It's ten o'clock.
The line outside Aureate coils down the block like a starving serpent. Sequins flash like scales. Perfume and money sweat under the streetlights. They're not waiting for a party—they're waiting for a coronation.
You catch yourself in a tinted Mercedes window.
Grey suit—clean enough to pass. Fake Rolex ticking lies on your wrist. Briefcase heavy with everything you own. Five grand. All of it. Out here, that makes you prey. Inside? It makes you invisible.
"Next."
Clipboard girl. Ice-blue suit. Her face? Carved from boredom.
"Show me your key."
You smile—the one that bought you extensions on rent, forgiveness from cops. The one that worked on everyone.
"Lost it somewhere. Maybe you could just let me in? Be a doll."
Christ, you hate yourself for saying that. Her gaze scrapes over you like you're a stain.
"I'm gay," she says flatly. "So your charm? Worthless. You one of those stragglers hoping to sneak in?"
Fuck. Plan A—dead. Plan B? You hate Plan B. But desperate men use desperate keys. And you brought yours.
"Look." You lower your voice, let it slip like a secret. "I was supposed to gamble with Maxwell and the others... but maybe I shouldn't. Thinking of quitting, actually."
Her stare doesn't flinch. So you twist the knife.
"By all means—you can have it."
Pause. The flicker. There it is—the calculation.
"How much?"
"Five grand," you say, like it means nothing. "But if this is too much trouble, I'll go hunt for my key. Total nightmare."
She lifts the rope. No smile. No thank you.
For the first time in your life, you feel like a celebrity. And it feels filthy.
Inside is heat and hunger.
Gold cups sweating martinis. Champagne flooding down throats already drowning in privilege. Powder dusts glass tables like snow for the damned.
An ecosystem of wolves wearing wool. And her—you—Brooklyn—you're supposed to live in this? In this glittering carcass of a world?
You move through the crowd. Faces lacquered in lies. Laughter too sharp. Eyes too bright.
"Oi. Watch it."
That voice. Him. The idiot from earlier. Of course he's here. Places like this breed his kind.
He stares, pupils blown wide. Fried. But alive enough to ruin things.
"I know you," he says.
Shit.
"You bumped me the other day."
Correction: problem. Shut it down.
"Right," you fake a smile. "Richard."
Richard. Genius. Truly.
"Are you a peeping Tom, Richard?"
Ice cuts down your spine. How much does he know? Did he notice you watching Brooklyn? Or Maxwell?
"If you want my autograph," he slurs, "you can have it."
Relief floods in. He's no threat—just another London ego drowning in its own arrogance.
"Just a coincidence," you say lightly. "See you around."
A waiter floats by like a phantom.
"Drink, sir?"
"Yeah."
You down it in one shot. It burns like confession. Every drop costs more than your life.
This was a mistake. She's not here. You bled five grand into this suit, and for what? A room full of hollow gods licking their own reflections?
You should leave.
Not before compensation.
The idiot's back, Rolex fat with zeroes. One bump, one slide—it's yours. Easy. They never notice.
And then—
"What took you so long?"
That voice. That silk tear in the dark.
You turn.
Brooklyn.
Light kneels for her. Worships her skin. Her hair spills black rivers down her shoulders. The dress—air and sin stitched from whispers.
She steals breath without asking. She'd destroy kingdoms without knowing.
You look beautiful, you whisper—in your head. Because if the words leave your mouth, they'll never go back in.
"You look so hot," Maxwell says instead, sliding in like rot gift-wrapped in velvet.
You watch, a blade in human skin.
"Stella, why don't you and Maxwell hang together while I fix my hair?"
And there it is. Truth detonating in your skull. She doesn't want him. Never did. He's a pawn. A prop for her friend's game. That's why he's here. That's why this night exists.
Relief crashes so hard it almost makes you laugh. You almost killed him for nothing.
You drink instead. Let the burn sear the hysteria out of you.
⸻
"Want me to get you a drink?" Maxwell asks now, voice slick with something rotten.
"Thanks, Maxwell," she says. "A mimosa sounds delightful."
Too calm. Too smooth. She's choosing control. And he hates that.
He moves. The pocket shift. The pipette glinting under neon. Four drops slide into her glass like liquid knives. Diazepam. Enough to drown her will. Enough to turn no into yes.
He lifts his glass. "Cheers."
Your pulse detonates. Every instinct howls to break his wrist. Crush his skull. Paint the walls with his teeth. But you can't. Not here. Not now.
So you wait. And watch.
The drug snakes through her blood.
First nausea. Then balance shatters.
And then it happens. She sways. He steadies her. Concern painted on like art.
"You okay, Brooklyn? Need to rest?"
"Yes," she whispers.
Your fists carve crescents into your palms.
He carries her upstairs like a thief with treasure. Door slams. Locks click. And you're outside—wild, caged, burning.
Inside, she trusts him. Because she sees good in people. And he's weaponizing it. Stripping her with it.
"Maxwell, stop. Don't kiss me."
His voice—low, crawling: "Hard to stop when you're this beautiful."
"Stop! Somebody help!"
Your body slams against the door. No time for thought. Just sound. Rage. Her cry.
"Shut up," he snarls. "You whore."
A crack. A slap. Her gasp slices you open.
Think. THINK. And then—it hits you. Imogen. Her mother. Even her shadow could crack him.
You knock. Calm. Clean.
"Hello, Brooklyn."
"What the fuck?" His voice sharpens.
"I work for Imogen Maison," you say smoothly. "Your mother's worried. I'm here to collect her."
"She's not in here."
Liar.
"I saw her come in. Brooklyn? Reinaldo—does that ring a bell?"
Pause. Her voice, soft as torn paper: "Yeah. I just needed a little rest."
Good girl.
"Open the door. I need her things."
"Do it later."
"Limo's outside. If I wait, it's a fifty-pound fine. Open it."
The click of defeat. The door swings. And there she is—smiling through fear.
"Nice to meet you," he says, jaw tight.
You look at him. And something dark roots itself between you.
You walk her out, calm as midnight. But inside—you're fire.
Smile while you can, Maxwell. You just signed your death warrant.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Next chapter: The night everything changes... Brooklyn. Maxwell. And blood.
I'm back (again)
New questions.
I'll ask what we are all thinking.
1. Does Maxwell deserve to be punished for what he's done and what should be his punishment.
2. Do we love Dan?
3. General question how are you enjoying the book so far.