Chapter 13

VICTORIA –

The music on a Monday is a different creature. It’s not the weekend’s pounding heart, but a steady, low pulse — a deep, resonant bass that you feel in your bones more than hear. It’s for people who don’t need to be convinced to forget their lives; they’re already professionals at it.

I stand on the mezzanine, a vantage point that is both my throne and my observation post. A glass of bourbon rests, mostly untouched, in my hand. My heels are planted firmly, my posture a studied display of ease that belies the constant, quiet calculation running beneath the surface. This is how I run my empire: from the periphery, calm, precise, a quiet eye watching everything until my presence is required.

Someone steps into the space beside me. I don’t need to turn. I know the rhythm of her walk — the soundless, efficient grace that never quite leaves you, even when you hang up the tactical gear.

“Jen.”

“Boss.”

Jennifer leans her forearms on the brass railing, her elbow a deliberate, familiar inch from mine. She used to work in the same line of business as me — the kind that happens in shadows and ends in quiet funerals. We ran missions together for years; she was my partner on more than a few high-stakes contracts. She was one of the best operatives I’ve ever known — precise, ruthless, and reliable.

But the work wears on you. The constant moral compromises, the blood on your hands that never quite washes off — it left a mark on her that eventually became too dark to ignore. She still believes in punishing the wicked, but she couldn’t stomach being the one to pull the trigger anymore.

So she left the field and came to work for me. Now she wears a tailored blazer instead of body armor, and she manages security and operations for the club. But you don’t just shed that kind of past. The stillness of a hunter is still there in her eyes, in the way she moves — controlled, aware, and always, always watching.

She knows the club’s rhythms better than I do, and she knows me better than most.

She lets a comfortable silence stretch, her gaze sweeping the floor below. Then, without looking at me, she speaks. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“It’s Monday.”

A faint smirk touches her lips. “You love Mondays. Less noise, more control.”

“I tolerate them.” I counter. 

“Mm.” She takes a sip of the smoky Scotch she always drinks. “You usually tolerate them with less tension in your shoulders.”

I don’t dignify that with a reply. She’s always been able to read my body better than my face.

“Let me guess,” she says, her tone lightly teasing. “You’re not distracted.”

I raise a single eyebrow. “You’re not my therapist.”

“No,” she agrees easily. “But I am the person who’s pulled your ass out of a few dark spirals. And I know that look. The one that says you’re somewhere else.”

“I’m fine.” The words come out automatically, a defensive reflex so ingrained it’s lost all meaning.

She just hums, a non-committal sound that conveys both skepticism and a refusal to push.

“You haven’t touched your drink,” she observes.

I glance down. The glass is warm in my hand, the ice long melted. I’d forgotten it was there. I take a slow sip, letting the familiar burn of the bourbon anchor me back in the moment.

Jennifer tilts her head, her study of me becoming more pointed. “Is this about the girl? The one from the other night?”

I keep my expression a carefully neutral mask, my eyes fixed on the crowd below. My silence is as telling as a confession.

She nods, a slow, understanding gesture. “Right.”

We stand in silence for a long moment, the muted life of the club unfolding beneath us.

Then Jennifer speaks again, her voice lower, meant only for me. “You know you don’t have to keep running from what you want, right?”

“I’m not running,” I counter, my voice cool and even.

“No,” she murmurs, tapping a finger lightly against her glass. “You’re just standing still in every room you should be walking into.”

I shoot her a look — sharp, but devoid of real anger. It’s a look that has made stronger men flinch. She just meets it with a calm, unwavering gaze.

She shrugs, a small, elegant movement. “Just saying. If she’s worth your time… maybe stop pretending like you don’t want to give it to her.”

And with that, she pushes off the railing and walks away, melting back into the shadows of the club.

Leaving me alone with my warming bourbon, the steady thrum of the music, and the one inconvenient truth I’ve been trying to outmaneuver all night:

She’s not wrong.

***

AVERY –

The city is a smear of light and motion outside my car window. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel. I passed my own street three blocks back. The logical part of my brain is screaming at me to turn around, go home, eat the cold takeout on my counter, and try to forget this day ever happened.

But my hands won’t turn the wheel.

I’m just driving, my body operating on a kind of desperate autopilot, carrying me toward the one place I told myself I wouldn’t go without a direct, clear invitation.

And now I’m here, sitting in my car across the street from Club Lilith, my mind racing with pathetic justifications.

The shower didn’t help. I still feel my boss’s slimy gaze on my skin.
The loud music didn’t help. It just drowned out the world without quieting the chaos in my head.
Juno’s purring didn’t help. Her simple, animal comfort couldn’t touch the deep, restless ache inside me.

