Chapter 5: Strangers and Champagne

The curtain whispered shut behind her, and for a moment, Isabel stood in the hallway like she’d just stepped out of a fever dream.

The club noise returned like a wave—bass-heavy music, drunken laughter, the clink of glass—and yet it all felt oddly distant. Like she’d left part of herself back in that velvet-draped room.

She wrapped her arms around her middle and took a shaky breath.

Come back with me to my penthouse.

The words still echoed in her ears.

Her heels clicked sharply on the polished floor as she searched through the dim corridors until she spotted Jenna near the bar, mid-conversation with one of the other girls. She wore confidence like a crown now—hair tousled, makeup glowing under the violet light, money folded into the waistband of her skirt.

When she saw Isabel approaching, her grin widened.

“Well damn,” Jenna said, grabbing Isabel by the wrist. “I thought you ghosted.”

“I—I needed air,” Isabel said quickly, pulling her close. “He asked me to go with him.”

Jenna’s brow lifted. “Go with him? Like, go go?”

Isabel nodded.

“To his penthouse.”

“Oh shit.” Jenna’s grin turned sly. “The man’s got a penthouse?”

Isabel didn’t answer. Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “It’s a lot.”

Jenna tilted her head. “But you want to?”

“I don’t even know his name.”

Jenna’s laugh was soft but not mocking. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Isabel glanced over her shoulder, heart still pounding. “What if I regret it?”

“Then leave,” Jenna said with a shrug. “No one’s chaining you. But come on, Izzy. You’ve been stuck in that good girl box your whole life. You said it yourself—we’re doing this once. It’s our one reckless night.”

Isabel hesitated, shifting her weight. Her shoes suddenly felt too tall, her makeup too heavy.

“I’m not like you,” she whispered.

“No,” Jenna agreed. “You’re not. You’re softer. But maybe he saw that too. And maybe he wants you, not some half-drunk stripper pretending to like him.”

Isabel blinked.

Something loosened in her chest.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” she asked.

“Babe,” Jenna smirked, glancing at the bartender who was already sliding another drink toward her, “I’m living.”

A man in a black suit appeared at Isabel’s side then, crisp and expressionless.

“Miss?” he said. “Your ride is waiting.”

Jenna leaned in and whispered, “If he murders you, text me first.”

“How would I text you if I’m already murdered? You dummy.” She whispered.

“I don’t know. Drop a quick voice note.” Jenna said.

Isabel smiled nervously, gave her friend’s hand one last squeeze, and followed the man through the club, back through winding hallways and toward a private entrance. The farther they walked, the quieter it became—until the thump of the music was just a memory and the night air kissed her skin like relief.

Outside, a sleek black BMW waited at the curb. Its windows tinted, its engine silent but humming with power.

The back door opened.

He sat inside, still in shadow, though the streetlight carved a silver line across his jaw.

She hesitated at the door.

His eyes lifted to hers.

No words.

Just an unspoken invitation.

She got in.

The door clicked shut behind her, the car pulling away into the night with silent precision. Her heart beat wildly in her throat, but she didn’t look back.

She was no longer Isabel from the bar.

Not tonight.

The ride was usually surreal and calm.

No small talks. Just smooth driving until they got to the high class area of town, so she thought.

The vehicle came to a stop after a while and they walked into a building. Then the elevator.

The elevator ride was hushed, tense in a way that made Isabel’s skin prickle. She stood beside him, hyper-aware of the space between them. Every flicker of the soft light above cast shadows along his jawline, sharpening the mystery in his silence.

Her heart thudded, loud in her ears.

When the doors slid open to his penthouse, she wasn’t ready.

It was… breathtaking.

Wide glass windows framed the skyline in silver and black. Smooth marble floors gleamed beneath her boots. The air smelled like expensive wood polish and something darker—leather and cologne.

Minimalist furniture. Subdued art. Low jazz playing somewhere in the background. It felt like a sanctuary for someone who didn’t want to be touched, or maybe someone who couldn’t stop wanting.

He walked past her without speaking, tossing his jacket on a sleek chair. “Drink?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

He poured something amber into two glasses and handed one to her. Their fingers brushed. Hers trembled.

She took a sip. It burned. She winced.

“Scotch,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I doubt that,” she said, but laughed quietly. “Still trying.”

He raised his glass. “To trying.”

They clinked glasses. A moment of calm.

Then she followed him to the velvet sectional. He sank into it with a kind of practiced weariness, and she sat at the opposite end, perching like a stranger in someone else’s life.

“You’ve never done this before,” he said after a beat.

She blinked. “What gives me away?”

“You looked scared. At the club. But then you danced like you were chasing something.”

She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe I was.”

He tilted his head. “Did you catch it?”

“I’m not sure.”

He set his glass down. “You didn’t tell me your real name.”

“That obvious?”

He gave her a faint smirk. “‘Belle’ doesn’t suit you.”

She exhaled. “It’s Celia.”

He nodded, like he already knew.

Silence stretched between them—thick with unsaid things.

She leaned back, the alcohol making her limbs loose, her words looser. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t do this.”

He moved closer, slow and deliberate. “Neither do I.”

Their eyes held. She didn’t stop him when he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His thumb lingered at her jaw.

Her breath hitched.

And then he kissed her.

Not a soft brush of lips—but something deeper. Intentional. Hot. His hand cupped the back of her neck as her mouth opened beneath his, tasting the scotch on his tongue, the want behind his quiet.

She kissed him back.

Something cracked open inside her.

She climbed onto his lap before she even realized it, her thighs straddling his legs, her hands clutching his shoulders like they were the only solid thing keeping her grounded.

His palms spread low on her back, fingertips sliding under her shirt, up the curve of her spine.

She moaned against his mouth.

Their bodies pressed together, friction teasing, building. Her hips shifted. He exhaled sharply, one hand gripping her waist, the other moving up to her ribcage, coaxing the fabric higher.

Her dress buckled at her waist.

She barely noticed it—just the sudden shock of cool air on hot skin, the way his eyes darkened as they swept over her.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and kissed down her neck, along her collarbone, until she shivered.

Her fingers found the hem of his shirt. He helped her tug it off.

Skin met skin. Heat surged.

He leaned back on the couch, letting her hover over him. She leaned in, pressing her lips to the corner of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, tasting him like a dare.

His hands roamed—slow, reverent, greedy.

When he dipped his mouth to her chest, capturing her perked nipples into his mouth, and sucked, her head fell back with a sound she couldn’t bite down.

But just as his hand began to drift lower, sliding past the waistband of her panties, she caught it—fingers gripping his wrist.

He paused.

Their breath mingled. Her cheeks flushed, lips swollen.

“I—” she whispered, swallowing. “I don’t do this.”

His hand stilled. He looked up at her.

And then smiled. Not mocking. Not smug. Soft.

“Neither do I,” he said quietly. “But I want to.”

Her eyes widened.

She let go of his hand… slowly. But she didn’t let it go further.

Instead, she leaned her forehead against his, heart thundering, pulse fluttering like wings in a cage.

“I should go,” she whispered.

He nodded once but didn’t move.

“Stay the night, I won’t lay a finger on you.” He stated.

It felt like an order rather than a request.

She kissed him again—gentler this time. Like thanks. Like maybe.

“Okay.” She said.

And then she slid off his lap, pulling her dress over flushed skin, breathing ragged.

He stayed where he was, watching her. That unreadable look back in his eyes.

“Do you want to go to the bathroom?” he asked, voice low.

She hesitated.

“Yes,” she said. “Thanks.”

She turned to the hallway.

His voice followed her like velvet. “Follow me.”