Chapter 35 The Furious Mr. Tattoo
KARA’S POV
Weekends come quietly, like they’re unsure whether I deserve the break. Aaron can’t make it because of work emergency. Louisse is out of town and needs follow up check up because her pregnancy is quite risky. The excuses stack neatly, reasonable and unavoidable, and suddenly I’m left with too much time and too many thoughts. The kind that sit heavy in your chest and refuse to be ignored.
So I text Sancha.
Me:
Club tonight?
Her reply comes instantly.
Sancha:
Say less. I’m picking you up.
The club is loud in the way only weekends are allowed to be. Bass vibrating through the floor, lights cutting through the dark in reckless colors, and bodies moving like none of us have responsibilities waiting on Monday. For a few minutes, it works. The noise drowns everything out.
Until it doesn’t.
We’re at the bar when Sancha turns to me, eyes sharp despite the alcohol.
"Okay,” she says, sliding a drink toward me. “You’ve been weird all night. Start talking.”
I laugh weakly. “I’m fine.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Liar.”
So I tell her, all of it. Cathy, the picture, Finnian, and the office. The way it felt like history repeating itself with better suits and sharper edges. She listens without interrupting, which is how I know it’s bad.
“Wait,” she says when I finish, eyes widening. “He messed with you again?”
I nod, staring into my glass. “I didn’t expect it either.”
She exhales sharply. “I knew something was off with him back then, but this?” She shakes her head. “Damn, Kara.”
There’s a beat of silence before she asks, softer this time, “Do you love him?”
The question hits harder than the alcohol.
“I—” I start, then stop. My mouth opens again, then closes.
The answer should be simple, yes or no, but it gets tangled somewhere between my chest and my throat. “I don’t know,” I admit finally.
Sancha studies me for a long second, then sighs. “That’s not a no.”
“I know,” I whisper.
She doesn’t push. Instead, she scans the crowd, then suddenly grabs my wrist.
“Come on.”
“What—Sancha?”
She pulls me toward a group near the dance floor and before I can protest, she taps a random guy on the shoulder, flashing him a grin.
“Hi,” she says brightly. “My friend needs a distraction.”
I choke on my drink. “You’re insane.”
But it works, sort of. The guy laughs, dances with me for a bit, harmless and forgettable, but my mind still drifts. Then, somewhere between songs, he drifts away, and that’s when I bump into someone else.
Literally.
“Oh—sorry,” I say automatically.
“No, that’s on me,” he replies, smiling easily.
He’s tall, soft-spoken, with kind eyes that don’t roam where they shouldn’t. Calm, especially for someone standing in the middle of chaos.
“I’m Luheen,” he says, offering his hand.
“Kara.”
“Med student,” he adds with a sheepish grin. “Rare night out.”
I blink. “You party and survive med school?”
He laughs. “Barely.”
"Same as mine when I was still an engineering student."
We talk about nothing and everything. His rotations, my work, and how ridiculous the music is but how good it feels anyway. There’s no tension, no guessing game, and no undercurrent of something unspoken. Just easy.
At some point, we exchange numbers.
“I can give you a ride,” he offers when I’m clearly tipsy. “You don’t look like you should be driving.”
I smile, genuinely this time.
“Thank you, but my friend’s got me.”
He nods, no offense taken.
“Still, it was nice meeting you, Kara.”
When he walks away, Sancha appears at my side like she’s been waiting for this moment.
“I like him,” she says. “No mixed signals, no emotional whiplash, and just vibes.”
I laugh softly, leaning into her. “You might be right.”
“Date a guy who knows what he wants and shows it. You deserve that.” She bumps her shoulder against mine.
As the night winds down and the music fades into something distant, I think about Finnian less. Not gone, not erased, but quieter. And maybe that’s progress. For in a while, the idea of moving forward doesn’t feel like betrayal, it feels like survival.
Monday arrives without ceremony. No dramatic hangover and no regret-heavy headache, just the dull ache of routine settling back into place. I’m halfway through my morning coffee when a ripple of movement near the office windows catches my attention. Heads turn. Whispers start. Someone actually stops walking. I frown and follow their line of sight.
