Chapter 5
Across town, the club was still roaring—music, sweat, laughter, the illusion of consequence-free fun.
Khloe stood in the center of it all, glowing under light she thought belonged to her. Liam stayed close, basking in attention like it was oxygen.
She kept glancing toward the entrance.
Still no Luna.
Still no interruption.
Her perfect little confession had stalled, hanging in the air too long. The crowd had already started to shift from romantic to restless.
Then a server showed up.
At first, it was polite.
“Miss, we’ll just need a payment authorization for the table.”
Khloe barely looked at him. She tossed her hair, waved her hand, and laughed like it was part of the show.
“Put it on my card,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The server held out the handheld terminal.
Khloe took the card out with a flourish—platinum, dramatic, expensive-looking—and slapped it down like she was shutting the world up.
The terminal beeped once.
Then again.
The server’s smile flattened.
“It declined.”
Khloe’s expression flickered.
A tiny crack in the mask.
She snatched the card back and tried again, harder this time, as if force could turn no into yes.
Declined.
“Try it again,” she snapped.
The server did.
Same result.
Behind Khloe, the class started to murmur.
“It declined?”
“No way.”
“She literally said black card energy.”
Khloe’s cheeks tightened. She lifted her chin, performing calm.
“My bank is probably flagging it,” she said breezily. “It’s fine.”
But the server didn’t laugh.
He didn’t flirt.
He didn’t back down.
“Ma’am,” he said, his voice lower now, “the total is high. We can’t keep running tabs. We need a payment method.”
Khloe’s eyes darted to Liam, to the crowd, to the door.
Still no me.
And then something else happened.
Something she hadn’t planned for.
A big man stepped out from behind the bar, heavy gold on his hands, eyes like he had stopped finding things funny a long time ago.
“What’s going on?” he asked, not loud, but the room around him went quiet.
The server pointed.
“Their card isn’t going through.”
The man’s gaze slid over the students—young, drunk, loud, wearing confidence like it was armor.
Then he smiled.
It wasn’t warm.
“You kids know where you are?” he asked.
Someone laughed nervously.
“A club?”
The man leaned forward a little.
“This isn’t the kind of place where you rack up a big bill and shrug,” he said. “So either you pay, or we call your parents and the police and tell them why a bunch of underage students are here.”
Panic rippled like a wave.
A girl clutched her purse.
“We can’t. My parents think I’m studying.”
Another boy swore under his breath.
“We’re dead.”