Chapter 4: The Man in the Shadows

The velvet hallway leading to the VIP lounge felt like another world entirely.

Gone was the thump of music, the blur of dancers and glitter, the heat of watching eyes. Here, everything was quieter. Slower. A place where secrets could stretch out and settle in the dark.

Isabel followed the hostess with measured steps. Her heels were suddenly too loud on the carpet. Her chest too tight beneath her glittery top.

She’d never done a private dance.

Jenna had assured her it was safe—“There’s always security watching, babe. And you don’t have to touch them if you don’t want to. Just… give them the fantasy.”

Easy for Jenna to say.

They reached a curtained booth, where the hostess gave her a wink and whispered, “You’ve got twenty minutes. Client’s already paid. And tipped.”

The curtain swished aside, and Isabel stepped into shadows.

He sat at the far end of the booth, back relaxed against the cushions, one arm stretched casually over the top as if he owned the air itself. A low amber light glowed from above, casting his sharp features into half-light.

She couldn’t see his eyes. But she felt them.

Watching. Waiting.

She swallowed, her throat dry. “Hi. I’m Belle.”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He lifted one finger—just slightly. A gesture of permission.

Her heart knocked once, hard.

She moved to the rhythm of the soft background music, letting her hips sway with just enough uncertainty to keep the illusion. Every step closer made her feel more exposed, not because of the outfit—but because of his silence.

He wasn’t ogling her.

He was reading her.

She rolled her shoulders, let the robe slip down her arms, her movements slower now, more fluid. She climbed onto the edge of the platform in front of him, putting space between them still, because something in her bones said he wasn’t like the others.

Not bored.

Not drunk.

Not buying pleasure just to pass the night.

No, this one wanted to see who she really was beneath it all.

She twisted her body into a turn, letting the ends of her hair brush his knee. He didn’t flinch.

She leaned in closer, hands braced on either side of his thighs, teasing the proximity, searching for the sound of his breath.

Nothing.

Then—just as she moved to back away—his hand came up.

Not to touch.

But to brush the air in front of her, like he was tracing the outline of her silhouette.

The warmth of his skin was startling. Even without contact, it seared.

“You’re new,” he said.

His voice was a velvet knife—low, refined, with an accent that curled at the edges.

“Yes,” she answered before she could stop herself. “First night.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

The music hummed. She circled him now, finding her rhythm. Her confidence slipped back on like perfume, bit by bit.

“You don’t talk much,” she said.

“I listen.”

She wanted to roll her eyes but didn’t. Something about the way he sat there—still, deliberate, untouchable—made her want to earn his reaction. His praise. His touch.

She danced slower now, letting her hands slide over her own body, showing him what she imagined he wanted to see. Her breath hitched when she caught his gaze in full for the first time—deep, dark eyes that didn’t flinch or flicker.

He looked at her like he’d seen her before.

But that was impossible.

Still, her skin tingled as if it were true.

She didn’t mean to make a sound when he leaned forward—but the breath slipped out anyway.

Not fear. Not exactly.

But something sharp and sudden. Something like being seen.

Isabel froze in the small space between them, her hands still on her own waist, her lips parted in a question she didn’t know how to ask.

He didn’t reach for her.

Not right away.

He only sat there, elbows on his knees, eyes dragging over her like she was a mystery written in another language. And for the first time tonight, she didn’t feel like she was performing.

She felt… undone.

“You’re not like the others,” he said quietly.

She tilted her head. “Is that a line?”

“No,” he said simply.

His voice was low enough to be felt rather than heard, a vibration she couldn’t shake even after she stepped back, trying to remember what she was supposed to be doing.

The music throbbed in the background—something slow, sultry, rhythmic—but she was no longer moving in time with it. She was moving to him.

Isabel turned her back to him, letting her spine arch slowly, hair falling over one shoulder. She could feel his gaze like hands, trailing up the length of her legs, over her hips, to the soft curve of her lower back.

And then—

A touch.

Light.

Just fingertips.

He brushed the edge of her waist, and she nearly gasped.

He didn’t pull her down. He didn’t grab.

He asked without speaking.

And her body… answered.

She turned back toward him. Slowly. Her hands resting on his knees now, closing the distance as if sleepwalking toward something she shouldn’t want. Their faces were inches apart.

She could see the angle of his jaw in the dim light, the line of his mouth, the faintest shadow of stubble.

He wasn’t beautiful in the traditional way.

He was too intense for that. Too sharp. Older.

But he was captivating.

She couldn’t tell what color his eyes were—too dark, too deep. But they didn’t look away.

They held her like gravity.

His hand moved again—up to her shoulder, brushing a strap of her dress back into place.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

But she wasn’t. Not really. Something in her was spinning too fast, unspooling. She wasn’t used to being the one seen. Not like this. Not like prey and power and poetry all wrapped in the same glance.

“Why did you choose me?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

He didn’t smile. But something in his expression shifted, the ghost of an answer playing across his lips.

“I didn’t,” he said. “You chose me.”

She blinked.

His hand slid from her shoulder down her arm, fingers brushing her wrist. The touch was almost reverent.

And then—he pulled her in.

Gently.

Not demanding, but undeniable.

Her legs straddled his lap now, her breath caught between them, her hands planted carefully against his chest. The fabric of his shirt was smooth beneath her palms, but the body beneath it was hard. Still. Waiting.

He didn’t kiss her.

He didn’t move.

He just looked at her. Let the weight of the moment settle between them.

Isabel’s throat felt dry. Her mouth opened to say something—anything—but no words came.

He leaned in, his mouth just beside her ear.

“Come back with me to my penthouse.”