HIS PRINCESS

CHAPTER 19

Derick’s last message still sat open:

Derick B:

That sounds like someone who’s about to ask for a favor 😏.

She stared at it for a moment.

Then she typed:

Ariana R:

Can we talk? And maybe clear up some old dust while we’re at it.

There was a pause. The dots came and went.

Then:

Derick B:

8PM. Meet me at Bar Zapata. West block, near the old underpass. Just give them my name.

Ariana blinked at the screen.

A bar?

Not a teahouse. Not a quiet café. Not even a park bench.

She had expected something simpler, something that wouldn’t sting so much of memory or mood lighting. Zapata wasn’t the kind of place you went for serious talks—it was where people flirted with half-drunk honesty and took selfies in the mirror-lined bathroom.

It didn’t seem like the right place for that.

But Derick had agreed to meet her, which was already better than those who just hung up on her. She shouldn’t be too picky.

As long as she could get the money, she would go anywhere—even a bar!

She felt a flicker of hesitation.

Then she remembered the doctor’s voice. The plain look on his face when he told her, “Without the next payment, we’ll have no choice but to pause treatment.”

Ariana leaned back against the headboard.

Whatever Derick’s reason for choosing a bar, she didn’t have room to argue. She needed money. And time was running out.

She glanced again at her neighbor’s door through the peephole. Still ajar. But heard no sound.

She’d check on Phoebe later.

---

Ariana Ross arrived just as the city lights began to blur into the evening haze. She stood a few steps from the glowing sign of Bar Zapata, her heart thudding beneath a sleek black dress that hugged her frame like a whisper. It had been a long while since she'd stepped into a bar—but it wasn’t unfamiliar territory. Just... distant. A former version of her used to enjoy this kind of noise. Tonight, though, she was only here for one reason.

Her heels tapped against the stone pavement as she adjusted the strap of her bag, a breath escaping her lips. No matter how confident she tried to appear, something about this night made her chest feel tighter than usual.

Pushing open the heavy glass door, she stepped into a burst of noise and flashing lights. Music pulsed from the speakers overhead, not too loud, not too soft. A stylish crowd filled the room—young professionals, nightlife regulars, a few old-money types tucked into plush booths. The air smelled of cologne, liquor, and tension.

She paused just inside the doorway, scanning the place. A bartender caught her glance, but she wasn’t here for drinks.

“Excuse me,” she said, approaching a well-dressed hostess standing near the booth section. “I’m looking for someone—Derrick Barnes. He mentioned a reservation?”

The hostess blinked, looked down at a sleek tablet, then gestured casually. “President Barnes' at the third booth in the private lounge towards the left wing.”

Ariana murmured a thank you and made her way in, ignoring the curious eyes trailing her movements. Her dress wasn’t flashy, but it was elegant. Paired with soft curls, red lipstick, and her sharp eyes—it gave her presence.

As she turned toward the booth area, she didn’t notice a pair of eyes watching her from across the bar.

“Isn’t that... Ariana Ross?” someone whispered over the rim of their cocktail glass.

Gabriella Byme, dressed in deep emerald satin, sat with a small group of socialites. Her perfectly lined lips tightened when her gaze fell on Ariana.

“What’s she doing here? Wearing that?” one of Gabriella’s friends whispered with a grin.

“She’s probably still trying to climb her way back up,” said another, snorting. “Or maybe she’s looking for a new sponsor.”

Gabriella’s gaze didn’t waver from Ariana. The black dress. The confident walk. Even now, she still carried that annoying grace—like she hadn’t been knocked down hard enough.

“She’s wearing almost the same cut as you,” her friend pointed out suddenly.

Gabriella’s grip on her glass tightened.

Yes. The same silhouette. But somehow, Ariana wore it with a kind of effortless sharpness that made Gabriella’s version look... curated.

She said nothing. But her eyes followed Ariana all the way to the back.

Meanwhile, Ariana approached Booth 3C, the private section Derrick had apparently taken over.

And there he was.

