Chapter Five

Carrie descended into the lobby of her condo, her leather pants whispering with every step, her black crop top tucked neatly beneath a fitted blazer. The security guard by the desk gave her a polite nod, and for a moment she felt almost confident in her choice.

That confidence shattered the second Joan spotted her by the doors.

"You have got to be kidding me," Joan said, striding over with a smirk that was equal parts amused and horrified. "You look like you're about to fire someone, not storm Elysium."

Carrie frowned. "What's wrong with this? It's sleek, modern, professional—"

"It's giving HR orientation," Joan cut her off. "Not midnight power play. We're going up. What floor is your unit again?"

Carrie sighed. "Twentieth."

Joan looped her arm through hers, already marching her toward the elevators. "Perfect. Let's fix this crime against nightlife."

Inside her condo, Joan wasted no time. She flung open Carrie's closet, tossing clothes around like a tornado with an agenda. "Blazers are banned. Pants are illegal. This," she said, yanking out a leather miniskirt and tossing it onto the bed, "is survival."

"That's barely fabric," Carrie protested.

"It's called confidence," Joan snapped. Next came a satin spaghetti-strap top, a pair of red heels that had been gathering dust in Carrie's shoe rack, and finally the ruthless removal of pins from her bun. Carrie's long, straight hair tumbled over her shoulders, wild compared to her usual neatness.

Joan leaned in with a tube of red lipstick, painting her lips in one decisive stroke. "Now you look like someone who belongs upstairs in a VIP booth, not downstairs checking receipts."

Carrie turned to the mirror. The reflection staring back wasn't the woman who had dragged herself out of bed at six a.m. This woman looked bolder, unshakable, dangerous.

Satisfied, Joan grabbed her arm. "Now you're ready. Let's go."

The drive to Bonifacio Global City was fast, the skyline glittering brighter the closer they got. And then, Elysium.

The club loomed ahead, a fortress of glass and steel glowing against the night. Velvet ropes stretched along the entrance, guarded by security in tailored suits who looked like they could run conglomerates by day. The bass thrummed through the ground like a heartbeat.

Inside, Carrie froze.

A mirrored ceiling stretched endlessly above, doubling the sea of bodies and light. A twelve-foot LED wall pulsed behind the DJ booth, spilling neon storms across the cavernous space. Gold chandeliers shimmered above velvet booths. Champagne fountains sparkled, ice buckets glistened, and waiters in crisp black uniforms moved with silent precision.

And the people.

Everywhere she turned, wealth and power moved under strobe light. She recognized surnames she had seen in old business pages and glossy features: the Jacintos, the Prietos, the Rufinos, the Elizaldes, the Madrigals. She spotted a Tantoco laughing too loudly in a booth, a Campos slipping upstairs toward the private rooms, and the unmistakable poise of a Yuchengco cutting through the crowd. The room was a living magazine spread of Manila's quieter dynasties, the ones who rarely courted attention but held empires in their hands.

"This place," Carrie whispered.

"Is ridiculous," Joan finished with a grin. "Remember, the dance floor is just theater. The private rooms upstairs, that's where the real money moves."

They slid into their table. Carrie barely touched her champagne, her eyes already scanning the room. Somewhere in this glittering mess, Anita Sandoval had to be here.

Then the air shifted.

The crowd near the entrance stirred, the bassline drowned out for just a moment by the collective turn of heads. Carrie followed their gaze, and her stomach dropped.

Andrew Lorenzo had arrived.

He moved into the club with a presence that seemed to bend the room around him. Six feet tall, broad-shouldered, every line of him cut sharp. His dark eyes scanned the space with the ease of someone who already owned it. The grin was missing tonight, replaced by something cooler, heavier, more controlled. Still, his aura was magnetic.

Carrie couldn't look away.

Neither could anyone else. Women drifted toward him as if pulled by gravity. Some bold, some coy, all smiling too brightly. He acknowledged them, his charm effortless, but dismissed them just as easily, polite in a way that was almost cruel. He looked like the same old playboy, the man who could have any woman in the room. Yet tonight, he didn't seem interested in playing.

Carrie's pulse hammered as she tracked him.

He turned to his friends, two men in equally sharp suits, and with a quiet word he excused himself from the swarm. Together they headed toward the staircase, ascending to the second floor where the private booths waited behind velvet ropes.

Carrie's champagne glass was still cold in her hand, forgotten. Her eyes followed Andrew until the last flash of his broad shoulders disappeared upstairs.

She told herself to look away, to remember why she was here, to search for Anita Sandoval. But her gaze refused to leave him.

Andrew Lorenzo had entered the room, and nothing felt the same.