The Professor's Forbidden Vow

Emilia's POV

The club was too loud, too bright, and too rich for me.

Crystal chandeliers sparkled above the heads of men in expensive suits and women in dresses that looked like they belonged in magazines. My black uniform dress felt cheap, too cheap compared to theirs, and the tray in my hand was heavier with each table I passed.

I know, I hated this occupation. This job that made me look like, damn.

But my rent didn't care, it never cared. Even my brother's medicine and medical fee didn't care at all. Life itself didn't care either.

“Table seven,” my manager hissed, shoving a glass of scotch onto my tray. “He’s a VIP, so don't mess things up. Make sure you don't, Emilia.”

I nodded, even though my stomach tightened because I knew VIP tables were always the trouble. Men who would think money could give them the right look at you, touch you, and own you. And this made me hate them the most.

But still, I lifted the tray and made my way across the crowded room, through the haze of perfume, cigars, and greed.

Table seven sat in the corner, away from the noise, and hidden in the shadows. There, a man sat there alone.

I froze. I was shocked too because he wasn't like others. And while the room was filled with drunken laughter and loud voices, he was silent and different. His suit was darker, sharper, and well tailored. His posture on the other hand was straight. And he didn't even look at the stage, at all where women were dancing. He was just still, just alone by himself in the shadows.

And then he lifted his eyes to me.

They were cold grey eyes, sharp, cutting, like they could exactly see right through me… I thought.

My steps faltered and my pulse skipped a bit. But I didn't know why, just that something about him felt dangerous, too dangerous than I could imagine.

I forced myself to move forward, keeping my expression polite not to cause any scene like my manager had said. “Your drink, sir.”

His gaze didn't even move as I set the glass on the table. It was unsettling, the way he watched me—like he was pulling me apart piece by piece, peeling back layers I didn't even show myself.

“Emilia,” he said. His voice was low, calm, and controlled.

My stomach dropped the moment I heard him call my name, and my throat went dry. “How do you—”

“Your name tag.” He said and his lips curved slightly, almost mocking.

I felt heat all over my face that moment. I glanced down, of course. The stupid tag pinned to my chest on my dress.

“Oh,” I muttered, feeling foolish.

He lifted the glass, sipping slowly, like he had all the timing in the world. His eyes never left mine though as he drank from the glass.

“So you enjoy working here?” He asked.

I blinked, because no one has