Chapter 2: Club Wolves and Old Flames

He held my gaze over the rim of his glass, daring me to guess. I shrugged, pretending not to care.

No need to think about it. There aren’t any good guys around Carter Ashford.

I’d learned that lesson the hard way. The men in Carter’s circle were all cut from the same cloth—rich, ruthless, and always looking for the next thrill.

I quietly led the guy to a spot away from the crowd.

I tugged him by the sleeve, guiding him toward a quieter corner. The music faded to a dull thump, the noise of the party receding behind us.

He sighed, “Girl, aren’t you a little too eager?”

He tried to sound annoyed, but I could see the amusement in his eyes. He liked being chased, even if he’d never admit it.

Catching sight of that familiar figure from the corner of my eye, I boldly hooked my arm around the guy’s neck and leaned up toward him.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the adrenaline making my hands shake. I forced myself to keep my smile steady, even as my nerves threatened to get the better of me.

Just as our lips were about to meet—

A cold voice cut through the air: “Reagan Foster!”

The sound was sharp, slicing through the music and chatter like a knife. My body went rigid, every instinct telling me to run.

I pretended to panic, pushed the guy away, and ran over to Miles Bennett, hiding behind him with red eyes.

I let my lower lip tremble, blinking back tears as I ducked behind Miles. It was all about the performance—make him believe I was scared, helpless, in need of rescue.

My voice trembled, “It was him… I swear, he forced me.”

I pitched my voice just right, soft and broken. I knew how to play the victim, how to make even the coldest heart waver.

I couldn’t see Miles’s face from behind him.

But I could feel the tension in his body, the way he squared his shoulders. I knew he was sizing up the situation, deciding how to play his part.

But the guy touched his lips, realization dawning. He laughed, “So you were just putting on a show for me?”

He sounded more amused than angry, like he’d seen this trick before. I shot him a look, hoping he’d play along and not blow my cover.

If I’d known then he was the third target, I wouldn’t have risked my neck like this, even if I’d had ten times the guts.

Looking back, I almost laughed at my own recklessness. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

But at the time, I didn’t know. I just clung tightly to Miles’s sleeve, pitifully begging, “Help me.”

I let my voice break on the last word, hoping to tug at whatever heartstrings Miles had left. It was a gamble. But I was running out of options.

Any normal guy, seeing his first love being harassed and looking so helpless, would step in.

I counted on it. Miles had always had a hero complex, even if he tried to hide it behind that icy exterior.

Thankfully, Miles was a normal guy.

He stepped forward, his jaw set, eyes cold as he faced down the other guy. For a moment, I actually felt safe.

He shot the guy a cool look. “I’m taking her with me.”

His voice was low, but there was no room for argument. He slipped an arm around my shoulders, shielding me from view.

After a pause, he added, “Keep forcing yourself on young women, you’ll end up in jail.”

The threat was clear, and I saw the other guy’s bravado falter. Miles never raised his voice, but he didn’t need to.

With that, he led me away.

He kept his hand on my back, guiding me through the crowd. I let myself lean into him, playing the part of the rescued damsel.

Curses rang out behind us. “Damn.”

I didn’t look back, but I could imagine the other guy glaring daggers at us. I almost felt bad—almost.

No need to look back—I could imagine the guy’s expression.

He’d probably be telling this story to his friends all week, painting himself as the wronged party. I’d be a footnote, just another girl who got away.

I cried in front of Miles, but always kept it controlled so my eyes wouldn’t get too puffy and ruin my makeup.

I dabbed at my eyes with a tissue, careful not to smear my mascara. There was an art to it. Look pitiful enough, but not raccoon territory.

Miles handed me a few tissues.

He pulled them from his pocket, his movements precise. I took them with a shaky hand, offering a watery smile in return.

I looked at him, eyes brimming. “I’ve been really, really short on money lately. That guy… he said he’d give me cash if I went with him…”

I let my voice hitch, the lie rolling off my tongue. I’d used the same excuse before, back in high school, and it had always worked.

Miles’s dark eyes stared at me, cool and sharp. “Letting some guy pay you, and you just go along with it? Don’t you know what could happen?”

His tone was harsh, but I could hear the worry beneath it. I let my shoulders shake, playing up the guilt.

Tears slid down my cheeks. “But I really need money…”

I sniffled, letting the tears fall. I hated how easy it was to slip into this role, how natural it felt to beg for sympathy.

Miles’s voice was calm, not mocking. “A gambling dad? Sick mom? Little brother in college?”

He listed off my old lies, his voice flat. I felt a pang of shame, but pushed it down. This was just another performance.

…Those were all lies I told him in high school.

