened his hold.
"Why don't you come keep me company in one of the private rooms?"
"Sir-"
"Let her go."
A low, cold voice cut him off.
Dante.
The man stiffened when he saw who spoke. His face drained, and he released Abigail as if burned. With a forced smile, he slinked away.
Dante shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
Abigail clutched the lapels. This time, she didn't refuse.
"I told you already-I'm not this Orabelle you keep talking about. My name only sounds similar. You don't need to do this for me."
Her tone was icy as she turned her face aside.
For days now, every time she'd been humiliated, Dante had stepped in.
It looked like he was trying to protect her, but in reality, he was ruining her livelihood.
Ever since people saw Dante shielding her, the regular customers stopped requesting her service.
So now what?
Another rich man playing at being a saint?
Taking a long swallow of wine, Abigail let a mocking smile tug at her lips.
Dante didn't rise to her sarcasm. His voice remained even.
"You're a girl. Why are you working in a place like this?"
"A place like this?" Abigail laughed sharply. "You're right. Why would a girl like me work here? Must be because I love money. Sit with drunks for a few hours and earn more than a normal job pays in a week-easy enough, isn't it?"
She looked at him as though he were ridiculous.
"You don't seem like that kind of person," Dante said quietly, his expression finally shifting.
Still smirking, Abigail tossed back another full glass.
"You think you know people, but you don't. Dante, whatever your intentions are, you and I are parallel lines. You sticking around a bar girl like me only drags you down."
"You're still a student, aren't you-"
She cut him off with a sharp laugh.
"Don't lecture me with your moral nonsense. Dante, I'm begging you-stop getting involved. I don't care how many hands grope me. I just want to make money. I need money. Do you understand?"
"The rich man's game- I can't afford it."
With that, she shrugged off his jacket and strode toward the exit.
Tonight was another night of earning barely anything.
She thought of the long road ahead-of how far she still was from saving that million.
Her nose stung.
Just yesterday, the doctor had told her Alice's eyes were inflamed, that she'd developed a fever. All the back‑and‑forth had wiped out nearly all of Abigail's savings.
Not only did she fail to make money tonight, but she'd have to pay to dry-clean Dante's jacket.
People like him were all jerks.
The cold night air hit the wet fabric plastered to her skin, making her shiver violently. Hugging herself, she quickened her pace.
A bright flash of headlights swept across her, followed by the honk of a horn.
Dante's car pulled up beside her, matching her speed.
"I'll drive you back to campus. It's not safe for you to walk like this."
She walked faster.
He drove faster.
"These last few days... if I got in the way of your work, I apologize. It's just-"
Abigail's cold stare cut him off.
Grievance and fury tangled in her voice.
"I don't need anything from you. As long as you stop ruining my income, I'll thank your ancestors for eighteen generations."
Her pace didn't slow.
Her slender figure stretched into the dim distance. Dante froze for a second-then slammed on the accelerator as she rounded a corner.
Every night after that, his luxury car followed her home.
A week later, the news exploded across campus.
Abigail had no time for gossip. Dante trailing her-she ignored it.
People whispering-she ignored them, too.
As long as they didn't interfere with her studies, she pretended nothing was happening.
That day, she walked into the classroom, heading toward her usual front-row seat. But someone blocked her with an outstretched hand.
"Abigail, this seat is for the lecturer today," the girl snapped.
Abigail nodded calmly and moved to another empty desk-only to be stopped again.
"Taken."
"Someone's sitting here."
"That spot's reserved."
Every seat she tried met the same response.
The classroom wasn't even half full, yet most of the students were snickering, watching the scene like a show.
Holding her books tightly, Abigail turned toward the door.
She'd taken only two steps when a pretty girl blocked her path.
"Class is about to start. Where do you think you're going? Skipping? In front of the class rep? Do you want to get expelled?"
"I suddenly feel sick. I'll file a leave request later."
Abigail stepped aside to walk around her.
But the girl shoved a hand onto her shoulder, voice hard.
"I'm not allowing it."
Abigail swatted her hand away. Her tone dropped to ice.
"Move. If you don't, I won't be polite."
The girl stumbled back, colliding with the sharp corner of a desk.
Screaming, she jabbed her finger at a group of boys.
"You grab her! She thinks just because Mr. Dante is interested in her, a crow can turn into a phoenix?"
Two boys lunged toward Abigail. Panic shot through her-she spun and dashed toward the back door.
But another boy blocked her path.
Within seconds, several large guys pinned her by the shoulders, immobilizing her.
The girl stepped forward, patting Abigail's cheek as if she were a stray dog.
"Let me tell you something, Abigail. You're only pretty, nothing else. Once Mr. Dante gets bored with you, he'll toss you out with the trash. Someone like you-poor and pathetic-got lucky for once, and now you think you're special?"
She sneered.
"You don't even deserve the chance to be trash."
- Writer
