60. Chapter 55 #2
Her mother leaned forward slightly, her voice growing softer. “Nobody’s perfect. Not even those who perform on the biggest stages. But you know what makes them special? They believe in themselves. And they keep putting themselves out there.”
Evin looked up, meeting her mother's gaze and feeling the warmth within it. It wasn’t empty encouragement or exaggerated praise.
It was genuine. Her father grinned and took a sip of water.
“And let’s be honest, kiddo, if they don’t take you, you can always stay here.
We'd make a great teacher-ballerina team. Every time things get heated in the classroom, you can just dance right in and calm everyone down.”
Evin rolled her eyes but couldn't stop a small smile from forming on her lips. It was easy to feel safe in their presence, even when the pressure weighed heavily on her shoulders. It wasn't perfect, but here, in this moment, it was enough.
__________
Sebastian
F rom the outside, the restaurant looked unassuming.
But the moment they stepped inside, an atmosphere unfolded that felt like a soft, luxurious slap to the face.
The walls, painted in warm shades of cream and beige, were simple yet timelessly elegant, while the high ceilings gave the space an almost reverent vastness.
Light was everywhere—soft, golden, as if the sun itself had decided to drape this place in its finest glow.
Between the tables stood subtle floral arrangements, not ostentatious, but noticeable in their restraint.
Even the murmured conversations and occasional clinking of glasses sounded like part of a carefully composed symphony.
The waiters glided through the room, their movements nearly silent, as if ensuring they didn’t disturb a single note of the ambiance.
Each table felt like its own tiny universe—conversations, gestures, everything so private that interrupting them would have been a sacrilege.
The scent of freshly baked bread and delicate spices lingered in the air, not overpowering, but an invitation.
This was not a loud kind of luxury, but one that slipped quietly into the space and filled it completely, without ever having to announce itself.
And yet—how the hell could a restaurant be so damn quiet and still scream: “You don’t belong here?”
Bas let his gaze wander, feeling the details dig into him—the perfect symmetry of the napkins, the understated elegance of the decor, the muted lighting.
Everything here was designed to impress without trying.
He could sense how effortlessly his father fit into this place, while he himself felt like a visitor in a world that wasn’t his. His stomach tightened slightly.
"Ah, Donald. Alexander."
His father’s voice was as controlled as ever, almost casual, but Bas recognized the tension in his expression. He had seen it often enough. This was important.
Donald Cole was tall, with a firm handshake and a smile that was both friendly and razor-sharp. His son, Alexander, was the complete opposite—relaxed, charming, carrying an effortless ease that almost irritated Bas. His hair was perfectly styled, his grin so wide it was hard not to return it.
"Nice to meet you, Sebastian," Alexander said as he took his seat. "Your dad told me you’re into cars."
Bas nodded. "Yeah, that’s right. Mostly motorsports."
"Oh, cool." Alexander's eyes lit up. "I was in Monaco for the Grand Prix last year. Incredible experience. Maybe we can make it happen next year?"
The casualness of his tone almost made Bas laugh. Monaco. As if that was as normal as a weekend trip to San Diego.
"We’ll see. My schedule’s pretty packed." His voice dripped with sarcasm, but Alexander just laughed, as if Bas had made a joke.
The conversatio n at the table drifted between small talk and business matters.
Richard spoke about the real estate market, about “smart investments” and “future projects” that sounded like coded language to Bas.
He observed his father from the corner of his eye, watching how he nodded silently, weighing his words with surgical precision.
"And you, Sebastian?" Richard asked suddenly, leaning back with his glass of red wine in hand. "What do you think of New York?"
Bas hesitated, caught off guard by the attention.
"It’s… intense," he said finally. "But also a bit overwhelming when you’re coming from California."
Alexander grinned. "California. Sun, beaches, laid-back people. Honestly, that sounds better than all this madness here."
"Maybe," Bas replied slowly. "But New York has something. I feel like you either hate it or love it."
Donald nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Hate only comes when you end up in the wrong places, with the wrong people. It’s a good place to learn where you stand."
Bas heard the meaning behind those words.
