Chapter 3 Special Service
860 Words
Thunder Bar.
One of Nors City's most exclusive nightclubs, rumored to be owned by the Raymond family—who pull the strings in the city's underworld. That's why nobody dares skip tabs or cause trouble here, even though their cocktails cost a small fortune.
Swarms of gold-diggers linger outside nightly—not that they don't want to hunt for rich catches inside, but because they can't even afford a single drink.
But Thunder Bar's real claim to fame? Their liquor game is impeccable. Those signature drinks may be pricey, but one sip leaves you craving more.
Valerie had dreamed of coming here. Only problem? Her wallet disagreed.
"Hey Nina, drinks on me tonight." Lounging against the bar on her stool, she twirled the amber liquid in her glass while cradling her phone.
A sleep-thickened voice grumbled, "Again? Where?"
"Thunder Bar."
"...What?!" A loud thud echoed as the phone hit the floor, followed by Nina's suddenly wide-awake screech. "Val, did you win the lottery or lose your damn mind? That place bleeds money! You wanna get sold off when you can't pay?"
Giggling, she replied, "Just pretend I hit the jackpot."
A beat of silence, then dramatic resignation. "Well since you asked, it'd be rude to refuse. Don't start without me!"
"Pfft—" Valerie smirked, setting her phone down and propping her chin up. The veteran bartender nearly dropped his glass.
Thunder Bar had seen countless beauties, but Valerie? She was different—a sunflower blooming under summer sun. One glance, one smile, and the dim bar counter transformed into sunlit fields.
Lucky son of a gun, whoever won her heart.
The bartender's musings were interrupted when Valerie called, "Same again, please."
Damn. Girl's got an iron liver.
Little did he know, the "lucky son of a gun" was currently building pressure like Mount Fuji before eruption.
"Still not answering?" Ryan sat by the window, his entire being radiating a chill that could freeze Siberia, frost creeping into his voice.
Mark had gone pale as a ghost. The last time he'd seen the young master this furious still gave him nightmares—bone-chilling memories even a trained professional like him wanted to forget.
For thirty agonizing minutes, he'd been blowing up Madam's phone. Not a single answer. His mobile was scorching hot from all the calls. Just as panic set in, a sudden ding nearly made him hurl the device across the room. One glance at the screen, and he regretted not throwing it.
"Young master, another bar tab notification."
"Explain."
"Alcohol charges, no location specified." Mark presented the phone with both hands, voice trembling as if facing execution.
This bride-to-be was a human tornado. Sent to purchase wedding essentials, she'd somehow wound up God-knows-where drinking. Talk about poking the bear.
Ryan sat in stony silence. No movement. No eye contact. After an eternity, a mirthless chuckle sliced through the tension. His gaze turned lethal. "Track her. Full signal trace. One hour. Bring her."
"Sir!" Mark spun and sprinted. One hour meant sixty minutes—not a second more.
Meanwhile, Valerie Mount was tearing up the dance floor with Nina Scotson. Six cocktails deep, she was flying high on liquid courage.
Marriage? Husband? All that was forgotten.
Song after song. Shot after shot.
When Mark's team stormed into Thunder Bar, they found the girls sprawled across a leather booth, arms entangled, weeping like they'd just watched Titanic.
Prying them apart looked like a bad mafia movie—fake sobs, dramatic clinging, enough commotion to summon the bouncers.
"Mark, orders?" The guards finally wrestled Valerie into the car, then stared at the other girl—now a boneless, drunken heap.
Mark checked his watch with a grimace. "Madam goes to the north villa. Fifteen minutes left—you know the consequences of being late. The other one..." He hesitated. "Requires the young master's decision."
Valerie knew she was hammered—probably around drink four.
But she loved this blissful oblivion where the world melted into a warm, spinning haze.
"Ugh—""So gorgeous... Who... who sent you? Are you from the bar's escort service?" Through her drunken haze, a figure sat quietly before her like David's statue. Valerie swallowed hard before reaching out without hesitation. "You're stunning... except... except for that jerk, you're the best-looking..."
"Jerk?" The statue-like figure shifted slightly, his voice low and icy. "Who?"
"Who else... Ryan... Ryan Sidney, of course."
Wrapping around him like an octopus, Valerie marveled at the firm, toned muscles beneath her fingers. Sure, she was a good girl, but a little touch couldn't hurt, right?
After some fumbling exploration, she reluctantly let go, swaying before tumbling back onto the bed. "I'm... I'm a proper lady... You... you should leave..."
"Ha—" A cold smirk twisted the man's lips as he grabbed the glass from the nightstand. With a sharp splash, icy water hit her face. "Valerie!" he snapped.
"Open your eyes. Look. At. Me."
A shiver ran down her spine as the chill—both from the water and his voice—jolted her awake. She sobered up instantly, and the statue before her revealed a terrifyingly familiar face.
"Holy— Ryan?!"
- Writer
