Chapter 1 001

ELARA'S POV

"Pour more. Deep down her throat."

The burn of cheap liquor wasn't the worst part-it was the laughter.

Lyra Walter's voice sliced through the pounding club music, sharp as glass.

"Pour it deeper. Make sure she chokes on it."

Her little army of followers obeyed instantly. Bottles tilted, cold liquid splashed over my head, soaking through my thin uniform until it clung to my skin. The smell of alcohol wrapped around me, sticky, humiliating. Their giggles echoed off the bathroom tiles, cruel and endless.

Not the first time. Not the second. Not even the fiftieth.

It was easier to lose count than admit how many times I'd been their target.

My knees hit the ground hard, but I kept my chin tucked, waiting it out like always. Fighting back only made things worse.

Knock. Knock.

"Hey-what's going on in there?" A man's voice from outside the bathroom door.

Panic flared across Lyra's perfect face. She snapped her fingers, and just like that, her loyal shadows scurried after her. Their heels clicked against the floor as they vanished, laughter trailing behind them like smoke.

The door didn't open. Whoever had knocked walked away, probably deciding it wasn't worth the trouble.

I stayed behind, dripping, breath shaking.

Dragging myself up, I staggered toward the cracked mirror above the sink. A broken reflection stared back-brown eyes red, black hair plastered to my cheeks, uniform ruined.

Invisible. Pathetic. Forgettable.

I peeled the wet fabric off and pulled on the spare uniform I always kept in my locker. By now, it was a habit-prepared for disaster, because disaster always came.

A whisper left my lips before I could stop it.

"If I disappeared tomorrow, no one would notice."

Shoving down the thought, I grabbed a rag to wipe at the mess on the floor and forced myself back into the pulsing lights of the club.

"Elara!" Jane's voice caught me the second I stepped out. My coworker-same age, same tired eyes-hurried over with a tray in hand. "Where the hell have you been? The boss has been looking for you. You're already on thin ice tonight."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. "I'm here now."

She pressed a bottle of wine and a clean glass into my hands. "Table twelve. VIP section. Don't screw it up."

VIP. Great. Probably some rich jerk with more money than sense.

I steadied the tray on my palm and made my way across the crowded floor, weaving between laughing strangers and drunk customers. The bass thudded in my chest, every beat urging me to keep moving.

But the moment I reached table twelve, I froze.

Alric Harlow.

The name alone carried weight. Hockey's golden boy. The man every magazine called untouchable. Twenty-six, undefeated, the league's star. His face was plastered on billboards, dorm walls, and TV screens across New York.

And now he was here-sitting back in the VIP lounge, broad shoulders stretched beneath a leather jacket, dark hair falling carelessly into ice-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through me.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping against his glass like he owned the place. Which, in a way, he did.

My stomach clenched. This wasn't just another customer. This was the kind of man whose orbit destroyed girls like me without even noticing.

"Wine," I managed, setting the tray down with trembling hands.

He looked up, gaze flicking over me once, slow and deliberate. Something unreadable sparked in those glacial eyes.

"Careful," he said, voice low, smooth, threaded with arrogance. "You're shaking. Don't spill it."

Heat burned across my cheeks. I poured the wine, forcing my hands to stay steady even as my heart pounded like a drum.

But fate had other plans. The glass slipped, tilting sharply, crimson liquid spilling across his knuckles before splattering the table.

Gasps rippled around us. My stomach dropped.

"I-I'm sorry-" I stammered, reaching for a napkin, but his hand shot out, gripping my wrist before I could touch his clothes. His hold wasn't harsh-just firm enough to stop me.

Those eyes-icy, sharp, unsettlingly focused. For a moment, my breath caught in my throat. His cologne, dark and intoxicating, filled my senses.

Then, as if I were nothing more than a passing amusement, he smirked and released me.

"Relax. It's just wine."

I blinked at him. That was it? No shouting? No threats? Just...a smirk?

Clutching the empty tray to my chest like a shield, I forced myself to step back. Every nerve screamed for me to run, yet my feet refused to move.

He leaned in, his voice a low murmur meant for me alone, warm breath brushing against the curve of my neck.

"You don't look like you belong here."

Before I could muster a reply, a burst of laughter and rapid camera clicks cut through the air. I turned and froze-Ulric Hale, Alric's infamous hockey rival, stood only a few feet away, phone raised, snapping photos like his life depended on it.

Every flash seemed aimed at me. The overlay of all those eyes pressed down, tightening my chest until breathing felt impossible. Why...why was he taking pictures of me?

Then came the manager's booming voice, calling my name across the floor. The spell shattered. With a mumbled apology, I snatched up my tray and fled, the sound of laughter and whispers echoed behind me.

Back in the staff room, my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I stuffed the uniform into my bag, changed into my hoodie, and slipped out the back door into the freezing night.

The air hit me like a slap, sobering, cruel. I wrapped my arms around myself, whispering into the darkness.

"Just one night without drama. That's all I want."

But the universe had other plans.

Because when my alarm buzzed the next morning, my phone was already exploding with notifications.

Dozens of missed calls. Hundreds of messages.

And there, splashed across every social media feed, was my face.

Elara Crowley. The invisible girl.

Frozen forever in the glare of a camera-standing beside Alric Harlow.