Seducing the king.

Rosella’s POV

I stepped onto the red carpet leading to the entrance of Luxe Noir. Up close, the club didn’t just look expensive, it looked like a fortress built on ego and blood money.

Two huge men stood at the entrance like statues, their faces blank and unsmiling. One of them held a sleek silver device that looked like a futuristic wand.

“Scan-Tech 360,” the man on the left grunted, waving the wand over my body. It beeped steadily, while I kept my face a mask of bored perfection.

"VIP credentials," the second guard demanded.

I slipped a hand into my clutch and pulled out the black-and-gold pass Mag had secured for me earlier. Sliding it through the scanner, I watched as a green light blinked to life.

A second later, the massive golden doors parted soundlessly, unveiling a decadent world of wealth, vice, and temptation hidden beyond.

One moment, it was just the quiet drizzle of a Texas night. The next, a wall of bass hit me hard in the chest, the air inside thick with the smell of expensive cigars, spilled champagne, and the strong scent of powerful people.

Neon lights—cobalt blue, blood red, and a toxic violet, cut through the smoky air, breaking the room into sharp shapes. The ceiling was a huge led screen showing a storm in slow motion, making the whole club feel like it's underwater.

“Wow,” I breathed, scanning every corner.

I moved through the crowd, my heels clicking against the glass floors. Men in five thousand dollar suits watched me pass, their eyes lingering on the curves of my gown, but I ignored them—understandably, my backside was distracting. Moreover they were small fish, I was looking for the shark.

And then, I saw him.

In the VIP section, raised above the crowd, a horseshoe-shaped balcony giving a perfect view of the chaotic dance floor below. At the center, Blake Luca sat in a red velvet booth that looked more like a throne.

He was dressed in a suit, so black it seemed to swallow the club’s lights. He sat with a terrifying, predatory stillness. To his left and right, two strippers were shaking their ass to the beat. Faces hidden behind masks, but they were completely naked, their skin shimmering with gold body oil. They were bodied—the kind of curves that made men lose their minds.

I looked at them, then down at myself. My own curves were deadly, but my chest felt modest compared to the mountain of flesh currently vibrating in front of Blake's face.

He didn't seem to care... he had a thick Cuban cigar gripped between two fingers, a cloud of smoke covering his features.

The flickering club lights made it impossible to pin down his face, but I'd managed to catch the sharp line of his jaw, and the glint of his heavy gold watch.

“Enjoy it while it lasts... son of a bitch.” I smirked, my voice drowned by the bass from the speakers.

I scanned the room, searching for my contact. Near the back of the VIP area, seated in a booth behind a massive stone pillar, was Murphy. He nursed a glass of dark liquid, looking like just another wealthy guest. But Murphy was the head of VIP relations at Luxe Noir, and was the only reason I could get past the inner circle.

I moved toward him, weaving through bodies that smelled of money and designer cologne. Murphy looked up as I approached, his eyes tracking the movement of the guards surrounding Blake’s booth. There were at least eight of them—huge men with earpieces and bulges under their jackets that weren't cell phones.

"You're late, Rosella," Murphy murmured as I slipped into the booth beside him. He didn’t look at me, his gaze remained fixed on the VIP section.

"The rain was heavy, the security was heavier," I replied, smoothing my gown. "How do we do this?"

Murphy reached under the table and pulled out a silver service tray. On it sat a single bottle of 'Ace of Spades' champagne and two crystal flutes. Beside the bottle was a small, white linen napkin folded into a perfect square.

"He just ordered a fresh bottle. The regular server is indisposed in the kitchen," Murphy said, a cruel glint in his eye. "The guards are on high alert because of the rain. They’re checking everyone, but they won't check a pretty face with a three thousand dollar bottle of champagne."

I took the tray, balancing the weight on my fingertips. "About the Dunes Entity... you’re sure it’s in his private quarters?"

“Yes, he leaves in twenty minutes for his private quarters. 7th floor. While serving the champagne, make sure to catch his attention, seduce him however you can, make him want to see you again, then slip away when he goes to talk to his associates. Stand by that entryway to block him when he's leaving.” Murphy pointed to the gilded door at the far end. “Most importantly, make him want to take you in for the night.”

“Thanks,” I said, already standing and lifting the tray.

"Don't get caught."