Parked right outside our building, gleaming under the morning sun like it doesn’t belong to this world, is a white Lamborghini.
I blink once, twice then the driver’s door opens.
Luheen steps out, crisp shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that absolutely did not come from a lifetime of holding textbooks alone. He looks unfairly good, calm, and confident. Like he knows exactly what effect he’s having and isn’t even trying to lean into it.
Someone behind me mutters, “Who is that?”
As if summoned, Luheen lifts his head and spots me. His face breaks into a smile so immediate and so genuine, it knocks the air out of my lungs a little.
My phone buzzes.
Luheen:
Good morning, Kara. I was wondering if you’re free for lunch later?
I stare at the screen, then at him, still smiling like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Me:
You just casually show up like that and ask me to lunch?
Three dots appear instantly.
Luheen:
Is that a no?
I smile before I can stop myself.
Me:
It’s a yes.
He slips his phone into his pocket and gives me a small wave before leaning back against the car like he hasn’t just derailed half the office’s focus for the day.
Allyn appears beside me, coffee forgotten.
“Is that your boyfriend?”
“You think so?" I say faintly.
“Hot,” she declares. “Violently hot.”
I don’t argue but instead, I smiled.
By lunchtime, I’m already lighter than I’ve felt in days. Luheen waits by the lobby as keys twirling lazily around his finger.
“Rough morning?” I ask as we get into the car.
He exhales dramatically. “I had my exam.”
I glance at him. “And you’re still alive, so I’m guessing you passed?”
“Barely,” he laughs. “I studied for three weeks straight just for one exam.”
“That sounds brutal.”
“It is. Especially when failing isn’t an option.” He glances at me. “My dad doesn’t believe in second chances, or rest, or joy, apparently.”
I snort. “Strict?”
“Terrifying,” he says lightly. “He paid for med school, so expectations are high.”
“And yet here you are, taking a girl you met at a club to lunch in a Lamborghini.”
He grins. “Balance.”
The restaurant he chooses is quiet and elegant, the kind with soft music and polished wood tables. He orders effortlessly and confidently.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” I tell the waiter.
Luheen pauses, then smiles at me like I’ve said something unexpectedly sweet.
“What’s mine is yours,” I add with a shrug.
His expression softens. “Princess rules already?”
I laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”
When the food arrives, he insists on serving me first, pushing the plate toward me, and adjusting my cutlery like it matters.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, amused.
“Only when I want to be,” he replies.
We’re laughing, mid-conversation, when something shifts. I feel it before I see it.
That cold, creeping awareness. I glance to my left and there he is.
Finnian.
Seated at the next table with a well-known business personality, posture rigid and expression unreadable. The man across from him is talking animatedly, but Finnian isn’t listening.
He’s staring at me, at Luheen, and at the way I’m smiling, laughing, and relaxing.
My chest tightens, his jaw clenches, and I see it clearly. Teeth grinding and hand tightening around his glass until his knuckles whiten. For a split second, fear flickers through me.
Then I straighten.
Why should I care?
He isn’t mine and I am not his.
I look away deliberately and turn back to Luheen, forcing my smile to stay in place.
“So,” I say lightly, “tell me more about surviving med school with a dictator for a father.”
Luheen chuckles, unaware of the storm just feet away.
A few seconds pass.
Then something crashes. The sound is violent and sharp. A table flips over behind me as glass shattering against the floor.
People gasp and chairs scrape.
I turn just in time to see Finnian standing, chest heaving, and fury written into every line of his body. His secretary rushes to his side.
“S-Sir... Mr. Stewheinz—”
“Cancel it,” he snaps. “All of it.”
The businessman stares, stunned.
"What the hell—?”
But Finnian is already walking away, strides long and angry, and the room frozen in his wake. The door slams and silence follows.
Luheen looks at me, confused. “Uh… did something happened? What was it all about?”
I swallow, heart racing, then shake my head slowly.
“No,” I say. “That’s not on us. Maybe, they had a misunderstanding.” I said and looked at the businessman who was embarrases and furious at the same time.
When I looked at the exit, Finnian and his secretary were not there anymore. But inside me, my system is losing its control.