The jazz music played slow, the club dark and burgundy, secrets spoken in every corner.
"Another shot of tequila," I said, sliding the glass across the counter.
"Slow night, huh?" Mikey asked, placing the shot in front of me.
Mikey and I had been friends since I arrived in the city. When I first came to New York at twenty—fresh from escaping my home country—I was the black sheep, lost and unmoored. Mikey helped me find my white coat. If angels existed, he was proof.
I sighed lazily, lifting my hazelnut-brown eyes to him. "It does feel slow. Still young, though. I just want to escape it and head home."
I finished the shot, the burn settling in my chest, and let my gaze drift across the room. Nothing new—just familiar faces and repeat customers.
Then something intriguing caught my eye.
He sat alone, legs crossed. Blonde hair, perfectly styled yet deliberately messy. I blinked, focusing. Peppermint-green eyes—cool, sharp, refreshing. Even seated, he carried height. Presence. The kind of man who cast a shadow before he entered a room.
I stood, adjusting my dress. It was tight, but I liked how it hugged me—my waist, my chest, my slender yet curvy hips. My heels clicked against the floor as I walked, hips swaying, heads turning. I saw none of them.
Only him.
His cologne reached me first—clean, expensive, dangerous.
I scoffed softly to announce myself. He didn't flinch.
Interesting.
I slid into the seat beside him, poured his drink into my glass, and took a sip.
"Confident, aren't we?" he said, swirling what remained in his glass, still not looking at me.
"Finally got your attention," I replied, studying him. Designer suit. Luxury watch. Even the pen resting on the table whispered money.
"My name is Bendriwetch Hallison," I said, extending my hand.
He ignored it. Took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke in my direction.
"Alistair Charles Whitmore," he said coldly. "What do you want? I'm a man of many businesses. Frenemies. Enemies."
He finally looked at me then, peppermint eyes no longer calm. "So tell me which one you plan to be."
Something stirred in me—not fear. Excitement. And something dangerously close to desire.
"Then why would a man of such caliber be sitting alone in a bar?" I asked, crossing my legs, letting a glimpse of my thigh show. "Seems to me you're lonely."
I stood. "My apologies for interrupting your peace."
"Wait."
His voice was low, hoarse. Commanding.
"Bring your ass back here," he said. "I didn't give you permission to leave my presence."
"And I didn't ask for permission to get close to you," I whispered near his ear. "So I'd say we're even."
I pulled away. The corner of his mouth lifted.
"Feisty," he murmured—and then his hand was on my waist, pulling me back until I landed on his lap.
I gasped, steadying myself. "I'm very picky about the men I get close to."
His fingers tipped my chin upward. Our breathing synced. He leaned in.
I turned my head at the last second and stole another sip of his drink. "Not here," I said lightly. "Too many eyes."
I grabbed my purse and headed for the exit.
"You're not escaping me, princess."
His steps caught up with mine. He gripped my arm—firm, controlled—and steered me toward the parking lot.
I expected something loud. Something that begged for attention.
Instead, he stopped beside a vintage Porsche.
It sat a little apart from the others, low and understated, its curved body catching the streetlight in a way that felt almost deliberate. The paint was dark—so dark it swallowed color, deep green or black, I couldn't tell—and it reflected the city lights like a secret it wasn't sharing. While the other cars screamed for attention, this one simply waited.
Up close, I noticed the details. The round headlights, calm and unblinking. The thin chrome trim, polished but not new. Nothing about it felt accidental, and nothing about it felt young. This was a car that had lived—and been kept.
He unlocked it with a quiet click. No flashing lights. No noise. Just certainty.
When he opened the door for me, the smell hit first—leather, old and clean, the kind that clings to memory. The seat was cool when I slid in, worn smooth by time, as if it already knew the shape of the person who belonged there. The interior was simple, almost intimate. Black dials. White numbers. No screens, no distractions.
When he started the engine, it didn't announce itself. It hummed low and steady, confident enough not to perform. The sound settled into the space between us, controlled and unmistakably expensive.
I looked at him then—really looked—and understood.
The car wasn't a flex. It was an extension.
I adjusted the mirror, fixing my makeup.
"What's the point?" he said. "It'll be ruined soon."
I smiled. "Don't count your chicks before they hatch."
The car stopped in front of a hotel so exclusive it made my chest tighten. Staff bowed as he passed. His presence bent the air.
He spoke little, swiped a gold card, and ushered us into a private elevator. Forty-five floors later, silence.
The door opened to elegance—clean lines, muted luxury, money that didn't need proof.
"No distractions, Miss Hallison," he said, nodding toward the bedroom. "Let's get down to business."
I followed.
The door clicked shut behind us.
I pushed him onto the bed. He laughed—surprised, amused.
"You keep amazing me," he said. "Patience clearly isn't your virtue."
I kissed his neck, removed his watch, his cufflinks, his rings—piece by piece. Made him still.
From my purse, I produced the handcuffs.
"Ready for a game?"
"The ball's in your court, princess."
I cuffed his wrists to the bedframe. Only then did his smile sharpen.
I kissed him once—just once—then stood, collecting his trousers, his watch, the gold pendant resting against his chest.
His body tensed. "You'd better hope this is part of the game."
I smiled. "Life's a gamble. Sometimes you win."
I lifted the trousers, letting the weight of cash speak for itself. "Tonight—you lost."
I slipped everything into my purse, blew him a kiss, and walked out.
Behind me, his curses shattered the quiet.
Then came laughter.
Low. Unhurried.
Monstrous.
"You can run, princess," he said softly. "But the world isn't big enough to hide you."
As the elevator doors slid shut, my phone vibrated.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: You forgot something.
A photo followed—taken from inside the room.
My reflection.
In his mirror.