I stepped out of Murphy's booth and began the walk toward Blake Luca’s booth.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I poured every ounce of that nervous energy into my stride, letting my hips sway with effortless confidence. A playful smile tugged at the corners of my lips, carefully crafted to hide the storm brewing beneath my calm exterior.

As I reached the perimeter of his booth, two guards stepped into my path—walls of muscle, scarred and cold faces.

One of them put a hand out, stopping me. "Private booth. Move along."

I didn't, I tilted my head, letting the red club light catch the diamonds at my throat. "Mr. Blake ordered the Ace," I said, my voice smooth and loud enough to carry over the music.

I lifted the bottle slightly. “Unless you’re volunteering to explain why his champagne is taking forever?”

The guard hesitated, looked at my face, down the length of my gown, then at the expensive bottle. He exchanged a look with his partner, and after a tense second, he stepped aside, tapping his earpiece.

"Server, incoming," he muttered.

I passed them, the air suddenly chilling as I stepped into Blake’s personal space. The music seemed to fade, muted by the heavy curtains. The smell of his cigar was overpowering—expensive, dark, and undeniably masculine.

The strippers were still moving, their skin slick with sweat. When I approached, Blake raised a hand. The girls stopped instantly, sliding off the table and vanishing into the shadows of the booth without a word.

I smiled, letting my lips curve just enough for him to notice. I stepped up to the table, setting the tray down with deliberate care.

My fingers lingered on the bottle as I grabbed it, twisted the wire, and popped the cork with a soft thump.

“Your champagne, Mr. Blake,” I murmured, leaning over the table just enough to give him a view of my firm boobs.

I poured the golden liquid into the flute slowly, letting my eyes linger on his.

The lights shifted to a steady white, and finally I saw him, breathtaking in the most dangerous way possible—bronze skin, dark slicked-back hair, and hazel eyes that didn’t glance at the champagne, but were locked on me, sharp and precisely.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, each word rolling like distant thunder.

“Amber.”

“A…m…b…e…r…” he repeated, dragging out each letter as if he already knew I lied. “Who instructed you to serve my table?”

I froze, my hand still holding the bottle. "I was told–"

"I don't care what you were told! Who gave the Instruction?," he interrupted, placing his cigar in an ashtray and leaning forward. "I know every server in this club, I know their names, and I know their faces. I don't know you."

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck, but I kept my smile firmly in place. I let my gaze linger on him for a fraction longer than necessary, just enough to appear flustered rather than terrified.

"I'm new, Mr. Blake," I said smoothly. "My first night, actually."

I tilted my head, allowing a hint of admiration to soften my expression.

"I suppose I should feel honored the great Blake Luca noticed me.”

Without a response, I reached for the glass, trying to keep the motion casual as I extended it toward him.

“Sit,” he commanded, not even glancing at the hand offering him a glass.

"I have other tables, Mr–”

"Sit."

I slowly lowered the glass back onto the table, and sneaked a glance at the guards surrounding Blake’s booth, their stare heavy on me.

My pulse quickened, but I kept my posture calm, letting just enough confidence show to hold their attention. Without another moment’s hesitation, I slid onto the edge of the plush sofa across from him, letting just enough of my curves draw his eyes.

Blake watched me for a long moment, the silence stretching between us. His hand moved slowly, and I felt the urge to flinch, but I stayed still. He didn’t touch me. Instead, he picked up the glass I’d poured, swirled the liquid, and then set it down without taking a sip.

“You're too polished for a waitress," he murmured, his eyes boring into mine. "The dress. The walk. You're a predator… little bird. The question is, what are you hunting in my club?"

I let my gaze meet his', steady but nervous. I gave a small, teasing smile, my hands clenching slightly at my sides. "I don't know what you’re talking about, and I’m not hunting anything… well, the new server wanted a better view of the man everyone calls the Dunes Boss… just that,” I said, letting my gaze roam over him—pausing just a moment between his thighs, then tracing back up to his lips, and finally locking with his eyes. “Can I go now?”

Blake’s eyes lingered on me a moment, then he finally leaned back slightly and gave a small nod of approval.

Relief swept through me.

At least I could walk away and figure out my next move.

I rose from my seat and turned to leave, but I barely made it a step before a hand closed around my wrist.

His grip was firm and startling—large enough to engulf my wrist, yet unexpectedly soft against my skin.