Chapter 1: Gaze That Burns in the Shadows

he Shadow of Sophia club was busier that night. The thick cigar smoke from the VIP area was suffocating, making it hard to see clearly and navigate between the tables while balancing that damn tray, but it was also where we got the best tips.

Just thirty more minutes.

That was all I needed to endure from those rich guys who had no sense of manners or respect.

Big shots. Businessmen. Politicians. Even the top tier of the underworld frequented that place. All of them strutted around in their fancy, expensive suits, laughing about how they had ruined the life of yet another random poor soul drowning in debt.

Shadow of Sophia was the most popular club in Soho, London. Known for its exclusivity and complete discretion, it wasn’t a place where just anyone could walk in for a drink. Even we, mere hourly workers, had to go through a tough hiring process and rigorous training before we could start serving in the halls.

The beautiful, elegant facade with purple neon signs and black velvet doors stood out even among the many bars and clubs in the lively Soho scene. But to me, none of it was even remotely appealing. In fact, every time I had to cross the bustling streets to get to the club, I felt the weight of the judgmental stares from those rich men and women who partied without any moral or financial limits.

“Like they say, all that glitters isn’t gold…” I whispered as I headed back to the bar with a tray loaded with empty whiskey glasses, squeezing between tables and dodging people.

It was as if no one could see the 5’6” woman in tight black pants, a vest, and a white shirt weaving through them with over fifteen glasses precariously balanced on a tray.

I tried to pass by a group of older men. They were deep in conversation, smoking their stinky cigars, so I thought it’d be easier to slip by them, even if it meant taking a big detour to reach the bar.

My regret was almost instant when one of the men stood up abruptly, shoving his chair back with such force that it slammed into my hip, throwing me off balance.

The sound of glass shattering made the entire room fall into a heavy silence. I was sprawled on the floor, my hand on a shard of glass, while everyone just stared at me, as if I were some exotic animal that had just escaped its cage.

“Lilian, are you okay?” Chloe, my friend and the mixologist at Shadow of Sophia, rushed over to me. Her eyes landed on my hand, which I tried to hide as best as I could.

When Chloe moved to ask about the cut, I shook my head with a subtle but clear gesture.

We couldn’t draw any more attention. We were paid to act like shadows, to avoid standing out and to be discreet about the identities of the club’s clients.

Carefully, I grabbed the cloth we carried to clean the tables and wrapped it around the cut to stop the bleeding, then started picking up the glass shards. Behind me, the men’s voices sounded amused as they laughed.

“Look what you did, Jorge. Poor thing…” The clear tone of mockery and scorn made me hesitate for a moment, but I clenched my fists, swallowing the humiliation in silence, and kept gathering the broken glass.

“She should watch where she’s going. This place seems to hire any dumb woman, as long as she’s hot, to work here.” They all laughed with amusement.

In that awful situation, all I could do was take a deep breath and get out of there as fast as possible. I grabbed the tray, now filled with broken glasses, already calculating how much would be deducted from my paycheck, when I felt my elbow being brutally grabbed.

“Hold on a second. Where’s your apology?” the man who had bumped into me demanded. His face was red and sweaty, pupils dilated, breathing heavy, and movements uncoordinated—clear signs of alcohol intoxication that I noticed as a nursing student.

Even though I was a nursing student, I had no intention of wasting my knowledge on someone like him. All I wanted was to move on and finally leave that place.

“Hey!” the man shouted, gripping my arm even tighter, making me grit my teeth from the sharp pain radiating through my arm. “I told you to apologize, you insolent girl.”

“Looks like this girl doesn’t know who you are, Jorge,” one of the men teased, which seemed to irritate the so-called Jorge even more as he held me.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” I said in a low, monotonous tone.

I didn’t want trouble; I just wanted to get out of there and check the severity of the cut on my hand. But apparently, my apology wasn’t well-received by the man and his group of friends, who laughed and mocked me without any filter.

Encouraged by his friends, the man named Jorge raised his hand, his face twisted with rage. I tried to pull my arm free and step away from him, but his grip was too strong, and all I could do was brace for the impact.

I closed my eyes tightly and tried to shield my face with my other arm. But the blow never came.

The sound of voices had vanished, and everything was in a complete, eerie silence. I lowered my arm and looked up, only to see a very tall man standing between me and my aggressor. The man was gripping Jorge’s wrist with immense strength, forcing him to let go of me immediately as he stumbled back several steps.

The group of “friends” had vanished, scattering into the crowd that averted their eyes from where we stood. Jorge was pale, as if all the alcohol he’d consumed had suddenly drained from his bloodstream.

“Raising a hand to a woman…” The deep voice of the man with his back to me sent a shiver down my spine, a feeling of danger slithering over my skin like a cold snake. “I expected more from a businessman with such an inspiring success story as yours, Mr. Jorge Taylor.”

Everything seemed to happen in a matter of seconds, but to my eyes, it all unfolded in slow motion.

The sound of the gun being cocked, the smell of gunpowder, the crack of the shot, and the heat of the blood.

The man who had just threatened me was now sprawled on the floor, completely still, with a hole in his forehead from which blood gushed. Some women screamed but were quickly restrained and escorted out of the area.

A few men, whom I recognized as the club’s security, approached and took control of the situation, carrying the body away to another location.

I was trembling.

The smell of blood reminded me of rusted iron. I ran a hand over my face, seeing the tips of my shaky fingers stained with bright red. I looked around, thinking someone would say something, or that they’d be calling the police or paramedics, but everyone just stood there, watching that absurd situation.

“You should be more careful, little squirrel. This world doesn’t forgive distractions,” the man in front of me said as he turned around, his face splattered with blood, just like his dark shirt.

His smile was as seductive as it was terrifying. He stepped closer, crouching in front of me and gripping my chin firmly. I closed my eyes and held my breath, afraid I might vomit on him from the strong smell of blood.

He released my chin and stepped back. I was grateful he’d lost interest in me. My body was shaking violently, and I had to hold myself together to keep from bursting into tears, sitting there on that blood-stained floor.

I stared at his back, broad and strong, trying to guess who he might be. As if he’d been called, he turned around, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping himself off carelessly.

A man capable of something like that, with everyone turning a blind eye, could only have a lot of influence or be someone very important in the underworld.

His lips moved slowly, in a message meant just for me. “We’ll meet again, Miss Reed. Perhaps sooner than you think.” My entire body shivered, intensifying my discomfort and curiosity.