Derrick Barnes leaned back lazily on the velvet booth, one arm stretched along the top as he laughed at something someone beside him said. A girl was clinging to his arm—heavily madeup, letting out a high-pitched giggle, clearly more tipsy than sober.

Ariana stopped a few feet away, expression unreadable. Her hands remained at her sides as she observed the man she once called a friend.

He hadn’t changed much—still good-looking in that effortless, reckless kind of way with a not too polished, not too serious demeanour. He caught her staring, and when their eyes locked, he smirked.

“Ariana?” he called out, waving her over.

The girl beside him scowled.

Ariana took a deep breath and walked toward the booth, ignoring the glares and the incessant mutters—she had already prepared herself for this.

When she slid into the seat beside him, the smell of cologne and rum lingered between them.

“I didn’t expect you to actually come,” Derrick said, flashing a grin. “You used to hate these places.”

“I don’t have the luxury of preferences these days,” she replied quietly.

His grin faltered a little. “Still blunt.”

Ariana leaned slightly closer, her voice low. “Can we talk?”

Before Derrick could respond, a familiar presence entered the booth area.

Ariana’s body went still.

Damon Meyer.

She hadn’t seen him until now—until he stepped out from the shadows of a neighboring booth, talking with someone and casually sipping his drink.

Then his eyes landed on her.

She felt the weight of his stare before she fully turned toward it.

And in that moment, everything inside her stilled.

Damon Meyer’s footsteps were unhurried as he drifted closer, still murmuring something to a sharply dressed man beside him. The edge of his glass caught the light with a small, deliberate tilt, and his lips curled into the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

But as his gaze landed on Ariana, mid-sentence, he stopped walking—and for the briefest moment, his smirk slipped. Surprise flickered across his features before he masked it with a lazy smugness, the kind that could only be worn by someone who believed they still had the upper hand.

He looked good. That was part of the problem.

Tailored navy suit, crisp shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose the faint sheen of cologne on his collarbone, expensive Italian shoes that had clearly never touched a grain of dust. Everything about Damon’s appearance was clean, polished, presentable.

But Ariana knew better.

Behind the elegant stitching and imported leather was a man who once tore through her life with all the grace of a wildfire—smiling while he watched things burn.

Derrick followed her line of sight, and the smirk on his lips faded. “I didn’t know he’d be here tonight.”

“You don't need to feel guilty,” Ariana murmured, eyes still locked with Damon. “I just hope he minds his business.”

Too late for that now.

Damon stepped forward casually, drink in hand, eyes narrowed slightly as though studying a painting he hadn’t seen in years. “Hmm,” he drawled, voice as smooth as ever. “Ariana Ross. It’s been a long time.”

Ariana offered a nod—nothing more. Her expression didn’t shift.

But inside, something old and sharp twisted in her gut.

“Funny,” Damon continued, shifting his weight slightly. “You used to run the other way when people accused you of sneaking around behind closed doors. Now you’re the one inviting men to bars for private chats?”

There it was.

Even after five years, he hadn’t lost his talent for slicing words thin enough to sound like jokes.

Ariana tilted her head slightly, calm as ever. “Bold, coming from the man who got his ex’s sister pregnant before the sheets were even cold.”

A soft sound escaped Derrick’s lips—a cough or a chuckle, he wasn’t sure.

Damon didn’t flinch. But his jaw ticked.

Gabriella had barely reached the booth area, but she paused a few feet behind, clearly aware of the tension thickening in the air. Her eyes bounced from Damon to Ariana, then to Derrick. The flicker of unease in her posture was impossible to ignore.

“Oh, come on,” Damon replied smoothly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “That’s old history.”

“No,” Ariana said, her voice low and clipped. “That was betrayal. History is what comes after.”

Damon’s lips curled at the edge, the sarcasm returning full force. “You’re still bitter. I thought your art therapy classes were supposed to fix that.”

Ariana smiled faintly—almost kindly, and that made it worse.

“I paint. I don’t bleach memory.”

Derrick blinked and leaned back just slightly, watching them both like a spectator caught between a car crash and an art exhibit.

“I guess we all deal with pain differently,” Damon said, lifting his drink again. “Some of us wear it better.”