Chapter 15 #3
And there she was. Up in the VIP section. Glowing. Radiant. A goddess in a brown sheer dress that clung to every curve like sin. A drink in one hand… and a man pressed against her in the other.
She was grinding, slow, sensual—her hips rolling in rhythm, her laughter soft as she leaned into the stranger. The man was eating it up, his hands low, his eyes locked on her ass.
Hassan stopped in his tracks.
His chest tightened. Rage slithered through him like poison. “You see that?” Ten-year-old Hassan hissed. “That’s what you needed, huh? That’s your fuckin’ peace?”
“Bitch got you out here lookin’ soft,” the younger version added, laughing through missing teeth.
Before Hassan could move, Nova stepped in front of him, blocking his view.
“So we ignoring each other now?” she snapped, attitude thick in her voice, her girls lingering behind her like backup dancers. She was half-dressed, tits practically spilling out, lips glossy and pouting—but she didn’t move him. Not one bit.
Hassan’s eyes stayed locked on Sevyn.
“Move,” he said, voice like ice—flat, sharp, lethal.
Nova scoffed, turning to follow his gaze. And there she saw it—her. Sevyn, the woman who had Hassan’s full attention. Sevyn, dancing with another man—oblivious to Hassan watching her like a hawk.
“Oh, that’s why you been ghostin’ me? That your new bitch now?” Nova snapped, voice rising, but Hassan still didn’t acknowledge her— as he brushed past her without another word.
He didn’t have time. Because the sight of Sevyn in another man’s hands was driving his fury up his throat like bile.
And behind him, the two versions of himself were laughing.
“You got bitches talking to you crazy now,” ten-year-old Hassan said, smirking. “yo ass weak as fuck.”
The section was packed, bodies shoulder to shoulder, neon lights flickering over sweat-slicked skin, drinks clinking, bass rattling through the floor.
But in the middle of it all, Hassan’s eyes zeroed in on her.
Sevyn. Skin tight dress hugging every curve, long jet-black waves cascading down her back, gold heels adding an extra level of danger to the way she moved.
She was dancing. Laughing. Letting another man’s hands rest too comfortably on her waist while her body rocked against his like she belonged there.
She didn’t see him yet. But the man did.
Their eyes locked. Hassan didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Didn’t slow his p ace. The guy turned pale, lips parting in shock as his hands immediately left Sevyn’s body like he’d just been caught stealing from death itself.
“I-Ice…” he stammered, the name barely making it out his throat.
Sevyn turned, confused by the sudden shift, but before she could get the words out, Hassan was behind her.
Close. His presence swallowed the air between them as he wrapped one strong arm around her waist, low, secure, final.
His lips brushed her ear, and his voice came out low and lethal, the kind of calm that came before a massacre.
“Let’s go, Sevyn.”
Her body tensed, her breath caught. The tone alone sent a shiver straight down her spine, and when she turned to face him, her eyes locked onto something that stopped her words cold.
His stare was colder than usual, yes—but there was something else buried underneath.
Desperation. Pain. A silent storm trying to keep itself contained.
The guy still hadn’t moved. Still frozen. Hassan’s eyes flicked to him once more, unimpressed and deadly.
“Still here?”
That was all it took. The man backed away so fast he nearly fell, disappearing into the crowd without a word.
“Hassan, you can’t just—” Sevyn started, but she stopped when his grip tightened. Not rough, not aggressive—just enough to remind her that he wasn’t asking.
She searched his face again, and it was there—barely restrained chaos sitting just beneath his calm surface. His jaw was clenched, lips tight, but his eyes were screaming.
He was unraveling. And the only reason he hadn’t come completely undone… was her.
He didn’t need to say it. She could feel it in the way his fingers refused to let her go, the way he didn’t bother with explanations or pleasantries. This wasn’t about control or jealousy. This was survival.
So she didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions.
“Okay, let me tell my girls I’m leaving,” Sevyn said, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
Hassan nodded once and stepped back, watching her walk over to Dorian and Harper.
He saw their faces twist in confusion, hands gesturing, lips moving fast—but whatever Sevyn told them was enough.
Neither followed her, neither asked more.
She grabbed her black clutch and made her way back toward him, a fresh scowl painted across her face.
She didn’t want to leave. He knew it. But she did—for him.
