Chapter 10 (Part 02)

Inside the club was another world entirely.

Not the kind of world you wandered into by accident, but the kind you had to earn your way into through connections or wealth or, apparently, strategic flirtation with men who held unspoken power over velvet ropes.

The ceilings were high—vaulted and arched like the inside of a cathedral, but painted in sleek obsidian and gold that caught the light from dozens of sources and threw it back in warm, shifting patterns. Enormous chandeliers hung low enough to cast intimate pools of illumination across crystal tables that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Every bottle behind the bar glimmered like treasure, their labels bearing names I recognized from magazines but had never dreamed of tasting. There were no plastic cups anywhere in sight, no sticky floors that grabbed at your shoes with every step. The women were dressed in designer labels and walked like they'd never known discomfort, their posture speaking of yoga classes and personal trainers and lives unencumbered by financial anxiety. The men wore suits tailored with the kind of precision that turned fabric into armor, their watches catching the light as they gestured with drinks that probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget.

It didn't look like a club in any sense that I understood the word.

It looked like money.

It smelled like money too—leather and perfume and champagne that never touched store shelves, air that had been filtered and scented and calibrated to suggest luxury at every breath. Whispers of jazz played between bass drops, creating a sophisticated soundtrack that somehow managed to be both intimate and energizing. The walls were painted a deep, romantic red that made everyone's skin look warmer, more golden, more alive. Every surface reflected light in carefully calculated ways, and I realized that even the lighting had been designed by someone who understood how to make people look their best.

I turned in a slow circle, feeling completely out of place despite the dress and the heels and the successful negotiation that had gotten us past the line. This wasn't my world—it wasn't even a world I'd known existed outside of movies and magazine spreads.

"Layla," I hissed, catching her sleeve before she could disappear into the crowd that moved around us like an elegant, expensive river, "how did we even get permission to enter this place?"

She smirked, her eyes already scanning the room with the practiced efficiency of someone mapping out the evening's possibilities. "Why else do you think we used that hottie to get past the line?"

"I thought we were going to, like, a lounge. Maybe a rooftop bar. This is—this is an event." My voice carried a note of panic that I hoped wasn't as obvious to her as it was to me.

"It's Saturday night in Midtown," she said, as if that explained everything. "The real kind."

Before I could respond with questions about what constituted "the real kind" of Saturday night and whether I was equipped to handle it, she leaned in again and added, with the tone of someone delivering particularly juicy gossip:

"And by the way, he can't stop looking at you."

"What?"

I turned, following her gaze, and—yep.

There he was.

The guy from outside, the one who'd been my unwitting accomplice in bypassing an hour-long wait, was walking toward me through the crowd with two drinks in hand and the kind of smile that made promises I wasn't sure I wanted to hear. He moved with the confidence of someone who belonged here, navigating the space between tables and groups of people with the ease of familiarity.

Layla patted my back with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just successfully executed a complex plan. "Have fun, sugar," she said, then disappeared into the crowd like a magician leaving me mid-act, abandoned on stage with no idea what my next trick was supposed to be.

"Great," I muttered to the empty space where my best friend had been standing just moments before.

And then he was there, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes and count the number of buttons on his shirt—three, all undone, revealing just enough chest to suggest that the gym membership was being put to good use.

"Thought I owed you a drink," he said, offering a glass with a lime slice perched perfectly on the rim like a tiny green flag of surrender.

"Thanks." I accepted the drink, grateful for something to do with my hands, and took a tentative sip. Not too strong—vodka soda, clean and safe, the kind of drink that wouldn't impair my judgment too quickly.

We stood awkwardly for a moment, two strangers connected by nothing more than a brief transaction and the mutual recognition that we were both playing roles we might not entirely understand. The music pulsed around us, creating a rhythm that seemed to demand movement, but neither of us seemed willing to be the first to suggest dancing.

"So, mystery girl," he said over the music, leaning closer so his voice would carry without shouting, "what's your name?"

I hesitated, caught between honesty and the growing sense that tonight was about becoming someone else entirely. Then: "Emery."

"Emery." He repeated it like he was tasting wine, rolling the syllables around to see how they felt in his mouth. "Pretty. And rare."

"You've met other Emerys?" I asked, surprised by my own curiosity about his dating history.

