Elijah wasn't supposed to be here.
Yet he found himself seated on a narrow two-seater across from Anton, the bass from the club below still thrumming through the walls.
The teen who had dragged him here had already disappeared into the crush of bodies on the dance floor, swallowed whole by flashing lights and pulsing music.
This private room delivered them a clear vantage point to overlook the chaos below. It was almost like a balcony to look down on others.
Perhaps it came naturally to them.
After all, heirs raised on the upper rungs of the corporate ladder were trained to sit above the crowd, to wear authority as easily as their tailored suits.
Or, in this case, it was the wide-open colored shirt that showed just enough skin to command attention without asking for it.
"You think someone is targeting you?" Elijah tapped his finger against the edge of the glass table.