The ride to the car was silent. He opened the door like always, and s he slid in, eyes forward, jaw clenched. Once he got in, the engine roared to life and he sped out of the club’s lot, tires screeching as they hit the main road.
“You and timing have a fucked-up relationship,” she muttered, arms folded, attitude dripping.
“Ah! That ain’t the only thing fucked up 'bout his ass!” Six-year- old Hassan’s voice echoed from the backseat like a bad memory that wouldn’t stay buried.
Hassan’s grip on the wheel tightened, knuckles white, jaw locked so hard his teeth ached. He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He was too close to the edge.
“Ouu, I gotta pee,” Sevyn suddenly groaned, shifting in her seat. “Where we going?”
“My house,” he replied, voice flat, sharp.
She groaned louder this time. “Can we go to mine instead? It’s closer and I really gotta go, Hassan, like… bad.”
He sighed, jaw still locked, but nodded. The last thing he needed tonight was Sevyn pissing on the seats of his Bentley. Still, as he took the next turn toward her place, her voice echoed in his head—sharp, annoyed, normal. And it grounded him just enough to keep the demons quiet… for now.
They finally pulled up to Sevyn’s building.
The moment the car stopped, she was out, heels clicking across the pavement as she practically sprinted inside, mumbling something to the security guard who gave Hassan a double take before nodding him through.
She was dancing on the elevator the whole ride up—not for fun, but because she was seconds from pissing herself.
Hassan watched the way her ass moved beneath the clingy dress, no panties in sight, and every version of him took notice.
“Damn… I see why you weak behind her,” ten-year-old Hassan muttered from the corner of the elevator. “She fine, got a fat ass, and I know that pussy wet, creamy, and sweet. I can smell it.”
Hassan pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, fighting the grin that threatened to crack through. He couldn’t deny it—he was thinking the same shit.
The elevator dinged, doors gliding open to reveal Sevyn’s penthouse. And just like that, Hassan was in another world.
It was all soft light and warm tones—beige, white, deep brown. Candles burned slow. Clean lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in moonlight. The scent of vanilla and sandalwood drifted in the air like a memory he wanted to keep.
She took off toward the stairs, calling out behind her, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
Hassan didn’t answer. He didn’t have to .
He stepped deeper into her space, trailing his fingers across the marble kitchen island, the soft texture of the couch, until his eyes landed on the console table—lined with frames.
Photos of Sevyn’s life in color. Her as a little girl, gap-toothed and glowing. Her parents hugging her at graduation. Dorian and Harper draped around her at some party, red cups in hand, laughing like life had never touched them.
And then the degrees—Bachelor’s in Behavioral Science. Master’s in Psychology.
Smart. Sharp. Whole. She was all the things he wasn’t.
“Nigga… she’s perfect,” six-year-old Hassan mumbled from the far end of the room. “Too perfect for your damaged ass.”
Hassan didn’t turn. He just stood there, staring at the proof of everything Sevyn was.
Her home wrapped around him like a blanket and a blade—comforting, but sharp enough to remind him of every part of himself that didn’t belong here.
The blood on his hands. The ghosts that trailed behind him like shadows.
The broken wiring in his brain he couldn’t fix.
Still, a part of him wanted to sit in that peace. To breathe in her world for just a little longer.
He was standing in a place that smelled like heaven, while hell whispered in his ear. And she had no idea what kind of storm just walked into her house.
Hassan didn’t want to be in her business too much, so he sank into the large beige sectional, letting the silence settle while he waited for her to come back down.
But the quiet didn’t last long. His demons were already there—sitting across from him, bloodied and grinning, ready to talk shit like they always did.
“Why you come into her life?” six-year-old Hassan asked, legs dangling over the edge of the coffee table. “To fuck her shit up like yours?”
Hassan’s jaw tensed.
“Yeah,” ten-year-old Hassan chimed in, voice dripping with venom. “’Cause that’s all his ass is. A fuck up. He know it—and that fine bitch upstairs? She know it too.”
Their words hit harder than he wanted to admit. He tried to block them out, to focus on the sound of Sevyn moving upstairs, but the voices crawled into his head and rooted there.
They were right.
She was perfect—beautiful in ways that weren’t just physical, the kind of woman that brought light into every room. And here he was…snatching her out of clubs, storming into her peace to dump his damage in her lap.
“Fuck y’all,” he muttered, low and cold .
“Who you talking to?” Sevyn’s soft voice floated down the stairs, gentle yet grounding.