“He’s being blackmailed.”
“Who knows?”
“Right now?Just him.Let’s keep it that way.”
When she reaches for the folder, my hand comes down over it, stopping her.
“You must know I intend to find the source,” I say.
“Unless you’re the extortionist.”
I flinch.“I don’t need money, Ms.Morgan.My reputation—and my business—are inviolable.”
“Your sister said you’d never risk this club’s reputation.That’s the only reason I’m here.”
Of course Margot vouched for me.“What did you tell her?”
“That if this isn’t handled, your business goes under.Simple as that.”
No wonder Margot insisted.
“I need everything you have.”My employees.Everyone is a suspect.
“My client believes he’s not the only victim,” she says, sliding the folder out from under my hand and drawing it back toward her.“We’re meeting with an investigative team Friday.I want you there.”
“That’s four days.”
“There’s no demand yet.This was a preview.”
Her client must be political.A divorce.Exposure.Influence at stake.
“I’ll work with your team—on one condition.I take the lead on matters concerning the club.”
Her eyes narrow.“This folder is one piece of a much bigger case.”
“And I’ll root out the leak.If the leak isn’t the extortionist, the leak will lead you to the source.One team.My lead.”
A pause.“I can live with that.”She stands.“If I can move the meeting up, I will.Assume your schedule is flexible.”The tone is clipped, but when her gaze meets mine, there’s a flicker of something else—resolve that feels personal.She’s fighting for her client, yes, but also for principle.
“Send me everything—metadata, angles, locations.”
“These files aren’t moving.You want the digital assets, you come to me.Tomorrow.Eight a.m.”
When the door shuts, I stay where I am, staring out at the storm-darkened skyline.Three years I’ve poured into The Sanctuary—every detail perfected, every indulgence crafted, every weakness anticipated.It was meant to be untouchable, a refuge of discretion.Now someone intends to twist it into leverage, into a weapon.They picked the wrong business to undermine—and definitely the wrong man to cross.
I stand and walk to the windows, forehead nearly touching the cool glass.To some, the club offered exclusivity and connections.To others, the place offered velvet and shadows, elusive aromas, and silk against skin in darkened corners.I’d always understood what I was building: not just exclusivity, but permission.Permission to want—and act within the protective walls—without consequence.
And someone corrupted it.Turned sanctuary into weapon.
ChapterTwo
Adrien
Friday morning, Senator Crawford passes through security in the nondescript midtown Manhattan office tower minutes after I do.At the elevator bank, I watch him approach.No one in the lobby gives him a second look.For a man in the middle of a high-profile divorce, I’d have expected greater name recognition.Apparently, he’s less familiar to the public than a C-list celebrity.
His gaze flickers with recognition.I scan the suits in the lobby again to confirm no one’s paying attention, then extend a hand.“Good to see you,” I say, deliberately omitting his title.No reason to draw ears.
There are dozens of businesses in this office tower.Visiting Morgan Publicity doesn’t, in itself, mean anything.Still, I know how quickly rumors spread in Manhattan, and I prefer not to be the spark.
