A velvet rope. Black SUVs. Men in suits with earpieces, faces blank as stone.
My mouth goes dry.
“This place opened a month ago,” Luke says. “It’s exclusive.”
“It’s… a lot,” I whisper.
Luke chuckles. “You’ll get used to it.”
We pull up, and a bouncer looks into the car, then at Luke, then steps aside immediately.
No waiting.
No questions.
“How do they know you?” I ask.
Luke’s eyes flick toward me. “Salazar Huntington, my boss, owns it.”
“Your boss,” I repeat, because I still don’t know what Luke does for a living. Just vague business talk and long hours and money that shows up like magic.
His car is expensive. His clothes are expensive. His life feels expensive.
I’m a bookstore girl with a room above a shop and a bank account I check twice before I buy new boots.
Sometimes I catch myself thinking I should be grateful he ever looked at me.
That he chose me.
Luke puts his hand on my back as we walk inside. “Just smile,” he murmurs. “Be pretty.”
The club is dim and glossy. Velvet booths. Mirrored walls. Music pulsing through the floor.
People laugh too loudly. Men watch too closely.
I keep my shoulders straight and try to look like I belong.
Luke moves through the crowd with easy confidence, greeting men with quick nods. A woman in a black dress glances at me and looks away like I’m nothing.
We pass the bar and head toward a guarded door.
The guard opens it immediately.
The music dulls as we step into a quieter hallway.
Warm air. Thick perfume.
And applause.
My pulse stutters.
Luke’s hand tightens on my waist.
“Don’t talk,” he says softly. “Just follow.”
A cold thread slides down my spine.
The guard opens another door, and the room beyond steals the air from my lungs.
