
I sat in the car for a second longer than I should've, engine still running, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel.
The envelope rested on the passenger seat, and I could feel its weight like it had bricks inside. My eyes flicked to the glove compartment—then to my thigh.
I reached under my dress, pulled the small holster strap tighter, and adjusted the grip of the pistol I'd slid into place before leaving. Just in case.
"Alrighty… let's blow this popsicle stand," I muttered, grabbing the envelope and stepping out into the night.
Verité didn't look like much from the outside. Black facade, no sign, a single red light glowing above the heavy metal door. The kind of place you didn't just find—you were invited to.
I walked up expecting the usual scan or slow once-over. Questions. A pat-down, maybe. But the two security guys just gave me a silent nod and stepped aside like I was expected.
That was the first red flag.
I almost stopped, but shrugged it off with a sharp breath. Keep moving. Play cool.
Inside, it was what I imagined a rich man's sin would look like. Dark marble floors, red velvet walls, gold accents. The music was low and bass-heavy, the kind that pulsed in your ribs instead of your ears. It wasn't crowded, but it buzzed with quiet energy—laughter in corners, glasses clinking, low conversations laced with flirtation or threats.
Still holding the envelope tight to my chest, I let my eyes sweep the room.
No signs. No indicators. Just expensive-looking people doing expensive-looking things.
And I was supposed to find someone named MM in this?
Brilliant, Dad. Really.
I made my way to the bar—slow, casual—and slid onto a stool. The bartender noticed me instantly. Of course he did.
"Well damn," he said, voice slick as his hair, "I've seen a lot of beautiful women walk in here, but you? You might've just broken the scale."
I smirked, letting my body relax into the flirt. "You must say that to all the girls."
"Only the ones who make me forget how to count." He poured something dark amber into a crystal glass and pushed it toward a suited man down the bar. "What can I get you, gorgeous?"
I tilted my head slightly, biting back a grin. "How about some information instead?"
His eyebrows lifted. "Dangerous kind of drink."
"I'm looking for someone. MM."
The moment the letters left my lips, I saw something shift behind his eyes.
He scoffed, then shook his head like I'd just asked for a unicorn. "You got jokes."
"Dead serious," I replied.
He hesitated. Wiped an invisible smudge off the counter. "Don't know him. But if you're looking for VIP ghosts like that, you've got a better chance upstairs."
He jerked his head toward a black staircase guarded by a velvet rope and two guys built like refrigerators.
I stood, gave him a playful wink. "Thanks for the drink. Shame I didn't take it."
His laugh followed me as I walked away, but it didn't reach his eyes.
That was red flag number two or five, I lost count.
As I made my way to the VIP entrance, I noticed something else.
There weren't nearly as many guards in this place as there should've been. No cameras in sight. No pat-downs at the door. It was all too… easy.
Too trusting.
Another flag.
I reached the staircase and stood still in front of the bouncers. Didn't say a word.
Didn't have to.
They looked at me, then stepped aside. One even held the door open like I was royalty.
I didn't thank him. Just walked through.
The VIP level was quieter. Softer lighting. Private booths sectioned off with gauzy curtains. Cigars, low murmurs, flashes of diamonds and whispered deals.
Each corner felt like it belonged to a different kingdom. One group of men laughed too hard at nothing. Another stared silently at the crowd below through a one-way glass panel. A woman with blood-red lips counted chips at a poker table, her gaze flicking to me for half a second too long.
I kept walking, envelope still clutched in hand, heels silent on the carpet now.
I was so over this little errand.
"Find MM," Dad said.
"Just hand it over."
No details. No contacts. Not even a picture.
And now I was wading through smoke and silk, hoping not to get killed in someone else's story.
It was stupid. Dangerous. And getting shadier by the minute.
If this was some kind of test, I was about five seconds from walking out and letting him fail me.
I reached the center of the room and stopped.
No sign of MM. No one approaching. Just whispers. Just stares.
And somewhere deep in my chest, I felt it:
Something wasn't right.
I stood there like a damn centerpiece, clutching that envelope and trying to act like I wasn't seconds from tearing it in half just to spite my father.
No greeting. No instructions. Just silent tension that buzzed under my skin.
Then I noticed it.
The air shifted.
The music cut for a split second—like a breath being held.
A man in a suit on the far left adjusted his cuff too quickly. Another leaned forward, eyes narrowing. Someone behind me stood… then didn't move.
That was when instinct screamed.
Something's not right.
I didn't hesitate.
I pivoted fast on my heel, letting the envelope drop to the floor, one hand sliding up my thigh and pulling the gun from under my dress in a single, fluid motion. My back pressed to the nearest column just as the first shot cracked through the air.
Glass shattered.
People screamed.
Chaos.
Someone near the bar flipped a table and pulled out a rifle from under his jacket like it was casual. A woman shrieked behind me, crawling in heels across the marble. More gunshots. Sparks exploded off the railing above as bullets ricocheted.
They weren't aiming at each other.
They were aiming at me.
I ducked low, heart pounding so hard I could barely hear. My dress snagged slightly as I crawled behind an overturned chair. I cursed under my breath, gritting my teeth. The smell of smoke and blood was already thick.
I peeked out for half a second. Four—no, five of them. Moving as a unit. Black clothes, no faces I recognized. Definitely not club security.
This was professional. Clean. Planned.
Why would dad send me here?
Was this his way if punishing me?
Killing me off? Really?
And to think I got all dressed up to die.
I fired once. The recoil jolted my arm, but one of the men stumbled back behind cover.
I moved again, fast, weaving behind a couch, grabbing a broken champagne bottle and chucking it at the nearest head. It missed, but the distraction bought me seconds.
Someone came at me from the right. I dropped to the ground, rolled, and shot him in the leg. He screamed and went down, his gun skidding across the floor.
I didn't have time to grab it.
I ran.
My boots pounded against the tile as I darted through the curtains, knocking over furniture as cover. A bullet grazed the edge of my jacket. My lungs burned. I had to get out—now.
Another bang.
The lights went out.
Pitch black.
I stopped dead in my tracks, crouching low, trying to steady my breath.
Footsteps crunched glass nearby. More than one set.
My fingers clenched tighter around the gun. I had two bullets left. Maybe three.
I moved fast and quietly.
I crashed through what seemed like back door into the alley, boots hitting wet pavement hard. My lungs burned, smoke still clinging to my throat. I didn't know where I was going—just away. Shots echoed behind me. I kept moving, darting through shadows, heart thudding like a war drum. I couldn't run all the way home. No chance. So I flagged a cab, face blank, blood on my sleeve. The driver didn't ask.
Back at the penthouse, I slammed the door shut, locked every bolt.
The rage settled deep in my bones.