His gaze shifted to his father, but Richard didn’t return it. Instead, he leaned back, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. As if he had already found the answer Donald was looking for.
__________
The conversations at the table dragged on endlessly.
Wine shimmered in expensive glasses, silverware clinked softly, and somewhere, someone laughed in that muted, cultured way that was slowly driving Bas insane.
Dinner had long since ended, but the adults saw no reason to leave.
His father was in the middle of a meticulously told story about a real estate acquisition, while Donald nodded along approvingly.
Bas felt like he was suffocating in slow motion.
He let his gaze drift across the table. Alexander looked just as disinterested as he was, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers, nodding occasional ly out of politeness but clearly not paying attention.
Eventually, Alexander leaned toward him. “Okay, this is nice and all, but I think I’ve learned enough about real estate to write an entire book.” His voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. “Up for something else?”
Bas cast a quick glance at the two men, who remained lost in their world of business discussions. Finally... He hesitated for a second, then nodded. “What do you have in mind?”
“A party. Way cooler than this. Trust me.”
Alexander grinned, pushed his chair back, grabbed his jacket, and clapped Bas on the shoulder.
“We’re stepping out for some fresh air,” he said loudly enough for the fathers to hear, but not question.
His father gave a brief nod, and that was all Bas needed.
They were out the door, away from stories about market fluctuations and corporate takeovers, and into the pulsing night of New York.
Alexander led Bas through a dark alley, where the streetlights cast more shadows than actual light.
The air was thick with the scent of damp asphalt and old trash, and every step echoed unnaturally loud between the walls.
Bas felt the city’s energy dissolve behind them, replaced by something quieter, more restrained.
Only the dull bass, vibrating like a distant heartbeat, pulled them forward.
The building ahead looked abandoned—like a ruin someone had hastily decided to revive.
Crumbling plaster, neon graffiti scrawled across the walls, a door hanging so crookedly it seemed like it could fall off its hinges at any moment.
Bas couldn’t believe anything was happening here—let alone something Alexander had described as "legendary. "
“This?” Bas whispered, raising an eyebrow.
Alexander glanced back, grinning as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “Wait and see.” He walked ahead, his gait relaxed, almost deliberately slow.
A massive bouncer, impossible to ignore, stood like a fortress in front of the rusted metal door.
His eyes scanned them both, lingering a few seconds longer on Bas.
The look made him uneasy, as if the guy were X-raying him from the inside out.
But Alexander stayed cool, leaning in slightly and murmuring somethin g Bas couldn’t make out.
The bouncer hesitated for a moment, then gave a curt nod toward the door.
The sound of it opening was deafening—a long, rusty creak that blended with the pulsing bass. And then, Bas stepped into an entirely different world.
The heat was the first thing that hit him—thick and humid, like a wall. The smell followed: sweat, smoke, sweet alcohol, and something metallic he couldn’t quite place. It was as if the air itself was alive, wrapping around him, holding him in place.
The electronic music wasn’t just loud—it was all-encompassing.
The bass vibrated so deep in his chest it nearly hurt.
The neon lights flickered in chaotic intervals—red, then blue, then green, as if they couldn’t decide which color best matched the insanity of the place.
The crowd was a single, sweating mass moving in waves, seemingly in sync with the beat but without any structure.
Recognizing faces was impossible—only blurred silhouettes, twitching movements, arms raised high.
It felt like a trance, like a high, even though Bas hadn’t had a single drink yet.
Alexander navigated through the crowd like he belonged there. Bas followed closely, trying not to get swallowed up by the movement, but every step felt like a battle. The music, the lights, the bodies—it was too much, yet he couldn’t stop watching. It was terrifying, raw, and somehow... thrilling.
What the hell am I doing here?
The thought barely formed before Alexander suddenly stopped and turned to him. His grin was even wider now, his eyes shining under the erratic flashes of light.
“Welcome, Sebastian,” he called over the noise. “This is New York like you’ve never seen it before.”
Alexander leaned dramatically against the bar, his movements exaggerated, like he owned the entire room. The flickering neon glow highlighted the sheen of sweat on his forehead as he reached into the pocket of his jacket with a triumphant smirk. Bas instinctively furrowed his brows.