I remembered the stories I’d spun, the pity I’d milked. It was easier than telling the truth.

I just sniffled, glancing up at him, saying nothing.

I let the silence hang, hoping he’d fill it with something other than judgment.

In the small lounge, apart from my soft sobs, a different kind of tension filled the air.

The room felt too small, the air thick with unspoken words. I kept my gaze fixed on the floor, waiting for him to break the silence.

Until Miles’s fingers—long and cool—landed on my collarbone. He lifted my neckline.

The touch was gentle, but there was an edge to it. I stiffened, unsure of what he’d do next.

A cool breeze hit my skin.

I shivered, the sudden chill making me acutely aware of every bruise, every mark Carter had left behind.

He lowered his eyes. There was a smile on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

The smile was sharp, almost cruel. I felt my cheeks burn, shame and anger mixing in my chest.

“You’re walking around in front of me with all these hickeys?”

His words were a slap, and I flinched. I tried to cover the marks, but it was too late.

I froze.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. My mind raced, searching for an excuse.

Following his gaze downward.

I saw the bruises, stark against my skin. I cursed myself for not being more careful.

Carter Ashford never left marks on me before; was he just showing off today?

I wondered if Carter had done it on purpose, marking his territory. The thought made my stomach twist.

My body trembled, tears spilled out, and I threw myself at Miles. “It was all, all that guy just now…”

I let my words tumble out, desperate to shift the blame. I clung to Miles, hoping he’d believe me.

Anyway, that guy looked like a player—let him take the blame.

He’d probably wear it like a badge of honor, bragging about it to his friends. I doubted he’d care either way.

Miles lifted my chin, forcing me to look at him.

His grip was firm, his eyes searching mine for any hint of truth. I held my breath, waiting for his verdict.

“Reagan Foster,” he said coldly, “why did you come to see me today?”

His voice was icy, each word clipped. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

To do the task.

I reminded myself of the system’s instructions, the reason I was here in the first place. It wasn’t about Miles—it was about survival.

To get you!

I almost said it out loud, but bit my tongue. No one needed to know the real reason.

After all, you’re the heroine’s brother. As the villainess, I have to win you over.

The thought echoed in my mind, a bitter reminder of my place in this story.

“You helped me.” I spoke softly, tugging lightly at his shirt hem.

I let my fingers linger. Maybe it would spark some old memory, some flicker of affection.

Miles just looked down at me.

His eyes were unreadable, his face a mask. I hated how hard it was to tell what he was thinking.

I gazed up at him, all timid.

I widened my eyes, letting my lashes flutter. I’d perfected the art of looking vulnerable. Pathetic, but it worked.

Ever since I got involved with Miles Bennett in high school, I never really understood him.

He was always a mystery—cold one minute, warm the next. I spent years trying to figure him out, but he never let me get too close.

He had that cold, privileged air. Rich kid. And sometimes, a sharp tongue.

He could cut you down with a single word, then turn around and buy you the world. It was dizzying, trying to keep up.

It was only because I kept acting like a pitiful little flower that I got a bit of his favor.

He liked feeling needed. Liked having someone to protect. I played the part, he played along.

Miles wasn’t overflowing with sympathy; he just wanted to keep a pitiful, controllable little pet.

I knew my place. As long as I stayed small and helpless, he’d keep me around.

And then one day, the so-called pet dumped him…

I remembered the look on his face, the way his eyes hardened. He’d never forgiven me for that.

“Host, target number one and the heroine have arrived at the restaurant,” the system’s voice reminded me.

The words jolted me back to reality. I glanced at my phone, the screen lighting up with a new notification.

I froze.

My mind went blank, the task slipping through my fingers. I tried to steady my breathing, but my hands shook.

His grip on my chin tightened. I gasped.

“Spacing out in front of me?” Miles’s smile was cold.

He let go, his lips curling into a sneer. I rubbed my chin, fighting the urge to snap back.

He sat down across from me, long legs crossed, and pulled out his phone. “How much money do you want?”

His tone was all business, as if we were negotiating a contract. I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady. Figures.

I was quiet for a moment, then said weakly, “What if that guy bothers me again?”

I let my voice tremble, hoping to buy myself a little more time. The truth was, I didn’t want his money—I wanted his attention.

Miles tapped his finger on the phone. “Cut the act, Reagan. Don’t flatter yourself. You think acting pitiful and crying will make me take you back?”

His words stung, but I forced myself to smile. I’d played this game before, and I knew how to lose gracefully.

Just then, my phone rang.

The sound was sharp, cutting through the tension. I glanced at the screen, my heart skipping a beat.

It was the special ringtone I’d set for Carter Ashford.