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 ever for once asked me that question. Not even in a place like this. Here, people come for drinks, deals, and for sins. Not for conversations about if I like, ever like working here.

“It pays the bills,” I said carefully, hoping not to cause a mess.

“That's not what I asked.”

The way he spoke—it wasn't curiosity, I thought. It was an interrogation. I guessed.

I hesitated, my throat felt tight. “No,” I finally admitted. “But sometimes you don't get to choose. Life does.” I said, trying not to lock eyes with him.

Something flickered in his eyes and for a second, he looked almost… human of all the people I've met here. It felt like my answer touched something inside him. But it was gone in an instant, replaced with that same icy control.

“You don't belong here,” he said.

The words hit me like a slap, I swear, I could admit it.

Before I could answer him, a burst of laughter exploded from the next table beside us. A man brushed past me roughly, almost knocking the tray from my hand.

I grasped the glass tilting and at that moment, I felt humiliated.

The stranger’s hand shot out, steadying the tray before it spilled.

His fingers brushed mine—just for a second.

And then, heat shot my arm like fire.

I jerked back, heart racing. “Thank you.”

“You should be more careful, Okay!” he said softly, his voice cutting through the noise around us. “There are wolves around here.”

I swallowed hard. “And what are you?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, dark and unreadable. “Something worse than you can imagine.”

I stared at him, not sure if he was teasing me… or was it a warning.

“Emilia!” Another server called.

I broke the stare, forcing myself to breathe. I felt trapped, I couldn't mess up things now. “I should—”

Before I could finish, he slid something onto the tray. A folded note, and it was tucked beneath the empty glass he drank from.

“Take it,” he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it left no room for refusal.

I nodded quickly, clutching the tray to my chest, and hurried away. From him, from the wolves, from humiliation, from causing a mess.

Back at the counter, with my hands shaking, I slipped the note open… my heart was racing and I could hear my heartbeat.

I opened the paper, and saw it. It was written just in a line, bold, with clean Strokes.

You don't belong here.

My chest tightened once more, and my hand trembled.

He didn't know me, yes. He couldn't know me. And yet, somehow, it felt like he did. Like he could see the desperation I kept hidden, the debt crushing me, the secrets I tried so hard to bury.

“Emilia!” My manager snapped from across the bar. “Stop daydreaming and wasting time, there are other people to serve. Stop messing around and get back out there.”

I shoved the note into my pocket, my fingers still trembling.

The rest of the night dragged on as usual. I smiled while serving and pretended to be okay. But my eyes kept drifting back to that corner in the shadows.

The man was already gone, his seat was empty. And it felt like he had never been there at all. But I could still feel his gaze on me.

I touched the note in my pocket, my heart still beating fast.

You don't belong here.

Maybe he was wrong, maybe he was right. I was not sure, I kept… just kept wondering.

But one thing I knew for sure—whoever he was, he wasn't just another customer. And this wasn't over. Not yet!