5 DAYS BEFORE GALA
I lay back on a gigantic leather couch, sipping whiskey out of a crystal tumbler, way out in Germany's largest and most expensive nightclub.
The air reeked of booze, sweat, and something even more primal—lust. Red neon lights pulsed hypnotically overhead, illuminating the dance floor with an evil red glow, so the room was alive, a living thing.
All things appeared more sensual in that light—darker, more dangerous.
The crowd was already intoxicated with desire. Women paraded around in garments that skirted the indecent definition of an article of clothing, and men shamelessly prowled for a one-evening diversion.
It was wantonness dressed in glamour, with everyone pretending indifference while being overly concerned.
And I felt nothing.
What was I doing here?
Boredom, mostly. My assistant had teased me with some sort of "drama" happening this night but would not say another word. Typical. If he wasted my time, he'd be returned to running on coffee orders.
"Not hitting on anyone tonight?" a voice from the left asked.
I didn't even need to look to recognize the speaker—Markus Luther. A platinum blonde sat on his lap, lip-syncing at his throat like a famished kitten. He spoke slowly, like he owned the place. Hell, he probably did own a piece of it.
"Not in the mood," I growled, spinning the liquid in my glass.
Markus gave a throaty laugh and gripped the girl's waist a little too hard. She gasped, giggling into his ear.
"I've been noticing it for a couple of days now," he said, flashing a sharp grin. "You've been thinking too much. Not like you."
Markus Luther—son of one of America's most notorious arms-smuggling families. Cold, mercenary, and ruthlessly manipulative.
We had been partners in business for many years, bound together by deals, gains, and our mutual perception of the world as a game of strategy. We had first met when we were ten years old at a Swiss boarding school, and twenty years later we were still partners, but now the playground was the world.
"I saw Joshua Green get hit two days ago," I said flatly, eyes still on the dance floor.
Markus stopped. He pushed the blonde carefully off his lap, placing her beside me like some annoying throw pillow.
"Wait—what? Joshua Green? The baby-faced poster boy for nepotism?" His eyes bulged in astonishment.
"Right on the sidewalk in Berlin. Daylight. Slapped him, and all he did was scream apologies as the girl just walked off without a peep."
Markus threw his head back and laughed out loud, the sound even more acrid than the music thumping through the speakers. "A girl slapped him? Oh, this is rich. Not even the minister's daughter had dared to do so after catching him in bed with some other woman."
He took a long pull of his scotch and leaned forward. "Come on, who was she? Russian mafia princess? Has to be."
I sneered. Hardly.
That girl wasn't projecting the frosty sophistication of mafia raising. No, she was grounded. Wild. Untrained in ways that couldn't be acquired in private schools or purchased in diamonds.
"I didn't catch her face," I lied, even and flat.
"Seriously—"
Before Markus could finish, the music cut out mid-beat, drawing collective groans from the crowd.
—"What the fuck?"
—"Who killed the music?"
—"It's peak hour!"
—"Where's the manager?"
—"This is the biggest damn club in the country!"
Markus looked around, eyebrows raised. "First time I've seen a shutdown during peak hours," he muttered.
So this was the drama my assistant was talking about? A sound system glitch and a bunch of whiny drunks?
Then, a voice over the speakers—a low, unnervingly even female voice.
> "Hello. Closing time in the club. Anyone with complaints can talk to the police officers outside. Ten minutes before anyone who's still around is cleared out. That isn't an invitation."
She wasn't shouting. She didn't even rise in pitch. But her voice sliced the air like a blade—distant, detached, and unapologetic.
Markus blinked. "Who gave a lunatic the mic?"
"Another nutcase," I muttered, and he nodded, amused.
Of course, nobody approached our zone. This was the VVIP lounge—off-limits without a warrant or a scandal. Power smells of something. And in this room, it lay thick.
I, Sebastian Von Kleist, born as a member of one of Europe's most powerful dynasties as the eldest son of the patriarch, knew that smell. I was raised with it. Shaped by it. And I had learned many years ago how to control it to my advantage.
Even my name sounds expensive.
The crowd began to scatter. Even some VVIP guests took their beverages and left, grumbling about missing a night. Within nine minutes, the club was half-finished. That was when I saw her.
Behind the glass partition of the lounge, my eyes rested on the lady.
I straightened up immediately, leaving the glass on the table. My breath was held.
No. It couldn't be.
It was her. The girl with the thick-rimmed glasses. The one who'd struck Joshua Green and turned away like a queen departing from an incinerated castle.
She wore a red shirt pulled into black wide-legged trousers, completed by a brown structured jacket. Her dark hair was pulled up into a claw clip that was sexy but practical. She had a MacBook tucked under her arm and was talking to someone—no, not just anyone.
The club owner .
"Where are you going?" Markus yelled out, not paying attention because the blonde kept nipping at his neck.
"You have fun," I replied, already standing up and heading to the glass partition.
I scanned the floor and spotted a few faces I knew—fatigue-slick staff with clipboards, shuffling like pieces. And at the bar, leaning like he owned the joint, was Louis Laurent.
Louis Laurent?
S.Studio's Marketing Director. Cold-blooded shadow investor in Winter Gaze's production. His reputation was the stuff of legend. This man once withdrew funding from his own sons because they cheered too early before their finals.
And he was here. Watching her with the self-satisfied, approving eye of a mentor.
So she worked under him?
She worked for S.Studio?
My jaw tightened.
Under the golden glow of the overhead lights, her face was harder, more resolute. I read her lips through habit—a survival reflex at higher-level strata.
"Winter Gaze is the highest-budgeted film of the year. You know what you're wasting if you just keep asking for more?"
She didn't scream. She didn't need to.
The club owner stammered out something weak about higher-ups. She simply glared. The kind of glare that made men question their spine.
> "Fine. I'll stick to the original agreement," he said, swallowing hard.
She handed over the papers. Once he signed, she turned to Louis Laurent, who gave her a lazy thumbs-up.
She grinned—finally—and held the papers up like a trophy.
> "Told you. Piece of cake. I'm a professional at abusing power that isn't mine."
Louis laughed.
This man hadn't laughed genuinely in years.
She then snatched the mic.
> "Everyone, grab a drink! Director Laurent is paying tonight!"
That was the voice. The one that ordered a full club of partygoers to vacate within ten minutes. Now it was playful, teasing, almost musical.
She wheeled about to the staff—her crew—and sat down with them at a booth, laughing, basking in admiration like a spoiled princess. So. She wasn't just competent. She was liked.
A precious commodity in this world.
I smiled quietly, hand over mouth to hide the reaction. Two days prior, I'd thought I'd never lay eyes on the woman who'd embarrassed Joshua Green.
And here she is now—taking power away from club owners and ensnaring the toughest heart of all Europe's directors.
Winter's Gaze. That meant we'd be seeing each other again. She wasn't a witness. She was entrenched in the project. Field-level.
I caught her laughing, her head back, her lips flying as she goaded her crew.
And I muttered to myself, quietly and firmly:
"Sounds like fate's already playing its little games, Anaya. Can't wait to meet you. Let's see if you're as intriguing in person as you are behind glass."
She didn't hear me, naturally.
And I was there, a laughing man mesmerized by a sphinx, staring at her behind glass, lips curling, already hungry for the next stroke.