working undercover was the most exciting but also the most dangerous part of my job, i loved doing it, i was good at it, but i knew if i slipped, things could go south really quick.

And tonight, everything felt one breath away from slipping.

The bass in the club thudded through my ribs as I leaned against the bar, pretending to be bored, pretending I didn’t have an earpiece hidden beneath my hair. Neon lights painted the room in bruised shades of purple and blue. Sweat. Smoke. Expensive cologne. Bad decisions.

Across the room sat my target.

He wasn’t what I’d expected.

Most men in his position were loud—flashy watches, louder laughs, hands everywhere. But he sat still, composed, observing. Dangerous in a different way. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

He looked up.

Our eyes met.

And held.

My pulse didn’t spike because I was attracted to him.

Although he was very easy on the eyes.

It spiked because he didn’t look away.

I tilted my glass toward him in lazy acknowledgment, playing my role—the bored, slightly reckless socialite who liked the thrill of dangerous company. The kind of woman who wandered into the wrong crowd for fun.

The thing about being undercover also meant you were alone, and I was, completely alone, not even an ear piece, a burner phone, nothing, nada, my team couldn't get in this operation without raising suspicion, it was too risky

I took a slow sip of my drink, letting the ice clink against the glass, buying myself a fraction of a second to steady my thoughts. Every instinct in my body screamed caution, but there was a thrill in walking this knife’s edge. I could feel him studying me, and I had to remind myself—it wasn’t a date, it wasn’t a game. It was a mission.

I had to get under his skin, get him vulnerable enough to make him confess everything to me and then burn his operation from the inside, it could take years, and it was easy losing yourself, drugs, alcohol, love, I'd watched it happen, but I couldn’t afford to lose myself. Not tonight. Not ever.

I set my glass down and let my fingers brush the rim, slow, deliberate, thinking about the way he moved—how his eyes didn’t just look at you, they measured you, weighed you, found your weak points. That’s the dangerous part. The kind of danger that doesn’t announce itself with guns or screams, but with a calm, almost imperceptible pressure that makes your skin crawl.

He finally stood, not hurriedly, but with that same calm authority, and began making his way toward me. The club seemed to shrink around us, bass and chatter fading into the background. He stopped a step away, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne wrapped around me. Expensive. Intoxicating. I had to swallow down the urge to react.

“Alone?” His voice was soft but firm, carrying that kind of quiet command you couldn’t ignore.

I tilted my head, pretending to consider it, letting a small, careless smirk play on my lips. “Is it that obvious?” I asked, my voice light, teasing—but every word was a calculated trap. I wanted him talking, wanted him revealing patterns, weaknesses, anything.