The bass thrummed through Liam Carter's chest, a deep pulse that vibrated through the crowded club.
Strobe lights flickered, casting electric blues and reds over bodies moving in sync with the music. The
place reeked of expensive liquor, sweat, and the scent of indulgence just another night in a world where power and pleasure blurred together.
Liam leaned against the bar, a smirk curving his lips as the bartender slid him a glass of whiskey. "On the house," she said with a wink. He raised the glass in acknowledgment, taking a slow sip. To the world, Liam Carter was exactly what they thought an untouchable billionaire, effortlessly charming, reckless in all the right ways. A man with wealth, power, and no real consequences. But what they didn't know, what no one could know,was the weight of his name.
Carter.
A name that meant nothing to him but everything to the man who sat in the White House. He pushed the
thought aside. Tonight wasn't about that.
"Mr. Carter," a voice murmured at his shoulder.
Liam turned, finding one of his private security guards, Reynolds, standing stiffly beside him. A former
marine, always tense, always watching.
"You've been standing there like a goddamn statue all night," Liam mused, taking another sip of whiskey. "Relax. Have a drink. Pretend we're actually having fun."
Reynolds didn't even blink. "Something feels off."
Liam sighed. "Something always feels off to you."
"Because it usually is everytime i say it."
Liam was about to roll his eyes when something shifted so slight, so small, he barely caught it. The way Reynolds' hand twitched near his hip. The way the club's atmosphere suddenly felt wrong like a storm
rolling in on a clear night.
Then—
The soundof glass shattering.
screams.
Liam barely had time to react before Reynolds shoved him backward. The whiskey glass slipped from his hand as a gunshot cracked through the air, the bullet burying itself into the bar where he'd been standing
seconds before.
Chaos erupted.
The crowd screamed, bodies surging toward the exits. Liam's pulse spiked, his mind
racing through the haze of adrenaline. Another shot fired then another.
Reynolds pulled him behind a table, gun drawn. "Stay down."
Liam wasn't great at taking orders, but he knew when to listen. He pressed against the wall,heart racing,his mind already calculating. The shooter wasn't random this wasn't a robbery gone wrong. This was a goddamn assassination attempt.
Someone wanted him dead.
Through the flashing lights, he caught a glimpse of a masked figure retreating toward the back exit.
They looked like some low-level thug. whoever they were, they'd come prepared though.
But they'd failed.
By the time Liam's security team had cleared the club and the police arrived, the shooter was gone. But the message was clear.
This wouldn't be the last attempt.
Liam woke with a start, the memory dissipating as his phone vibrated on his nightstand. He blinked
against the morning light, his heart still hammering in his chest. Damn it.
He reached for the phone without checking the ID. "Yeah?"
A clipped, professional voice answered. "Mr. Carter, you need to come in."
Liam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Let me guess—this is about the shooting."
"This isn't a request."
Liam exhaled sharply, already knowing where this was going. He glanced at the clock. 7:32 AM.
His father, the president of the United States—the man the people at the whitecalled Sentinel—was
pulling strings again.
Liam gritted his teeth. Of course, he was.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, already resigning himself to the inevitable.
"Fine," he muttered. "Just give me time to get ready ".