Midnight System: Rise of The Broken Lover

Chapter 3: Lana!

Chapter Three: Lana!

"Grace."

Dylan's voice came out strangled, barely above a whisper. His chest felt like it was caving in, each breath sharp and painful. He stared at her, willing the face to change, to become someone else's. Anyone else's.

But it didn't.

It was her. Grace Bennet. His girlfriend.

The old man's face twisted into something ugly. "What did you just say?" he demanded.

Dylan didn't hear him. His eyes were locked on Grace—on the way she clutched the duvet to her chest, on the smudged makeup around her eyes, on the way she wouldn't meet his gaze.

His gaze flicked between the old man and her, as if the answer might lie in the space between them.

"Grace," he said again, louder this time. "What are you doing here?"

The man stood, his pale chest rising and falling with indignation. "Answer me, boy. Who the hell do you think you are, barging in here and—"

Something snapped.

Dylan lunged.

He didn't think. Didn't plan it. His body moved on instinct, rage flooding every muscle. He slammed into the man, driving him back onto the bed. His fists came down once, twice, a third time, each impact sending a jolt up his arms.

"How dare you!" The words tore from his throat. "What did you do? How could you…"

The woman screamed.

Footsteps thundered in the hallway. The door burst open and two guards grabbed Dylan by the arms, wrenching him backward. He thrashed against their grip, his vision blurred with fury.

"Let me go!"

They didn't. Their hands locked around his biceps like iron cuffs, dragging him away from the bed.

The old man rose slowly, touching his jaw. Blood trickled from his lip. His face had gone dark, his eyes cold with rage.

He crossed the room in three strides and slapped Dylan across the face.

The crack echoed through the suite. Dylan's head snapped to the side, his cheek burning.

"You dare touch me?" The man's voice was low, dangerous. "Do you have any idea who I am? I could have you thrown in a cell and forgotten by morning."

He raised his hand again.

"Please." The woman's voice cut through the tension. She'd pulled on a T-shirt and now stood between them, her hands pressed against the old man's chest. "Don't. He's not worth it."

"Not worth it?" The man looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "This bastard just assaulted me!"

"I know." Her voice was soothing, practiced. "But look at him. He's nobody. A waiter. Don't waste your energy on him."

Dylan's breath caught. He stared at her, searching her face for some sign of recognition, some hint of the woman who’d sold her necklace to buy him shoes.

Nothing.

"Grace," he said, his voice cracking. "What are you talking about?"

The old man turned to her, his brow furrowing. "Lana. Do you know this fool?"

Lana?

The woman—Grace, Lana—met Dylan's eyes for the first time since the guards had grabbed him. Her expression was ice.

"Know him?" She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "He’s a nobody. A waiter. An ordinary server. Why would I lower myself to speak to someone like him? What could I possibly be doing with him? What would I be doing with a waiter?"

She was obviously angered by that question.

The words hit harder than the slap.

Dylan felt something inside him crack wider, splintering into pieces he'd never be able to put back together.

"You're lying," he said, but his voice had lost its strength. "Grace, stop lying."

"My name is Lana." Her tone was dismissive, bored. "He must have me confused with someone else."

"Lana..." Dylan started.

"Shut him up," the old man snapped.

The door flew open again. The supervisor rushed in, his face pale with panic. His eyes swept the room—landing on Dylan, still held by the guards, then on the old man's bleeding lip.

"Sir, I am so sorry." He didn’t even ask what had happened, just started apologizing, the words tumbling out in a frantic stream. "I don't know what he was thinking. He's completely out of line. This is inexcusable."

"Get him out of here," the old man said coldly. "And make sure he never works anywhere on this island again—unless you want to be a part of this."

The supervisor grabbed Dylan's arm. "You heard him. Let's go."

"Grace!" Dylan twisted in their grip, trying to see her face one more time. "Grace, please!"

She turned away.

---

They dragged him through the resort's gleaming hallways, past guests in evening wear who paused their conversations to stare. Dylan's shoes—Grace's shoes—scraped against the marble floor.

Outside, the courtyard was beautiful. Golden lights hung from the trees, casting soft shadows across the perfectly trimmed hedges. A fountain gurgled nearby, its water catching the glow like liquid gold.

They threw him onto the tiles.

The first punch caught him in the ribs. He doubled over, gasping. The second hit his shoulder. Then his back. The blows came methodically, professionally—like they'd done this before.

Dylan didn’t fight back. What was the point?

When they finally stopped, he lay there, tasting blood. The supervisor’s shoes appeared in his blurred vision.

"I don't know how you got this job," the man said, his voice dripping with contempt. "But you're done. No paycheck. Nothing."

Something hit Dylan's chest. His phone. Then his bag, the contents spilling across the ground.

"Get out."

Two guards hauled him to his feet and shoved him toward the gates. His legs barely held him. Each step sent pain shooting through his ribs.

The iron gates clanged shut behind him.

Dylan stumbled down the path, away from the resort’s warm lights, into the darkness beyond. The night air was cool against his face, but it didn’t soothe the burning in his chest.

He walked without direction, one foot in front of the other, his mind replaying the scene over and over.

Why would I know someone like him?

He’s an ordinary server. A nobody.

My name is Lana.

He'd given her everything. Not money—he'd never had that—but everything else. His time, his trust, his heart. He'd believed in her when the whole world told him he was a fool.

And she'd looked at him like he was nothing.

Dylan's hand went to his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen was cracked from the fall, but it still worked. He opened his messages, scrolling to Grace's name.

Grace: I'm so proud of you.

The words stared back at him, mocking. He read them again, then again, until they stopped making sense.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

Then he put the phone away.

What was there to say? She'd already said everything that mattered, standing in that room in another man's arms, calling Dylan nobody.

He kept walking, his shoes crunching against the gravel path. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against the shore. The sound should have been peaceful.

Instead, it just felt empty.

Dylan didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t know what came next. All he knew was that the island, the job, the future he’d imagined—it was all gone.

And so was Grace.