The bass thumped low and heavy through the club floor, each beat vibrating up your heels and into your spine. You didn’t have to look to know the man was still there. He’d been in the corner booth for the past three nights, silent, unmoving, the black skull-patterned mask covering his face while he nursed one drink for hours. He didn’t tip the way most men did—crumpled bills and greedy stares. No, he laid his money down in neat stacks, always enough to book your attention, but never enough to buy your touch.

You’d told yourself you didn’t care. A lot of men came here trying to be mysterious. But this one…

This one watched like he was memorizing you.

And that was dangerous. Because in this place, you had something no one else did—access to the VIP room upstairs, the one reserved for the club’s most valuable client. The man everyone whispered about but never looked at directly. The man who trusted no one but you.

Tonight, the floor manager slipped you a note. Table 9. Now. Your stomach tightened—Table 9 was his booth. You thought about saying no, but the manager gave you that look. Money talks, and his cash always talked loud enough.

You walked over slowly, letting your body sway in time with the music, your sheer black set catching the crimson light. His eyes tracked every step, cold and sharp. When you reached his table, he didn’t even look down at the way you leaned one hand on the polished wood.

“Thought you didn’t do private dances,” you said, voice low, half a tease, half a challenge.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Change of plans.”

You slid into the booth, the leather squeaking under your bare skin. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t lean in. Just watched. Up close, you could see his shoulders were built for armor, his gloved hands steady on the table. Military, you thought. Or something worse.

So you didn’t flirt. Didn’t smile. Men like him didn’t come here for that.

The silence between you stretched—the crowd moving in slow waves beyond the booth, the music thrumming against your bones. Then he slid an envelope across the table. Thick. Heavy.

“For your time. And for some answers.”

You looked at it, then at him. “And if I say no?”

A faint tilt of his head. “You won’t.”

The way he said it made the air tighten around you. Something in his stillness made you realize this wasn’t just another client looking for a thrill. No—this man wasn’t here for the dances, or even for you.

He was here for him.

And you were the only key he had to get there.

The envelope sat heavy between you, a silent deal you hadn’t opened. Without a word, he stood and motioned for you to follow. You hesitated, the noise of the club fading under his presence. You should’ve stayed, told him to leave—but instead, you rose, his gaze burning down your back as you led the way.

The music dimmed to a dull pulse. His steps were slow and steady behind you, close enough to feel like a shadow swallowing the space between you. You unlocked the private room and stepped inside. Warm air, thick with smoke and faint perfume, glowed red in the low light.

You settled on the leather couch, one heel dangling. He closed the door, leaned against it, arms crossed, watching. The envelope rested in your lap, his gaze flickering between it and you—measuring every hesitation.

Then he crouched before you, mask shadowing his eyes, gloved hand settling firmly on your knee—not pushing, just claiming. The bass rattled faintly beyond the walls, but here, the air was heavy. No words were needed. Whatever answers he sought weren’t just business.

And the moment you spoke, you’d cross into something far darker than the man upstairs.