The truth is, I feel like I’m coming apart. The memory of Victoria is the only solid thing in the whirlwind. Not just the sex, but the way she looked at me — like she could see every fractured piece and wasn’t afraid of them. The way she promised satisfaction with such certainty and then left me alone to deal with the aftermath, forcing me to confront the person I’m becoming.

And that person drove here.

What am I doing? What am I even going to say? ‘Hi, I know you walked out without a word, but my boss was a creep today and I can’t stop thinking about you?’

I have no idea if she wants to see me. The thought of her cold, dismissive stare makes my stomach clench. But the thought of going back to my empty, silent apartment, of being alone with my own furious, violent thoughts, is worse.

So I get out of the car.

The night air is cool. My boots make a solid, decisive sound on the pavement. My palms are damp and I feel unsteady, like my body isn’t entirely my own.

I hate this. I hate how much power she has over me already, how just the possibility of seeing her has my heart pounding like crazy. 

But I cross the street anyway.

I stop in front of the main entrance. The same impassive bouncers stand guard. One of them gives me a slight, almost imperceptible nod of recognition.

And for a full second, I just stand there, frozen.

What am I expecting? For her to sweep me into her arms? To solve all my problems with a single look?

No. It’s simpler, and more terrifying, than that.

I just need her to look at me. I need to see a flicker of something in her eyes—recognition, desire, anything — that proves I wasn’t just a fleeting distraction. I need to know that the connection I felt was real, and that I’m not the only one who’s been struggling to breathe since she walked out of that room.

And maybe, if I’m brave enough, I need to hear her admit it, too.

VICTORIA –

I’m in the middle of a conversation that’s all background noise. The man in front of me is a financier, the kind who thinks his money gives him the right to anything he wants. He’s talking about “synergistic branding opportunities” for the club, his eyes already mentally redecorating my space and counting his imaginary profits. I’m nodding along, my mind a thousand miles away, calculating the minimum number of responses required to be polite before I can walk away.

The entire room seems to blur and re-center, the financier’s voice fading into a dull hum as my world tunnels. There, amidst the chaos, is Avery. 

She walks through the main floor like she’s marching into a battle, her posture straight, her gaze sweeping the room with a determination I haven’t seen in her before. She isn’t dressed for the club. She’s in dark, simple jeans, sturdy boots, and a plain button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair is a little messy, and her glasses are perched on her nose. She looks real. She looks like she just left her own life behind and came here because she had to.

And God, it’s the most captivating thing I’ve seen all week.

The financier’s voice becomes static. The music fades. My entire focus narrows to her. I watch her scan the room, her eyes finally landing on me. There’s no hesitation in her step as she starts walking straight toward me.

I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

She stops right in front of me. Close enough that I can see the faint tension around her eyes, the way she’s biting the inside of her cheek.

The man beside me is still talking. “…so you see the potential for a mutually beneficial…”

I cut him off without looking away from Avery. “We’re done here.”

He stammers, “I—pardon?”

“The conversation is over,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

I don’t wait for his reply. My entire being is focused on the woman in front of me.

“Avery,” I say. Her name is a statement, an acknowledgment.

I see her swallow, a nervous flutter in her throat. “I wasn’t expecting you,” I add, keeping my voice low and even. It’s the truth. I thought my abrupt departure would have created more distance.

She gives a small, awkward shrug. “I… needed a distraction.” The words are simple, but the intensity in her eyes tells a deeper story. Something happened tonight.

I let my gaze travel over her casual clothes. “You’re not dressed for the floor.”

She glances down at herself, as if just remembering what she’s wearing. “Should I be?” she asks, her voice quiet but direct.

That straightforward honesty of hers disarms me. There’s no game, no pretense. Just a raw, open need.

“No,” I say, my decision made. “Not tonight.”

I turn and lead her away from the main lounge, through the private corridor. She follows closely, her presence a quiet hum at my back. I lead her not to one of the playrooms, but to my private sitting room — a space with deep armchairs, soft lighting, and a locked door. It’s for business, for thinking. Not for this. But tonight, it feels right.

I gesture to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

She does, immediately, folding her hands in her lap. The quick obedience sends an unexpected, possessive thrill through me. She’s looking at me with such open intensity, and I have to wonder if she can see how tightly I’m holding onto my own control.

I sit across from her, crossing my legs. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. I can feel the weight of everything unsaid between us — the other night, my leaving, whatever drove her here now.

Finally, I break the silence. My voice is softer than I intend. “What are you doing here, Avery?”

I need to hear her say it. Because if I don’t, I’m afraid of what I might ask for instead.