Page 12 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Kris is gone, his mess dealt with, and my rules remain intact.

Chapter Five - Hannah

The music pounds relentlessly, a deep bassline that rattles through my chest and leaves my ears ringing. Even as I weave through the crowded floor of the club, I can’t escape it. It clings to me like the stench of spilled liquor and cheap cologne—a constant reminder of where I am and how much I hate it.

This job wasn’t supposed to be permanent. When I started, I told myself it was just a means to an end, a way to save up and eventually get back to art school. I’d dropped out in my first year, not because I wasn’t good enough but because life had a way of cutting your legs out from under you when you were just starting to run.

Rent, groceries, utilities—they all added up faster than I expected when I first moved to the city. Dreams of sketching under sunlight and exploring galleries gave way to twelve-hour shifts under the glare of strobe lights, dodging grabby hands and leering eyes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” a man slurs, reaching out as I pass by with a tray of empty glasses.

I step out of his reach, my smile frozen in place. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

It’s the same every night. Drunken customers who think the uniform gives them permission to paw at me like I’m part of the entertainment.

As I pass the bar, one of the bartenders, Carla, gives me a sympathetic look. “Almost done?” she asks, her voice barely audible over the music.

I nod, balancing the tray on my hip. “Ten more minutes,” I reply, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Not that I’m counting or anything.”

Carla snorts, wiping down the counter. “You and me both. Hang in there.”

I force a smile, but my grip on the tray tightens as I head toward the back. The farther I get from the noise of the main floor, the more my frustration simmers to the surface. It’s not just the rude customers or the deafening music. It’s everything.

The job, the people, the sheer grind of it all—it’s suffocating. Kris is the worst of them, though. The smug way he smiles when he talks to me, like he’s doing me a favor by keeping me employed.

Earlier tonight, he’d called me to his office, his tone dripping with faux concern as he said,“If you’re into that sort of thing, I could help you out. Some VIPs would pay good money for a pretty little thing like you.”

The words replay in my mind, each syllable scraping against my skin like sandpaper.

I don’t know what infuriates me more—the casual way he suggested I sell myself, or the way he clearly thought I’d consider it.

I push open the door to the staff room, depositing the tray on the counter before grabbing my bag. My shift is officially over, and most of the other waitresses have already left for the night. The muffled music filters in through the walls, quieter here but still a constant presence.

As I sling my bag over my shoulder, my eyes catch on the crumpled paycheck stub sticking out of the top. It’s a pitiful amount, barely enough to scrape by after I pay rent and buy groceries. Saving up for art school feels like trying to fill a swimming pool with an eyedropper.

Still, I can’t let it go. The thought of finally getting back to that world—to sketchbooks and canvases and endlesspossibilities—keeps me going. Even if it means enduring nights like this one.

I swipe through the photos, my chest tightening as I scroll past pieces of my old work. There’s the charcoal sketch of a mother cradling her child, the soft smudges giving it an ethereal quality. A vibrant watercolor of a mountain range at sunset comes next, followed by a minimalist ink drawing of a city skyline.

I pause on one in particular—a detailed oil painting of a girl standing at the edge of a forest, her face half-lit by golden light filtering through the trees. It had taken me weeks to finish, every brushstroke a labor of love.

I sold it for rent money during my second month in the city. It didn’t fetch much—not even close to what it was worth—but at the time, I didn’t have a choice.

My fingers hover over the screen, the memory of handing it over to the buyer still vivid. The way they smiled, excited to take it home, while I felt like I’d lost a part of myself.

I miss it. All of it.

Creating something with my own hands, watching a blank canvas transform into a reflection of my thoughts and emotions. It feels like a lifetime ago, like a dream I had no business chasing.

The sharp ding of the clock on the wall snaps me out of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. I lock my phone and slide it into my pocket, straightening up with a sigh.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but the anger bubbling in my chest refuses to fade. The audacity of Kris’s words gnaws at me, the memory of his smug grin igniting a fire I can’t extinguish.

I know it’s stupid. I know calling him out could cost me this job—the one thread of stability I have left. Leaving without saying something feels like letting him win, and I can’t stomach the thought.

The hallway leading to Kris’s office is quieter than the rest of the club, the fluorescent lights overhead casting a harsh, unflattering glow. The buzz of the bulbs fills the silence, and my footsteps echo faintly as I approach the door.

Each step feels heavier than the last, my anger warring with the nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me to walk away. My fists are clenched, my nails digging into my palms, and my pride won’t let me back down.

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