The bass from the club speakers throbbed in time with Ariyah's headache. The private VIP section was a bubble of colored lights and laughter, but the world outside it felt blurry. She'd lost count of the colorful drinks Chloe kept ordering. "Your last night of freedom, Ari!" Chloe had shouted over the music, and the words had felt like a sentence.
Ariyah's little silver dress, which had seemed like a fun idea hours ago, now felt like a second skin. It was all straps and shimmer, barely covering what needed to be covered, leaving her back and legs mostly bare. Every time she moved, the sequins caught the light, drawing eyes. She knew it. She'd wanted it. Now, she just felt overexposed.
She slumped into the plush booth, the noise becoming a dull roar. The pressure of the wedding, the future, the cold, quiet man waiting for her it all pressed down. She missed her grandfather. She missed her old, simple life.
"Chloe?" she mumbled, patting the empty seat next to her. Her friend had gone to the bathroom. The room tilted. She fumbled for her phone on the table, her glittery nails slipping on the screen. She just wanted to hear a friendly voice. She tapped the first name her blurry eyes saw and held the phone to her ear.
In his silent study, Wayne's phone vibrated. Ariyah . A late call. His chest tightened with something like hope until he answered.
He was met with a wall of sound pounding music, shrieking laughter. Then her voice, slurred and thick with tears. "…don't wanna be a 'legacy,' Chlo'. I just wanna be me . Who's that even anymore?"
His grip on the phone turned to iron. He heard the clink of glasses, the murmur of other voices. Then a male voice, too close, too familiar. "Hey there, gorgeous. You look lonely. Can I get you another drink?"
Something inside Wayne, something cold and deadly, snapped.
He didn't speak. He ended the call. His fingers flew across a different screen, pulling up the discreet app that showed a single pulsing dot her location. The Vortex Nightclub . He was out of his leather chair and barking orders into his intercom before the door to his study closed behind him. "The car. Now. Marcus, Leo, with me. We're collecting my fiancée."
Twenty minutes later, the line outside The Vortex was long and loud. Then a black SUV with tinted windows pulled up directly to the velvet rope. The head bouncer, a mountain of a man, moved to block it, then saw the driver and the two severe-looking men who stepped out first. His eyes widened. He'd seen their type before. He lifted the rope without a word.
Wayne emerged. He wasn't in club wear. He wore a simple, ruthlessly tailored black turtleneck and dark trousers. He looked like a wolf that had wandered into a neon forest. He didn't glance at the crowd. His icy blue eyes were fixed on the club's entrance.
His two security men, Marcus and Leo, flanked him, creating a bubble of space. As they moved through the packed main floor, a ripple effect occurred. People recognized him or recognized the aura of dangerous, untouchable power. Conversations died. The path to the VIP section cleared as if by magic.
The music didn't stop, but in that corner of the world, it went quiet.
He saw her.
Ariyah was half-standing, leaning against the booth for support, a glass of something bright blue dangling from her fingers. The silver dress was a scandalous whisper against her lush brown skin, highlighting every devastating curve, the deep dip of her back, the long line of her legs. She was a glittering, vulnerable jewel in a room full of thieves.
And men were watching. He saw their hungry looks, tracking her every unsteady movement.
A red-hot wire of pure rage seared through his veins.
He reached her in three long strides. He took the glass from her limp fingers and set it down with a sharp click . Her glazed eyes tried to focus on him, confusion clouding her beautiful face.
"W'ayne…?"
He didn't explain. He didn't scold. Words were useless here. In one smooth, powerful motion, he bent, slid one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her cleanly off her feet.
She was a warm, pliant weight in his arms, her head falling against the hard muscle of his shoulder. A small, surprised gasp escaped her glossy lips.
Marcus stepped forward, arms out to take her. Wayne turned his body, a subtle but absolute shift, shielding her from the offer. His gaze met his security man's for a fraction of a second. The message was clear: No one touches her but me.
He turned and carried her back the way he came. The crowd, now fully captivated by the drama, parted again. Camera phones were raised, flashes popping in the dim light. Wayne ignored them all, his entire world narrowed to the woman in his arms and the primal need to remove her from this place. Her sequined dress scraped softly against the wool of his sweater. He could feel the heat of her bare skin through it.
He carried her out of the noise, through the doors, into the cool night air, and placed her gently in the back seat of the waiting SUV. He shrugged out of his own cashmere overcoat and tucked it around her, covering the silver dress. She was already asleep, her cheek pressed against the leather.
He didn't take her to the estate. He took her to her apartment. His security dealt with the door. He carried her inside, to her bedroom, and laid her on her bed. He removed her heels, pulled her comforter over his coat that still shrouded her. For a long moment, he stood in the dark, watching her sleep, his expression unreadable. Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut with finality.
The sun was a brutal hammer on Ariyah's skull. She woke up in her own bed, still in the silver dress, a strange, expensive-smelling man's coat tangled around her. Memories returned in sick, choppy waves. The club. The drinks. The phone call… Oh, God. The phone call.
Her phone, charging on the nightstand, buzzed incessantly. It was Chloe. She answered, her voice a croak.
"Ari. Sweetie. You need to go online. Now."
With trembling fingers, she opened the Celebrity Corner Blog. The headline screamed at her:
ICE KING'S FIRE: Wayne Collins in Midnight Club Rescue of Drunken Heiress Fiancée!
There were pictures. Blurry, but clear enough. Her in the tiny dress, looking lost. Wayne, looking like a dark angel of vengeance, cutting through the crowd. The most viral one: him cradling her in his arms, her body limp against his chest, his face a mask of fierce possession as he stared straight ahead, ignoring the cameras.
The comments were a torrent: "He literally carried her out like a prize! So hot." "She's a liability." "That dress though… no wonder he came running." "Gold-digger can't handle the spotlight."
A sob of humiliation caught in her throat. Then her phone rang again. Not Chloe. Uncle David.
She answered, bracing for it.
"Have you lost your mind?!" His voice was a whip crack. "Drunk and half-dressed in a club, plastered all over the internet! You are a laughingstock! You think Collins will want damaged goods? You've embarrassed your grandfather's name, our family's name, weeks before the wedding! If he calls it off, you'll have no one to blame but your own cheap, trashy behavior!"
He hung up. The silence he left behind was worse than his words.
Ariyah slid to the floor, the sequins of her dress scratching the hardwood. She wrapped the unfamiliar cashmere coat tighter around her. It smelled like sandalwood and clean, cold air. Like him.
Shame burned through her, hot and acrid. But beneath it, a treacherous, aching memory surfaced the solid, unshakable safety of his arms around her, the feeling of being utterly claimed and carried away from the chaos.
She had wanted to shake his world.
Last night, she had nearly blown it up.
And he had simply… picked up the pieces and carried them home.