Chapter 5
Elise's POV
This wasn't a question.
Because if he truly was Liam's uncle, then he must have known about a woman named Elise by Liam's side.
His invitation for me to do his tattoo was no coincidence at all.
"You're very clever," he said.
He stepped closer, raising his hand to brush aside a strand of hair hanging by my cheek. The gesture was gentle, as if caressing a piece of fragile porcelain.
"But I prefer your other side."
His fingers slid from my cheek to my chin, then applied slight pressure, tilting my face upward.
Moonlight settled in the depths of his eyes—those gray-blue eyes held something I couldn't quite decipher. Not entirely desire, not entirely calculation. Something in between, dangerous and alluring.
"Don't worry," he said in a low voice, his thumb grazing my lower lip. "I won't hurt you."
I stared at him, my heart pounding so hard it nearly leaped from my throat.
I didn't know whether to trust him or fear him.
From the distance came the clinking of glasses and laughter from the banquet hall. Someone was calling Liam's name.
Victor released my face and stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. He glanced at me without saying anything, then turned and walked out of the stairwell. His back was straight, his steps unhurried, as if nothing had happened.
I leaned against the wall, taking several seconds to steady my breathing.
My dress was still disheveled. I looked down and smoothed it, then ran my fingers through the hair that had fallen across my shoulders. My heartbeat finally stopped thundering, but my legs were still trembling.
I stood against the wall for a moment, then took a deep breath, stepped out of the stairwell, and merged into the scattered guests moving through the corridor.
No one noticed me.
Just as no one noticed that moments ago, in the stairwell at the end of this corridor, Liam's uncle had pressed his nephew's girlfriend against the wall and nearly done something irreversible.
When I returned to the banquet hall, Liam was drinking with a group of people.
He saw me and waved. "Elise, come here."
I walked over, a standard smile fixed on my face.
"Where did you go?" He put his arm around my waist, his tone casual, as if asking about something trivial.
"Restroom," I said. "Too many people. Had to wait in line."
Liam hummed in acknowledgment without pressing further.
He poured me a glass of champagne and continued chatting with others.
I stood beside him holding the wine glass, a smile on my lips, but my eyes kept searching through the crowd.
I didn't find Victor.
He had vanished, as if he had never appeared at all.
---
Monday morning, I arrived at school on time.
State Arts University sat halfway up a hill in the northern part of the city. The red brick buildings were half-covered with ivy, and sunlight filtered through the sycamore leaves onto the stone pathways, creating delicate, warm patches of light.
It was a place perfectly suited for painting, sculpture, and daydreaming.
But I had no mind to appreciate any of it today.
My thoughts kept circling back to what happened Saturday night.
Victor was Liam's uncle. He had known who I was all along. His invitation for me to do his tattoo was no coincidence.
These three facts were like three needles lodged in my consciousness, each recollection bringing a sharp pang.
More importantly—I didn't know what he actually wanted.
He said it was for me. He said he "liked" me.
But how could a man who controlled underground forces develop a "liking" for a complete stranger without reason? Unless he was also using me. I just hadn't figured out yet what he was after.
Being targeted by someone like Victor was definitely not a pleasant experience.
I entered the academic building. The hallway was already filled with quite a few students rushing to early classes.
"Elise!" a voice called from behind me.
I turned to see my classmate Sophia running toward me, arms full of thick books, hair pulled into a high ponytail, cheeks flushed.
"Where were you this weekend? I messaged you but you didn't reply."
"Had some things to deal with," I said. "What's up?"
Sophia lowered her voice and leaned close to my ear.
"Professor Miller is looking for you. He wants you to go to his office after first period."
My steps faltered slightly.
"Did he say what it's about?"
"Might be about the tattoo shop. He didn't look happy." Sophia glanced at me, hesitating. "Be careful."
I nodded, thanked her, and walked into the classroom.
Professor Miller was the head of the sculpture department—in his fifties, with graying hair and gold-rimmed glasses. He commanded considerable respect at the school. I had always been diligent in his classes and punctual with assignments, but the way he looked at me always made me uneasy.
First period was Materials Science.
I sat by the window, sunlight warming the desk. But I didn't absorb a single word throughout the entire class.
My mind kept replaying Professor Miller summoning me to his office and the potential chain reactions it might trigger.
I had been very careful about running the tattoo shop.
The studio was in the old district in the eastern part of the city, renting a space on the ground floor of an old apartment building. The storefront was small, the sign inconspicuous. Clients only came through personal referrals; I didn't advertise on any social media platforms.
I thought it was discreet enough.
But if someone specifically investigated, they could still find out.
The question was—who would investigate?
At ten in the morning, I knocked on Professor Miller's office door.
"Come in."
I pushed the door open.
Professor Miller sat behind his desk with a stack of documents spread before him. The desk lamp was on, illuminating half his face while leaving the other half in shadow.
"Sit." He gestured to the chair across from him.
I sat down, placing my hands on my knees, spine straight.
Professor Miller didn't look at me. Instead, he slowly flipped through the documents in his hand, as if allowing me a long, unsettling silence.
Finally, he stopped.
He raised his head and looked at me through his gold-rimmed glasses.
"Elise, you're operating a tattoo studio off-campus?"
Straight to the point.
Not a question—a statement.
My heart jumped, but my expression remained unchanged.
"Yes, Professor," I said. "Just a weekend side job."
"A side job." Professor Miller repeated the phrase, his tone flat, but the corners of his mouth turned slightly downward.
"Do you know what the training objectives of the Art Department are?"
"To cultivate art professionals with expertise and aesthetic sensibility."
"Well memorized." He said. "Then do you know what it means for the department's reputation when a student engages in tattoo work?"
I didn't answer.
Because we both knew the answer.
In many people's perception, tattoos were still associated with gangs, thugs, and social fringe groups. For an arts university student to run a tattoo shop off-campus wouldn't reflect well—especially for a student like me who had gained admission through Liam's donations.
Professor Miller pulled a printed photograph from his drawer, placed it on the desk, and pushed it toward me.
The photo showed the entrance to my studio.
The angle was from across the street, clearly capturing the sign—"Night Rose."
The timestamp indicated it was taken last week.