"Only in books. Usually ones who get killed off early."

I raised a brow, not sure whether to be amused or concerned by this particular piece of literary analysis. "That's comforting."

"I mean it as a compliment," he said quickly, recognizing that his attempt at cleverness might have missed its mark.

"Sure." The word came out drier than I'd intended, but he didn't seem deterred by my skepticism.

He leaned in slightly, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "You always this hard to impress?"

"Only when I've had a long week."

"Let me guess. Job from hell?"

I looked at him—really looked this time, taking in the details I'd missed during our brief encounter outside. Clean jawline that suggested good genetics and possibly professional maintenance. Leather jacket that was soft enough to be expensive but worn enough to suggest it wasn't just for show. Polished but casual, confident but not in the same calculated way that Killian was confident.

This guy was used to being looked at, admired, desired. His confidence came from external validation, from knowing that he was attractive and charming and successful enough to navigate spaces like this one without question.

Killian's confidence was different—deeper, more dangerous. Killian was used to being obeyed.

The comparison hit me unexpectedly, and I realized that my boss had somehow followed me into this glittering sanctuary, his presence lingering in my thoughts even when I was dressed like someone else entirely, talking to someone who represented everything he wasn't.

"It's not the job that's the problem," I said, swirling the straw in my drink and watching the lime slice bob like a tiny life preserver. "It's the… management."

He laughed, the sound genuine and sympathetic. "Ah. One of those bosses."

I didn't answer immediately, because I wasn't about to explain that my boss didn't scream or threaten or throw tantrums like the stereotypical difficult supervisor. He didn't need to raise his voice to command attention, didn't need to make threats to ensure compliance. He just existed in a way that rearranged the air in any room he entered, shifted the gravitational pull until everyone else was orbiting around him whether they realized it or not.

And lately, I'd become increasingly aware of my own orbit.

"You in finance?" he asked, apparently interpreting my silence as an invitation to continue the getting-to-know-you portion of our evening.

I shook my head. "Corporate administration."

"So, very important." His tone suggested he was either genuinely impressed or very good at fake flattery.

"Painfully underpaid," I corrected, because honesty seemed safer than pretending to be more successful than I actually was.

"Still, you pulled that dress off like you're CEO material."

My smile slipped for half a second as I processed the compliment and the assumptions embedded within it. If only he knew that six hours ago, I'd been standing in my bedroom wearing my standard Saturday uniform of yoga pants and an oversized sweater, convinced that I was incapable of pulling off anything more glamorous than business casual.

"Thanks," I said instead, because explaining the transformation would require explaining why it had been necessary, and that conversation would inevitably lead back to Killian and the way he'd been occupying increasingly more space in my thoughts.

"You don't seem like you're having fun," he observed, tilting his head with the kind of concern that suggested either genuine interest or well-practiced pickup artistry. "Want to dance?"

I blinked, startled by the directness of the invitation. "Oh, I don't really—"

"It's just dancing," he interrupted gently. "You don't need to be good."

"That's not—" I started to explain that my reluctance had nothing to do with skill level and everything to do with the fact that dancing required a level of physical confidence I wasn't sure I possessed, but he was already extending his hand toward me.

"One song," he said, and something in his expression suggested that this was a test—not of my dancing ability, but of my willingness to step fully into whatever version of myself I was trying on tonight.

I glanced around for Layla, hoping for rescue or at least moral support, but she had well and truly disappeared into the crowd, probably already charming her way into free drinks and interesting conversations with men who wore watches that cost more than a regular car.

I looked at his outstretched hand, then back at the crowd on the dance floor. The bass dropped, sending vibrations through the floor and up into my chest. The lights dimmed to violet and red, transforming the space into something that looked more like a dream than reality. The dance floor pulsed like a living thing, bodies moving in rhythm with music that seemed designed to bypass rational thought and speak directly to something more primal.

And something inside me—the part that had been so tightly wound all week, coiled like a spring under pressure—snapped just a little.

One song wouldn't hurt.

One song might actually help.

One song might be exactly what I needed to prove to myself that I could be someone different, someone bolder, someone who took chances and lived in the moment instead of analyzing every decision until the opportunity passed by entirely.

I took his hand.