Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
To our left, a roped-off section features plush booths and tinted windows, hinting at private gatherings. Across from that, the centerpiece of the club: a wide, curved white marble staircase that winds up to a second level I can’t fully see from here. Whatever’s up there, it’s probably even more exclusive. My heart pounds—this is definitely not a place I’ve ever been, or even imagined going. Yet, a forbidden thrill surges through me.
Lincoln leans close to my ear, his voice rumbling. “You okay?”
I swallow, nodding, the bass thrumming in my chest. “Better than okay,” I say, and I’m surprised by how breathy I sound. “This place is… intense.”
He offers me a half-smile, that flicker of warmth in his dark eyes. It’s only a second or two before he returns to the stoic mask he usually wears, scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. But for those few heartbeats, I catch a glimpse of the man behind the protective walls. Heat coils in my belly, remembering how close we got while shopping for these clothes, how he helped me zip my dress. The brush of his knuckles on my back, his eyes dark with longing even though he fought to stay composed.
Focus, Isabel, I chide myself. This is a mission.
The music shifts to a new track with heavier bass, making the floor vibrate under my heels. Lincoln’s hand remains at my lower back as we navigate through clusters of well-dressed couples. We reach the bar, finding two empty stools near one end. The bar itself is made of mirrored panels, each reflecting the throng of people in chaotic, kaleidoscopic angles. It’s almost dizzying.
I settle onto a stool, crossing my legs. The slit in my black dress falls open just enough to hint at my thigh, and I notice Lincoln’s gaze flick there for the briefest moment before he tears his eyes away. A tiny surge of satisfaction warms me. He might be ex-military, controlled and disciplined, but he’s not immune to me. Not entirely.
A bartender with platinum-blonde hair and a sleek black outfit approaches, leaning forward with a sultry grin. “What’ll it be?”
I exchange a glance with Lincoln. We want to appear like we belong, so we don’t want to order anything too plain. At the same time, I don’t want to overthink it. “Something sweet and strong,” I say with a playful arch of my brow.
Lincoln orders a whiskey neat. It’s fitting—he’s the stoic, no-frills type, and even here in this wild environment, it suits him perfectly. The bartender nods and sets to work, pulling bottles from behind the bar.
I take the chance to observe the clientele. A couple next to us is deep in conversation—scratch that, the woman is basically perched on the man’s lap, running her fingers through his hair while he murmurs something in her ear. Across the bar, two women sway on their stools, giggling as they share a neon-colored cocktail. The air is thick with desire. Everyone here seems to be chasing some form of decadent thrill, whether it’s physical, emotional, or maybe something more sinister.
Lincoln shifts closer, brushing his leg against mine in the limited space. “See anything interesting?” he asks, voice pitched low for my ears only.
I bite my lip, scanning the room. “Plenty. Although, I’m not sure we’re going to find Rolfe just by looking. He probably has his own suite or something.”
“Agreed,” Lincoln says, giving the crowd another sweeping glance. “But let’s see what we can learn from the staff before we go exploring.”
Just then, the bartender returns, placing a martini-style glass in front of me. It fizzes softly, pink foam at the top, and smells like strawberries and a hint of champagne. Lincoln’s whiskey gleams amber in a lowball glass. I thank the bartender with a smile, then take a sip. Sweetness explodes on my tongue, followed by a gentle burn of alcohol. It’s surprisingly good.
Lincoln picks up his whiskey. “We’re looking for someone,” he says calmly, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Heard he might be around tonight.”
The bartender narrows her eyes slightly. “Oh? Lots of someones come here. I’ll need a name.”
He leans closer, and I notice the way the overhead lights cast shadows on his sharp jawline. “Morris Rolfe.”
A spark of recognition flashes in her gaze, gone almost as quickly as it appears. She wipes down the counter with a rag, then leans in, lowering her voice. “Rolfe, huh? I’ve heard the name. He hosts private parties here sometimes. Invite-only.”
I exchange a look with Lincoln. So it’s true—Rolfe is indeed connected to this place.
I clear my throat. “We’d love to… attend one of those parties,” I say, allowing a hint of flirtation into my tone. “We came all this way, might as well make it worthwhile.”
The bartender smirks. “Parties like that aren’t for everyone,” she purrs, flicking her gaze between the two of us. “You need someone to vouch for you. Devereaux has his rules, and he doesn’t bend them easily—same goes for Rolfe.”